by Karen Brooks
When summer arrived in a blaze of heat, Matthew abandoned his lodgings in Beer Lane and moved into the Phoenix. He had already reassured Rosamund he wanted her to continue to run the business as per the lease they had signed; now she was able to see even more of him and observe the way he interacted with the customers as well as the staff. Only when it was essential did he serve or help out in the kitchen. His priority was continuing to write for Muddiman and L’Estrange, utilising all he heard and saw at the chocolate house as the foundation of many of his articles. Inspired by what he’d learned on his travels, he began to take greater risks with some of his other work as well.
He began to write more tracts that could only be published anonymously for fear of the authorities. He wrote about how the court didn’t care for the people but only their own necks, fleeing London when it most needed leadership. He began to record the names of all those in authority who had abandoned the capital, their businesses and professions. There were many, and not just nobles: physicians, lawyers, members of Parliament, constables, costermongers, coopers and men of God all fled. Determined to help, Rosamund persuaded Mr Henderson to print Matthew’s writings at night, when his apprentices had gone home.
When the Phoenix was quiet, she would send Wolstan, Hodge and whoever else she could spare to St Paul’s Cross or the Exchange to distribute the pieces, warning them to keep their caps down and their faces hidden. Leaving their uniforms behind at the chocolate house, the boys were grateful for the extra coin they’d earn. They also took pleasure in naming and shaming the ‘cowardly prigs’ who had deserted their fellow Londoners at such a time.
In his efforts to uncover the author of the seditious tracts, L’Estrange sent men to investigate. Two came to the chocolate house. Far from subtle in their questioning, their purpose was obvious in their dress and burly manner, leering at everyone and quizzing them where they sat. This gave Matthew, Hodge, Art and Jacopo time to alert Mr Henderson and swiftly remove any evidence — not that there was much. They were always careful. Rosamund worked hard to distract the two men, addressing them in a manner befitting their self-importance and inviting them to sit at the counter while she worked. She asked them about their jobs and homes and as they drank first one, then two more bowls of chocolate (on the house), they confided their fears for the future and the spread of the plague. They fell so completely under Rosamund’s sympathetic spell, they left the premises persuaded only the best and most loyal of the King’s supporters worked there — including Mr Henderson, whose press, when they gave it a cursory glance, showed no evidence of having been used to print anything other than authorised material.
Matthew also wrote under his own name, emphasising the plague orders and reminding people not to eat or sell rotten food, to be cautious when buying secondhand clothes, and above all to remain clean. He also advised those who could afford it to seek the services of a reliable doctor, though God knew it was becoming harder to find someone to provide medick, let alone vittles, as bakers, butchers and other trades began to leave as well. The number of patrons coming to the Phoenix slowly reduced, which was just as well as it was becoming increasingly difficult to stock the chocolate house, and even Blithe Manor.
When the order came to cull all dogs and cats, they were rounded up and slaughtered by the thousands. The stench of their decaying corpses added to the horror crouching over the city. Rosamund could have sworn the rats celebrated now their predators were no longer there to reduce their population; every day she saw more evidence of them as the bolder ones crept along the sides of houses, crawled up drainpipes and even scavenged in the ditches. Cara said two had burrowed into a sack of flour that had been delivered. Rosamund told her not to worry, she was sure they hadn’t eaten much.
When the old dog curled in the shade of the stoop opposite was there one day and gone the next, Rosamund had no desire to learn whether he’d been taken by a dog-catcher or spirited away overnight. She couldn’t bear that innocent creatures were being sacrificed to the plague as well. It wasn’t just dogs and cats either — rabbits, pigs, pigeons — none were spared. All were seen as potential carriers of disease and death. Mayhap they were, but if so, why was it that the more that were killed, the more humans died?
Rosamund could make no sense of it. God was not listening to her prayers — nor it seemed were her father and grandmother — much less the prayers of the entire city.
When Sam told them his doctor, Alexander Burnet, had succumbed to plague and his house had been shut up, Rosamund wondered what hope anyone had if even those who were experts in the disease were not spared.
The following day, Matthew accompanied Rosamund to church. As she stood in the warm interior of St Helen’s Bishopsgate, Rosamund was aware of the press of Matthew’s hip against hers and the irony that, while gatherings of people were being discouraged, when it came to church services, all sense was forgotten. Or perhaps God would protect the righteous after all. Somehow, deep in her soul, Rosamund doubted it; if He did, He would have preserved Dr Burnet and the little children in St Giles. Perhaps he would have spared all the dogs and cats as well.
The reverend, emboldened now the King and court had fled, droned on about Sodom and Gomorrah and how a sinful city ruled by a lustful, hedonistic monarch should expect to feel God’s wrath. The analogy was all too obvious and yet another indication of the low esteem in which His Majesty was held, even as prayers of thanks were offered for the safe return of his brother, the Duke, and the other naval commanders from the terrible battle against the Dutch at Lowestoft. Rosamund fanned herself with the old Bill of Mortality she’d found under the seat in front. Dated the week beginning the 20th of June, it recorded one hundred and sixty-eight deaths, a marked increase on the week before.
For all the crush, the church was still emptier than it had been the previous Sunday. This wasn’t so much because parishioners had fallen to the disease as it was a measure of how many had left the city. Once the King and court had retreated to Oxford, the wealthier citizens followed. All week, carts and carriages laden with families and supplies had rolled out the city gates and into the countryside.
Rosamund was surprised to find herself wondering how Aubrey fared. Tilly, too. Had the plague reached Oxford or Gravesend? She’d been remiss in not writing to Frances and resolved that as soon as she returned home she would set aside time.
Bianca and Jacopo stood with the other servants at the back of the church. Rosamund found it difficult to reconcile the God she came to worship with the one who would shunt those who lived in her household to the back of His house. It had been the same at Gravesend. Tilly, Paul, the twins, Rosamund and the other merchants and innkeepers had always relinquished the prime seats to the gentry. Now Rosamund was gentry she didn’t enjoy the privileges that came with her title when they caused a division she didn’t permit in her daily life. She longed to sit with those she was familiar with and who, in such perilous times, she knew were not infected.
She looked over her shoulder and caught Bianca’s eye. They exchanged a fleeting smile. Bianca didn’t always attend church — at least, not St Helen’s. Not long after Sir Everard died, both Bianca and Jacopo explained to Rosamund what she’d long suspected — they were Quakers. At Rosamund’s behest, Bianca introduced her to the writings of George Fox and James Nayler two of the founders of Quakerism. Rosamund wasn’t nearly as alarmed by their admission as she might have been; she’d secretly known Jacopo’s occasional evenings off were for more than sport with a pretty maid. Though some Quakers made a show of resisting the various Acts enforced by Parliament and were imprisoned and even transported, Bianca and Jacopo and the Friends they associated with weren’t dissenters, no matter what the news sheets said or what the Earl of Clarendon and his cronies in Council bleated.
How she felt about them going to their meetings now the plague had crossed the walls had nothing to do with their faith and everything to do with contagion. Pulling at her lip, she knew she’d have to raise the matter with them. The
y were expected to attend church and thus far were safe. Rosamund couldn’t be so certain about the Quakers and wanted to mitigate the risks to their health. God would understand, surely? One couldn’t be too careful, not any more.
‘Are you well, my lady?’ whispered Matthew.
When she cocked a brow, he pulled at his own lip and shrugged. He even knew her idiosyncrasies.
‘As well as one can be when held accountable for the sins of mankind,’ she said, tilting her chin towards the pulpit.
The minister stopped his sermon and glared. Rosamund flashed him an apologetic look and felt her cheeks burn. Aye, being one of the gentry also meant sitting directly under the eyes and ears of the reverend. The worst part was feigning interest. Reverend Madoc’s sermons in Gravesend had never been so dull. Maybe contracting the pestilence wouldn’t be so bad if it meant she didn’t have to sit through… Stop it. Her lips began to twitch as her notions grew more irreverent.
When the bells tolled midday they piled out of church, forgoing the usual greetings on the doorstep and hurrying home. Rosamund was glad. Together they walked swiftly back to Blithe Manor — gone were the days of strolling. Rosamund invited Matthew to dine with them.
As they entered the hall, Rosamund found that dinner was not the only thing awaiting her.
A flushed Widow Ashe whispered to her as she took her gloves and hat.
‘Men? Upstairs?’ asked Rosamund.
Widow Ashe nodded.
Matthew, who’d paused to hand his sword to a footman, grew very still.
‘Who?’ A prickle of unease galloped along Rosamund’s spine. What men? It couldn’t be Aubrey; Ashe would say.
‘They said they be family, madam.’
Rosamund’s heart skipped, her skin grew clammy. She had no family, no men to call by that name, unless…
A noise at the top of the stairs drew her gaze. Her head spun, her vision blurred. Dear God in Heaven. Leering down at her from the landing were none other than Fear-God and Glory Ballister.
‘Told ya she wouldn’t be long, Fear.’
‘You did indeed, Glory. Forgive me for doubting ya.’
As the twins clattered down the steps, each holding a glass of claret that they paused to guzzle, Rosamund felt the room spin. Bianca took her elbow. The grip gave her strength. Jacopo came to her other side. Drawing herself up, pushing down the familiar fears the twins aroused, she tried to reconcile the collision of past and present here in Blithe Manor.
They seemed taller than she remembered, thinner. Their faces were weathered but not wise. Instead, they were hardened, furtive. They grinned at her with rotting teeth, and she noted how they catalogued objects and paintings as they descended.
Fixing a smile to her face, she was grateful yet again that she’d learned to dissemble.
‘Fear-God, Glory, what a surprise.’ Over her shoulder, she was aware of Matthew partly hidden by an arras.
Swaggering towards her, Fear-God looked her up and down. ‘Gawd, you’re even better in the flesh than I remember, ain’t she, Glory.’
Glory sidled up beside his brother. ‘Smells better too, don’t she, Fear?’
Their broad forms towered over her. They had changed in many ways yet in others were the same as they had been the last time she saw them outside the Maiden Voyage Inn. Cunning as foxes and as dangerous, until they were cornered, then they were deadly.
Tolerating their wet kisses upon her cheeks, kisses they tried to leave upon her evasive lips, she held her breath. Dear God, they stank worse than… worse than the Fleet in summer, she thought. Unable to help herself, she glanced at Bianca and saw her observation reflected in her wrinkled nose.
Following the direction of her gaze, the twins appraised Bianca boldly. ‘And who might this be?’ asked Glory. ‘A beauteous blackamoor. Cor, what we could do with one of these, hey, Fear?’
With a wicked laugh, Fear-God lunged but before he could touch Bianca Matthew came forward, his sword, which he’d retrieved, drawn.
Fear-God yelped in fright.
Throwing a dagger to Jacopo, who caught it deftly, Matthew raised his blade, the point resting against Fear-God’s chest.
Fear-God raised his hands and licked his lips, looking from Rosamund to Matthew and back again. Glory stepped back, his face bloodless, his shifty eyes wide.
‘Unexpected visitors, Rosamund?’ Matthew asked loudly. ‘Family, no less. Didn’t know you had any in London, nor that they were so…’ Moving his sword slightly, he slowly examined Fear-God and Glory from the toes of their scuffed boots to the tops of their greasy caps. He regarded them was as if they were something a horse had just dropped.
Whether it was Matthew’s demeanour, a recognition of their peril, or the drawn weapons, the twins adjusted their manner immediately, slipping off their hats, lowering their chins.
‘Coarse,’ Matthew finished.
‘Matthew,’ said Rosamund, clearing her throat, ‘may I introduce to you Fear-God and Glory Ballister.’ Her face flamed with fury, shame and a strong desire to inflict injury. What were they doing here?
‘Ballister?’ said Matthew. ‘And what might Ballisters be doing here, so free and easy in their conduct?’
At the look upon Fear-God and Glory’s faces, Rosamund wanted to laugh. She wasn’t sure if they were more astonished by Matthew’s fearless swagger or his insults. ‘They are my stepbrothers.’
‘They are also deserters from the look of their uniforms,’ added Matthew.
‘We be no deserters, milord,’ said Glory.
Milord… How Matthew must love that, she thought.
‘We’ve been given leave by our cap’n,’ added Fear-God.
‘Really?’ asked Matthew. ‘For what purpose? Other than to be rogues who’ve the manners of gutter rats and no idea how to treat ladies, let alone family?’
Fear-God and Glory glanced at each other. Unaccustomed to meeting the likes of Matthew, they didn’t know how to respond. Certainly, the wind had blown out of their bravado and left them in the doldrums.
‘We’re assigned to the Black Eagle,’ said Fear-God. ‘Given permission to deliver tidings to Rosie.’ He twisted his cap.
‘It’s Rosamund,’ said Rosamund automatically.
‘Actually, it’s Lady Blithman, family or no,’ said Matthew. ‘Surely your captain taught you how to address your betters, even if your father failed.’
Fear-God muttered something under his breath.
‘What was that?’ asked Matthew, cupping a hand behind his ear. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to speak up.’
Fear-God’s cheeks grew mottled and the muscle in his cheek began to spasm. His fist opened and closed against his thigh. Rosamund knew the signs and her ribs became metal bands.
‘What tidings have you brought?’ she asked. ‘Tell me.’
‘And then begone,’ added Matthew grimly.
Fear-God shot him a look of such hate, Rosamund sucked in her breath. His mouth twisted into a leer. Leaning towards her, he said hoarsely, ‘Come to tell ye, your mother be dead.’
‘Tilly?’ said Rosamund. A great wave crashed against her, throwing up all the detritus of the years and almost sweeping her feet out from under her. If Matthew hadn’t taken her arm, she would have sagged against the balustrade.
Tilly. Her mother. Dead.
Her world went black before a small spot of light appeared, expanding with astonishing swiftness, illuminating the past.
From the moment Tilly stepped into Bearwoode Manor that cold, rainy day and stared at her eight-year-old daughter, appalled by her sweet peals of laughter, her giddy delight at discovering she had a mother, she’d been little more than a dark presence, an indifferent parent. Memories flashed by before focussing on an ill-favoured few. Her mother’s shrill voice condemning her, slurring drunkenly as she admonished her. She saw the set of Tilly’s shoulders as she marched down the corridors of the inn, away from where Paul stood, his hand on Rosamund’s shoulder before he led her into the office and closed
the door. How she pushed Rosamund away when, at the age of ten, she came to her mother, blood on her thighs, cuts on her back and in her secret regions, pain in her belly and heart, wanting to be soothed, wanting to be told she was no sinner but sinned against. All the times her mother turned her back, stoppered her ears, refused to see what was happening, until Rosamund ceased to weep, refused to utter a word about it — even to God — and retreated into a place of darkness so great, it was a chasm that led beyond hell. Tilly, whose dove-grey eyes were layered with her own crushed hopes and broken dreams. Tilly, whose only acts of love were to abandon her daughter not once but twice, was dead.
Rosamund blinked, unseeing, unhearing.
‘She’s dead?’ asked Rosamund of no-one in particular.
‘That’s what he said, innit?’ snarled Glory, darting behind his brother when Matthew tweaked his blade.
‘Watch your mouth, knave.’ Matthew drew Rosamund closer, sharing a look of concern with Jacopo and Bianca.
Rosamund surfaced briefly. ‘How? How did she die?’
Fear-God shot his brother a look. ‘Broke her neck. Fell near the river.’
‘Was she cupshotten?’ Rosamund could not utter the word plague.
‘She was never sober, not no more,’ said Glory.
Matthew went to bark something at him, only Rosamund wrapped her fingers around his arm. ‘He only speaks the truth. My mother was not… a well woman.’ But now she was a dead one. Dear God in heaven. Grandmother. Father…
Travelling down the rivers of abject hurt, confusion and hope until she reached her heart, she examined it. Held it up to the knowledge she’d just been given.
Truth be told, she felt relieved.
‘And Paul? Your father?’ Not that she cared, but it felt polite.
