by Karen Brooks
Sam stared. ‘You didn’t know?’
‘Know what?’
With a sigh of exasperation, Sam beckoned for her to follow him into the withdrawing room. She’d have preferred to go to the study and confront Aubrey then and there, but nevertheless complied, gesturing for Bianca and Jacopo to follow.
Before Jacopo had even shut the door, Sam began. ‘I fear this is my fault.’
‘What is?’ asked Rosamund, moving to the window and glancing out, half expecting to see an exodus of people in the street below.
‘Aubrey’s plans,’ said Sam. ‘You see, I came here with the express intention to share with you my sadness at Lady Sandwich’s intended departure from the city. While I think she may be a bit precipitous, when I called at the coffee house on my way —’
Rosamund could have screamed. Sam took forever to get to the point and asking him to hurry only made things worse. Surrendering to his tale, she threw herself into a chair, nodding towards Jacopo who held a jug of wine and glasses aloft. She pulled off her hat and gloves and listened.
Sam continued without a pause as he sank into the seat opposite. ‘I found the place agog with news. Not only were the men prating on about the Dutch movements at sea, but about the plague and all the varying remedies being proposed. You should hear what some are suggesting, Rosamund.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Purges, balms, balsams, cordials, amulets — as if the blasted smoke from the Lord Mayor’s fires isn’t enough. There are those set to make a fortune from others’ misfortune, you mark my words.’
‘I do, Sam, I do.’ Rosamund tried hard to keep the exasperation out of her tone. ‘Which is why I need you to tell me what Aubrey is planning. He’s only just returned, after all. He has a manor to manage, staff to care for, his business…’
Sam’s big round eyes blinked. ‘But I am telling. You see, when I told the Lady Sandwich the latest figures from the Bills of Mortality, she made up her mind there and then to leave the city. When I told Aubrey of her intentions, along with what I overheard in the coffee house, well, he made the decision he would not remain in London a moment longer.’
‘Surely he can’t expect everyone to up and leave without warning. Where is he going?’
At that moment, the door flung open. Aubrey appeared, red-faced, his eyes bleary and his entire body reeking of wine. ‘Anywhere there isn’t plague,’ he announced. ‘Which, I am reliably informed —’ he gestured in Sam’s direction and would have fallen had Jacopo not grabbed his arm, ‘is Oxford.’
‘Oxford.’ Rosamund started to stand. Had the plague suddenly swept down upon them while they were busy welcoming Matthew back? The Bills were published weekly and available for all who could to read. The last ones she’d seen hadn’t given cause for too much alarm.
‘Yes. Oxford,’ said Aubrey, snatching his arm from Jacopo. ‘I have it on good authority — not yours this time, Sam — that when the court defects, which will no doubt be any moment, it will be to Oxford. I want us outside the city gates before they shut.’ He flapped his arms. ‘Hurry, hurry. Go and change and pack whatever you deem essential for a long stay. I’ll not set foot in London again until this dreaded visitation has well and truly passed.’ He burped. ‘I didn’t survive the threat of assassins, numerous ocean voyages, the presence of New World savages, let alone reports of my demise, to be beaten by a disease.’
Rosamund stared at Aubrey and Sam in disbelief. ‘But… but… what about the house? The servants?’
Aubrey blinked. ‘What about them? One will care for the other. Now, go to. I am not a patient man.’
Rosamund gazed helplessly at Bianca and Jacopo. Dear God. This was madness. She couldn’t just up and leave. Aubrey had only recently acquired his father’s empire, but she had people who relied on her, a business to run, a household to oversee. What did he mean, one will care for the other? Could he be so indifferent in the face of something he so evidently feared? She wanted to protest, appeal to his better self, but the words became knotted. At last, something wriggled free.
‘You cannot depart. Mr Lovelace intends to call,’ she sputtered. Even to her ears, that sounded lame.
Wat chose that moment to enter the room. ‘Ah, there you are sir. I need —’
‘Lovelace?’ interrupted Aubrey, holding up his hand to prevent Wat from continuing. ‘Coming here?’ He gripped the mantle. ‘Matthew Lovelace? I thought he’d left these shores for good.’
‘Not for good. But for a purpose,’ said Rosamund. ‘He’s back and intends to call upon you this evening.’
Aubrey shot a look at Wat, who arched a brow.
‘Well then, all the more reason to go,’ he said and pushed himself away from the mantle. ‘Immediately. I’ve no desire to see the man responsible for the death of my father.’
He began to pace, his voice growing more forceful with every step. ‘I don’t know what you’re thinking, Rosamund. First you work for the man and now you have the gall to invite him to my house. I might be forced to tolerate this chocolate house and your unhealthy obsession with the drink, but I’ll not tolerate his presence — certainly not under my roof.’ He swung towards her, shouting, ‘Do you hear me?’ Aubrey’s chest heaved, his eyes started from his head.
Sam gazed at him in astonishment.
Rosamund lowered her chin.
‘Sir,’ began Wat. ‘The coach is ready. The horses too.’
‘Yes. Yes,’ said Aubrey, panting. ‘I know.’ He took a deep breath and held out a hand in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Come. We’ve wasted enough time. We must be going.’
Rosamund looked from his hand to his face. ‘I would not wish to affect your plans, sir. I am grateful for the offer to accompany you, but I decline. I will await Mr Lovelace in your absence.’
‘What?’ roared Aubrey, slamming his fist upon the mantelpiece. ‘No. No. No. No. What do you think this is? An excursion to the country?’ Wat tried to steady him, but Aubrey shook him off. ‘Who gives a damn about Lovelace? This is a matter of life and death.’
‘I well understand that, sir. My life, my death and those I am responsible for.’ She gestured to Bianca, Jacopo and Ashe.
Aubrey’s face turned a peculiar shade of vermillion and his eyes narrowed. He pointed at Bianca then Jacopo. ‘This isn’t about Lovelace at all, is it? You’ll not leave them.’ Spittle flew. ‘Have you forgotten who you are? My father may have raised you out of the gutter but you’re a Blithman now, Lady Blithman.’ His voice rose an octave. ‘You’re still under my control and you’ll do as you’re damn well told. Go and gather your things. If you don’t, then you’ll just have to make do with what you’re wearing. I care not.’
Shrinking the distance between them, Rosamund stood before him. Uncertain where her courage came from, she didn’t question it but used it to fire her words.
‘You’re mistaken, Aubrey. Your father didn’t raise me out of the gutter but lifted me off a road. A road I chose of my own volition, taking my own path.’ He didn’t need to know the details and Rosamund was certain Jacopo wasn’t about to enlighten him. Drawing herself up, her chocolate eyes flashed. ‘And yes, I am Lady Blithman and as such, I take my responsibilities to the name, and my staff and my friends, very seriously. You’re right. This is nothing to do with Mr Lovelace, and everything to do with my duty to those who need me. You go if you wish, but I intend to remain.’
For just a fraction of a moment, a cat’s whisker of time, Rosamund thought Aubrey might strike her. Perhaps he intended to, but with Sam present, he wisely changed his mind. His features rearranged themselves from incandescent rage to iron control as her refusal sank in. The colour left his cheeks, the fury in his eyes dimmed. He glanced at Jacopo and Bianca with resentment and disgust before his gaze returned to Rosamund. He appeared to vacillate.
‘Sir,’ said Wat, plucking at his sleeve. ‘If we don’t leave soon, the gates’ll be closing.’ He shuffled closer. ‘There are four parishes within the walls affected now. Remember what Mr Pepys told us, he saw some houses shut up
on the way here — with his own peepers.’
‘Only one or two,’ added Sam meekly.
Disbelief at Rosamund’s decision transformed to fear. Self-preservation won. Rosamund didn’t move.
With a roar, Aubrey dashed his glass at the hearth, narrowly missing Sam. It shattered, a musical rain as it struck the metal grate. ‘Very well, you little fool. Have it your own way. Stay. Stay and risk being condemned by your own stubbornness.’ He began to stamp out of the room, an overindulged child whose wishes had been thwarted. At the last moment he swung around and wagged a finger at her.
‘Don’t you forget, when you’re ravaged by sickness, when you’re crying out for a friend, that I could have saved you. That I would have spared you…’
‘I won’t,’ said Rosamund.
‘I will look to her, Aubrey,’ said Sam gallantly.
His eyes flicked towards the naval clerk then fixed on Bianca and Jacopo.
‘If the pestilence doesn’t kill you,’ he said between clenched teeth, ‘I want you gone by the time I return, do you hear? I don’t care that you belong to her, I don’t care what she fills your barbarian heads with, she chose you above sense, above family. Therefore, you’re no longer welcome in this house, in my presence. Understood?’
With an elegance Aubrey and his fiery, cruel words didn’t deserve, Jacopo bowed and Bianca curtsied. ‘Yes, my lord,’ they said in unison, their accents flattened into the broad syllables of English.
‘Look after the damn house then,’ he said to Rosamund.
Despite the heat of the moment, Rosamund felt a laugh mixed with tears start to build.
Aubrey stormed from the room and down the stairs, followed by Wat. The others stood in silence listening to Aubrey shouting orders as doors crashed, servants grunted as they hoisted the last of whatever he demanded into the conveyance he’d hired. Jacopo poured them each a wine, then carefully picked up the broken glass. Drifting to the window, Rosamund saw the moment the carriage took off down the street, its roof laden with boxes, the curtains and shutters drawn. Wat sat up beside the driver. Aubrey rode alongside it on a fine pale horse with a tidy mane and a high step. People moved out of its way and Aubrey used his crop to discourage their proximity, urging the beast to a speed that had no place on such a crowded street.
Soon he was out of sight.
Once again, the manor was hers, the manor and responsibility for all who dwelled beneath its roof. And who’d have thought Sam would be so principled? She felt a rush of warmth towards him. Not only had he stood by her but had offered to watch over her in Aubrey’s absence. It was more than her stepson had been prepared to do. Not that she could really blame him. When plague threatened, no-one in their right mind would remain if they had the option to flee.
Why, she must be quite mad then. Mad enough to stay, mad enough to choose to align herself with those who’d done nothing but cleave to her side these past years. She could no more leave them than ask for her head to depart her shoulders.
When Ashe found them shortly after, they invited her to join them as they sat around the table, sharing shy, knowing looks. Moonlight pierced the curtains, mellowing the room. Outside, the evening bells tolled nine of the clock and a flock of pigeons settled in the eaves across the road, their cooing an adieu to the day.
‘Well,’ said Rosamund as the house slowly returned to normal, the scurrying of the maids and footmen ceasing. Doors shut without being slammed and windows were opened and curtains pulled back to allow the cool evening breezes (and the ever-present smoke) to enter. ‘If I’d known the lengths Aubrey would go to in order to avoid seeing Mr Lovelace, I would never have invited him over.’
There was a beat, then first Bianca, then Jacopo and Rosamund burst out laughing. Ashe smiled and buried her head. Sam was not quite sure what was so funny, as Mr Lovelace’s return was no cause for humour to him, but nevertheless he couldn’t help joining in, the laughter was so infectious.
That was how Matthew found them only minutes later, bent over in gales of helpless mirth, tears streaming down their cheeks as beams of silvery light struck them, making them appear both lunatics and slightly ephemeral at the same time. As if the Holy Spirit had already claimed them.
THIRTY-FOUR
In which the bells were hoarse with tolling
The city was a furnace, a burning hell-hole. Not even the cool interior of Will’s bookshop or the cellars at Blithe Manor provided respite. The Phoenix, such a toasty escape in the colder months, became a hothouse where the inhabitants mostly wilted as the smoke and steam seemed to wrap opaque fingers around each and every person. Was not the pestilence caused by miasmas? The pamphlets recommended tobacco as a prophylactic against plague, so the men would puff away and regard the dusky clouds sprouting from their pipes with squinting satisfaction.
Outside, heat haze shimmered above the cobbles and barefoot urchins danced from shadow to shadow. Sweat dripped from the coach drivers, horses shone with perspiration, and women forced to endure the outdoors fanned themselves, the effort required to arouse a breeze raising a greater sheen than enduring it. Flower beds and herbs shrank and curled into fragile brown skeletons; the ground their roots clung to cracked into crazed shapes. Beyond London’s walls, the once green fields lay scorched and brittle, the cattle and sheep searching for sustenance.
The animals suffered and so did their humans, who were not only suffocating in the torrid heat but drowning in a well of fear as day by day the number of those infected by plague grew. At first, the pestilence appeared to be mostly contained outside the city walls, but like a greedy thief, it crept inside and swallowed life after life.
When Sam came to the chocolate house and told Rosamund and Matthew he’d seen the first house in Drury Lane marked with a crude red cross — the sign of plague — it had well and truly breached the walls.
‘To think, I was only at the theatre there a few nights ago. Hundreds of others were there as well… What if they’re infected? What if…’ Stroking his chest thoughtfully, he didn’t need to complete the sentence; he shuddered and avoided their eyes lest he see in them an echo of his own terror, before finding himself a seat away from other patrons and ordering from a subdued Harry.
‘They’ve closed the theatres now. What will be next, I wonder?’ Rosamund joined Matthew in his usual booth and filled the bowl at his elbow with chocolate.
Matthew put down his quill and watched the chocolate undulate from the spout. ‘Anywhere that people gather is potentially dangerous. The Inns of Court have been let go and there’s talk of schools and the like shutting.’ He flicked the news sheet next to him.
Rosamund pulled it towards her and digested the contents, then slowly looked about. The Phoenix was a place where people gathered — to read, talk, exchange information, to be reassured, share their troubles, to learn and be entertained. How was it different to the theatres? The Inns of Court? Half the time lawyers and students filled the booths discussing cases and points of law. Actors from both the King’s Theatre and the Duke’s Company oft did readings at the tables.
‘Do you think we might have to close?’
‘Who knows?’ Matthew followed her gaze as she stared at the patrons around her.
‘Do you think we should?’ She passed the news sheet back.
Matthew took her hands in his. He continued to wear his gloves. She wondered briefly what his tortured skin would feel like. When he’d shown his hands to her, they looked like rough shells or melted wax, with ribbons, craters and bridges of shiny skin. ‘Not yet. I think people need some normality at a time like this. It’s the least we can offer.’
‘And chocolate,’ she said softly, smiling at him.
They locked eyes, liquid mahogany and shining cobalt.
‘And chocolate,’ he repeated, staring at her lips as if he would drink from them.
She gently extracted her hands, gave a solemn nod and returned to the bar. How could she be so… wanton, when they’d been discussing such a serious matter?
She thought about what Matthew said. It was important to present at least a semblance of normality, even if beneath the veneer they were all at sea with their own anxieties. It was hard not to think about the plague. It was no longer a matter of if they’d be affected, but when.
News from the provinces indicated some of the towns outside London were afflicted. Sam arrived at the manor flustered one Saturday evening after taking a hackney coach to Holborn. The driver seemed fine at first, but after a while the coach drew to halt and the driver dismounted. Hardly able to stand, he staggered about the roadway. Sam stepped down to see what was wrong. The coachman complained he was very sick and unable to see, then collapsed. Sam didn’t know what to do. Afeared and deeply saddened, he hailed another conveyance and left. He was certain the driver had been struck with plague. Rosamund gave him wine and chocolate to help soothe his troubled conscience.
In accordance with the plague orders, Matthew and Rosamund instructed the staff to sit patrons apart as much as possible and to keep the chocolate house extra clean. Each evening the floors were scrubbed, the bowls and pots thoroughly washed, and the tables and bench tops wiped with a mixture of lemon juice and vinegar. Matthew also insisted the drawers wash their faces, hands and necks each morning and that their collars and cuffs be refreshed as often as possible. If they didn’t arrive clean enough to pass his and Bianca’s inspection, he threatened to march them down to the yard and strip and wash them himself. He also told the boys that if they developed a cough, fever, chills or headache, or signs of any spots or boils on their bodies — or indeed on the body of anyone in their household — they weren’t to come to work, but send a message.
The boys and Cara exchanged frightened looks; they knew what that meant.
At Blithe Manor, Rosamund instigated identical practices. She asked Ashe to ensure all deliveries were left just inside the gate so only the servants carried them through the door. Instead of sending the laundry out and risking her dresses, sheets and other household linens coming into contact with potentially infected clothes or people, it was all done at home. Floors, cutlery and crockery were all to be washed daily. Cleaning cloths were to be either washed or burned. The maids didn’t even complain. They understood these measures were to protect them.
