by Karen Brooks
The boatman gave him a grim look. ‘I hear it has taken some forty lives thus far, sir. All but one being outside London’s walls, in St Giles in the Field, St Clement Danes and the like. No-one credits ’em much, neither the dead nor their parishes and by no-one, I mean them rich coves what you be talking to back at Whitehall. The likes of them never does ’less they be afflicted, does they?’
In the main, the boatman had the right of it, Matthew thought. Providing the plague stayed among the poor, it was unlikely too much would be done. There were even those among the Council who regarded the pestilence as a way of controlling the underclass. He’d heard them with his own ears. He might yet write about such a cruel and ungodly notion.
‘What’s the cause of all the smoke?’ asked Matthew, nodding towards great grey pillars rising around the city and soaring into the heavens.
The boatman followed the direction of his gaze. ‘Bonfires. Lit by order of the Lord Mayor. He insisted they be struck and the streets kept clean. Until the King moves court, we don’t ’ave much to worry about. Once His Majesty goes, I’ll reconsider my view. If there’s one thing we all know, it’s that fuckin’ royalty are like rats — they’ll desert a sinkin’ ship.’
Manoeuvring the wherry as close to the riverbank as he could, the boatman rested the prow on the moss-covered stairs with his oar. ‘Still, doesn’t hurt to be cautious does it? Go with God, sir, and avoid crowds, that’s my advice.’ He held up a jar with a few inches of grubby looking liquid in it and indicated Matthew was to put his payment inside. As he dropped in the coins, the tang of vinegar was evident. Already such precautions were deemed necessary.
Matthew knew he should go to his lodgings and wash, erase some of the travels from his clothes and body, but he had only one thought, and that was the Phoenix. Convincing himself it was because he’d been too long away from his business and that he needed to be there in case the precious cargoes he’d sent back from Jamaica and Spain were delivered, he refused to contemplate that a pair of brown eyes and sweet dimples also called to him.
It was midday before Matthew entered the familiar stones of Birchin Lane. Rather than increasing his pace now his goal was near, he slowed and thought about his ship, the Odyssey, anchored mid-river near Gravesend as officialdom dealt with crew and cargo. He hoped the sailors would soon be allowed ashore and that the younger of the men heeded Captain Browning’s warning about press-gangs. That was a subject upon which he intended to write again — the misery of impressment. He’d encountered too many broken boys and men on his ventures, snatched from their lives and forced onto ships and into battle before they’d time to catch their breath.
The bell over the door of the bookshop rang prettily as he entered, and he was grateful for the respite from the heat. He could hear Will talking with some customers. Matthew climbed the stairs, then hesitated on the threshold of the chocolate house and took a deep breath.
The bowl of coins was in its usual position. The room was a cacophony of voices and song. A recitation was occurring to his right. Near the window to his left, a game of cards was in progress. Laughter rang out and then a shout as a candle auction finished. God, he’d not seen one of those in an age. Cheers erupted and men stood, clapping one another soundly on the back. There was a call for drinks.
A few at the nearest booth looked up and saw him. ‘What news?’ cried one, ever quick to be the first.
Before he could respond, another voice rose above the others.
‘Matthew?’ Pure, sweet and with a joyous inflection that rang with disbelief and hope all at once, it floated above all other sounds.
His eyes slid from the men waiting to hear his news to search for the lips bearing his name.
In all his imaginings, he hadn’t pictured her like this. A lush, pearly-haired goddess with rosy cheeks, vibrant, flashing eyes and laughing mouth made her way towards him, acknowledging those who would detain her, including some young rakes who reached out in yearning. She smiled them aside and with a mere touch of her slender fingers parted shoulders the way God did oceans. Her forest-green dress made her look like a sylvan goddess come to play among the mortals.
Speechless, he watched her draw closer, seeming to float towards him, her skirts flowing, her smile radiant. All that lay between them was a few feet of wooden floor. Smoke swirled and teased.
His voice was trapped in his throat. The remnants of his broken heart rode a tide of such longing, they stole his welcome. Instead, he held out his arms and, with a cry of wonder and delight, Rosamund Blithman, once the wife of his mortal enemy, flew into them.
At least, that was how their reunion played out in his imagination. The reality was, she stopped a few feet short of him, the expression on her face altering from joy to remembrance to distaste. The arms he’d started to raise dropped to his sides.
Curtseying before him, she said, ‘May God give you good day, sir,’ as if he were a stranger.
He bowed, remembering at the last moment to sweep off his hat, a lance of hurt slicing his chest. ‘And you too, my lady.’
They stared at one another awkwardly. Her mouth moved. His too, but neither spoke.
‘Welcome back,’ she said finally, looking uncertain.
Before he could reply, Filip came and slapped him on the back, embracing him as he wished other arms had, and planting kisses on both his cheeks and firing questions at him. Jacopo appeared as did Harry. Hodge and the other boys hung off his arms, all talking at once and bumping his wretched satchel. Desperate to ask Rosamund what was wrong, he did not have the chance as he was swiftly escorted through the chocolate house and hailed by familiar faces.
All too soon he was sat in his favourite booth, surrounded by those eager to hear his stories.
Oh, he was back all right, he thought, as he nodded to all and sundry. But, as he began to tell of his adventures, his eyes strayed towards Rosamund behind the bar, her anxious face appraising him. Was he really welcome?
THIRTY-THREE
In which death rides a pale horse
It took all her willpower, all the little tricks she’d learned presiding over the Phoenix and feigning interest she didn’t always feel, not to stare. Here was Matthew, after all this time, safe and sound, returned to her chocolate house. His chocolate house.
Had she imagined the happiness she felt radiating from him when he’d stepped through the door? She knew she hadn’t invented the emotions sweeping through her when she caught sight of him. Lord knew, her feet took on a life of their own, running towards him before she had a chance to think.
She wanted to laugh, weep, hold him, stroke his cheek, bombard him with questions just as the boys were doing, order the patrons out and lock the doors so she might have him all to herself. Mostly, she wanted to hold his hand lest he vanish like the smoke floating about the ceiling. For so long she’d envisaged just this moment, yet it was even better than her wildest conjurings — well, almost. In her wildest, they hadn’t used words to welcome each other…
Stop that. Just as Matthew seemed reticent to show his pleasure at seeing her again, amidst all her joy, she too felt an unpleasant tug, as if she’d repressed something that only he could liberate.
Then she realised. Of late two men had come back from their respective journeys and in doing so altered her circumstances. With the lease up for renewal soon, there was a chance Matthew might take over the running of the chocolate house himself; then where would she be? Never mind Aubrey bursting onto the scene and demanding his inheritance.
The peace of mind and autonomy her widowhood had brought were ending. As she stayed her impulse to run into his arms and held her emotions in check as a lady should, she remembered Aubrey Blithman and worked to keep the displeasure from her face. She had to tell Matthew he was back from the dead. They might have once been related through marriage, but there was no doubt in her mind Aubrey felt only enmity towards Matthew. The very idea stopped her in her tracks. Made the bile rise in her throat. Poor Matthew. She couldn’t bear
to give him such tidings — not yet. Better to keep her distance and tell him after he had time to settle. When they were, please God, alone.
Their reunion lacked the warmth she felt and which she hoped and prayed he shared. Before she could whisper that she would talk properly to him later, he was whisked from her side.
Surreptitiously watching him from the bar as he was surrounded by welcoming faces, she ceded other patrons to Solomon and Thomas and prepared Matthew a bowl of chocolate. If she couldn’t express how she felt with words, she would do it with the drink.
She added everything she knew he enjoyed and carried the tray herself with a fine silver chocolate pot and a new porcelain bowl. The crowd around Matthew melted away as she approached.
Aware of his eyes upon her, she slowly poured the thick chocolate into the prepared bowl and passed it to him carefully.
Their eyes met through the steam and his hands enveloped hers as he took the vessel from her, sending a hot river of longing flowing down her arms, into her middle and infusing her every extremity with fire. All the words of welcome she’d been unable to say rushed out in a laugh of sheer happiness.
Much to her relief, his eyes widened and he too began to laugh, their initial discomfort forgotten. His eyes creased, his hands lingered over hers, and the noise of the room, the press of bodies and the chatter of those around them, faded away. All she knew was a pair of midnight eyes, warm hands, her heated body, and their silent conversation.
When he finally took the bowl and blew across the surface, she slid into the booth and sat opposite him. From there she could see that beneath the weariness, the sheer exhaustion of travelling so far for so long, there was also great sadness. Was it because he had failed to deliver the letters? Or something else? Would he tell her? She prayed she was not the cause; while the prospect of his return had stirred a veritable storm of emotions within her, they were nothing compared to how she felt now he was really, truly there. Feelings that the chocolate and her laugh had, devil take them, revealed. It was as if someone had picked her up by the feet and shaken her so all her insides were in confusion.
Meanwhile Matthew recounted the final stages of his journey, how difficult it had been to leave The Hague given the suspicion surrounding English ships with the outbreak of war. It wasn’t until he was vouched for by an Englishman living there, the son of a regicide no less, that he was allowed to leave. (Matthew would later tell Rosamund that though the gentleman, William Scott, was meant to be one of Sir Henry Bennet’s spies, he believed he might be a double agent.)
‘It took weeks to reassure them. I wrote I’d be here sooner —’
Rosamund rewarded him with a small smile.
‘— but I hadn’t anticipated war being declared. I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Not for the war, you understand.’ He flashed a grin. ‘That was inevitable. But being so misguided in my timing.’
‘Don’t be,’ said Rosamund. ‘All that matters is that you’re back now; you’re safe.’
With that, she left him and returned to her neglected customers. The new ones were curious about the rather dishevelled man who had drawn their Rosamund from behind the bar and into a booth, and wished they possessed the power to do the same. The regulars acknowledged Matthew with a glum nod, understanding that he took precedence in Rosamund’s attentions.
It wasn’t until the last customers had departed and the doors had been shut, that Matthew and Rosamund were able to speak. From the kitchen the clatter of washing and cleaning issued, along with chuckles and shrieks as the drawers and Cara prepared for the morrow, supervised by Filip, Solomon and Thomas.
Over a glass of Rhenish, Rosamund was able to tell Matthew what had happened since she last wrote.
When she reached the part about Aubrey’s return, Matthew almost dropped his glass. ‘Aubrey Blithman? He’s here?’ He swung towards Jacopo and Bianca who were hovering nearby, polishing pots and spoons. They both nodded solemnly.
It was only much later that Rosamund would reflect that Matthew didn’t comment on the extraordinary fact of him being alive.
Matthew placed his hands on the table and stared at them. ‘Aubrey Blithman is here,’ he repeated slowly, as if by saying the words once more he might believe them. ‘In London.’
‘Aye, he is,’ said Rosamund carefully. ‘He’s only been here a few days. He’s taken up residence in Blithe Manor. I can still scarce believe it —’
‘Truth, Rosamund, I can scarce believe it myself.’ Matthew’s face took on a faraway look, as if his mind had departed his body and was travelling through darker reaches.
When he didn’t speak, Rosamund continued. ‘He walked into the withdrawing room as if he’d never left.’
Matthew returned to the moment. ‘And saw you,’ he said quietly.
Rosamund nodded.
Matthew began to drum his fingers against the table; a tic in his cheek worked frantically. Rosamund was uncertain what to say. She glanced towards Bianca who found the chocolate pot she was shining very interesting.
Just when Rosamund thought she must break the silence between them, he began to chuckle. There was no humour in it. ‘Well, I’ll be Satan’s dalcop…’ he said.
Rosamund picked up the tale. ‘He came with Sir Everard’s steward Wat Smithyman in tow. He now serves Aubrey. I believe he was the first to deliver news of his father’s death.’
‘I see. Wat…’ Matthew shook his head in disbelief. ‘I confess, I hadn’t expected this.’ He made a fist and rested it on the table, clenching and unclenching it. ‘It’s not every day one returns from the dead.’
Rosamund couldn’t help but think how people had an uncanny way of reappearing in her life when she least expected it — look at Tilly and now Aubrey. Why, Matthew had been a revelation in more ways than one.
‘I would like very much to see this miracle for myself,’ said Matthew and, finishing his wine, slapped his thighs and rose to his feet.
Rosamund leapt to hers in a rush of disappointment that he would consider leaving so soon. ‘You’re going?’
‘Only to my lodgings, my lady. I mean, you have everything under control and, frankly, I could do with a bath, perhaps even a brief rest. It’s been a long day… a long…’ He didn’t finish.
‘Of course,’ said Rosamund swiftly, wringing her hands. ‘Forgive me. I just hoped we might —’ She stopped, unable to meet his eyes. What did she hope?
He rescued her. ‘I thought I might call upon you at Blithe Manor later tonight, if that would be suitable? Not only will I get to extend my greetings and express my delight at his resurrection to Aubrey, but perhaps you and I can find some time to discuss the chocolate house.’
Rosamund, who’d been expanding inside with every word, almost deflated at the last two. As much as she loved the Phoenix and saw it as an extension of herself, surely they had more to talk about than that, even if it was the bridge that connected them. One bridge.
‘That would be… most convenient,’ said Rosamund, trying not to show the disappointment she felt. ‘I will tell Aubrey to expect you when I get back to the manor.’
Matthew began to say his farewells. Her spirits soared to think she would see him tonight and again the following day — and God be praised, every day thereafter. Yet for all the pleasure he expressed at returning, she couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow Matthew was disenchanted.
It couldn’t be with the Phoenix, surely. Why, when he arrived it was filled to the brim and abuzz with men and conversation like bees in St James’s Park. Something else was bothering him, leaving him downhearted and restless.
Until she mentioned Aubrey Blithman. Then his entire demeanour had undergone a shift, and an expression crossed his face that even now she found puzzling. What was it? A slight widening of his eyes, followed by a furrow of his brow. The bitter laugh. A thinning of his lips and a tic in those fine cheeks. It wasn’t disenchantment, it was resignation. As if he was about to face defeat at the hands of his enemy.
Upon her r
eturn to the manor that evening, Rosamund was met with a house in chaos. The hall was filled with chests, sacks of food from the larder and crates of wine. Maids and footmen ran to and fro throwing armfuls of clothes and linens into an open box here, pushing a wedge of cheese into a straw-filled crate there. In the midst of the mayhem Wat shouted orders to one poor wench, demanding a barrel of beer be brought from the cellar before swinging around to cuff a young footman and then bellowing for Widow Ashe. A slight girl appeared with a brace of stinking pigeons. Wat told her to take it straight out to the coach. Coach?
‘What’s going on?’ asked Rosamund finally.
‘Madam, you’re back,’ said Wat.
‘I am indeed.’ She peered about in amazement. Jacopo lifted a jug of cider from a crate and put it down. Bianca peered into an open chest.
‘Leave those,’ snapped Wat.
‘Please, Wat. What’s all this about?’
‘It’s Mr Aubrey, madam, he’s ordered us to pack up the house. We’re leaving.’
‘We? Leaving? But, why? What has prompted this?’ She swung towards Bianca and Jacopo and back again. ‘Where’s Ashe?’
Before Wat could answer, there was a cry from the top of the stairs. Much to her astonishment, it was Sam Pepys. ‘Rosamund! At last. You’re very late. Aubrey was about to send for you.’
‘Send for me?’
Before Sam could descend the stairs, Rosamund began to climb them, throwing herself against the rail as two footmen hurtled down carrying what appeared to be some ledgers from Sir Everard’s — Aubrey’s — study.
At the top, she tolerated Sam’s usual kiss before sweeping him aside. ‘Where’s Aubrey?’
‘In the study, sorting whatever bookwork he needs to take with him.’
‘Take with him?’ Dear God, she was like one of those colourful parrots in the market, repeating everything. For a brief moment, she wondered if Aubrey had decided to return to the New World and was astonished at the wave of relief that swept over her.
