The Chocolate Maker’s Wife

by Karen Brooks

  ‘We’ll be quarantined,’ whispered Filip, glancing down the stairs to where the boys waited. ‘Forty days.’

  ‘With them.’ Bianca’s terror made her accent thick.

  Rosamund saw her own fear echoed in their eyes and reached once more for the comfort of Bianca’s fingers, twining them through her own. It was too late to worry about contact. The infection had already entered the house.

  ‘Only if we last that long,’ she said.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  In which the Lord has mercy upon us

  ‘Thirty-one days,’ murmured Matthew, adding another mark to the piece of paper in front of him. He rested the quill in the inkhorn and rubbed his beard thoughtfully. Opposite him, Jacopo sighed and they both stared out the window.

  The street below was empty; the grass was all that thrived in the heat and dust and even that was suffering. Late rains had allowed it to flourish temporarily before the hot weather returned with a vengeance. No cool moderating breezes blew, there was just the smouldering sunshine and searing gusts of wind that carried the stench of death. Rubbish tumbled along the street. A trio of large brown rats scurried along a wall, disappearing inside a hole in the plaster. They seemed to be the only creatures left alive in the street. Though when night fell, candles formed halos in windows, their gentle glow welcome signs of human habitation; for all their enforced isolation, they weren’t alone. Not yet.

  While he knew he should be grateful he was still alive, all Matthew could think about was the latest Bill of Mortality. Before he left to attend the Duke of Albermarle in Lambeth, Sam had slipped one under the bookshop door together with a variety of bills, pamphlets and news sheets. The rancour he once felt towards Matthew appeared to have dissolved into something akin to pity mixed with admiration for his stance over the chocolate house. Six hundred more people had died this week than last, taking the death total to well over seven thousand since the outbreak began. But as Jacopo pointed out, that didn’t account for any non-conformists like Quakers and Anabaptists, let alone Catholics and Jews. God Himself knew the real toll.

  Around him were reminders of better days. Cruel sunbeams danced their way through the windows, highlighting the emptiness of the place. The hollowness of his dreams. Pages of notes sat at his elbow, half-written pieces, thoughts on events, on what he saw as he stared outside with glazed eyes and heard through the windows. Ripostes to the writings of L’Estrange which not only appeared in the Intelligencer, but were repeated in his other news sheet, The Newes; remonstrations against His Majesty, who had left his ravaged poor to starve, and the other professionals who looked to save their own fat skins first. That was before he set to against those who profited from selling false hope in the form of magical potions and cures. A pox on them all.

  Rail all he liked, none of it would ever be published. He hadn’t the heart since Will Henderson’s death.

  Without customers to serve, a chocolate house to run — without, let’s be honest, vengeance to fire his soul and letters to deliver, except to Rosamund, and they were but brief notes each day — he’d had plenty of time to burn his anger through his quill and reflect upon his life and a future that might never eventuate. He cursed himself for wasting more than two years chasing atonement, and for the years before, when his need for revenge had taken over. Now he feared he’d lost his chance.

  The marks on the page indicated how much time had passed since he had sent Rosamund and the others into the arms of death. Once more he asked God to keep her just a little longer. Please. So far, according to the news whispered through the doors of Blithe Manor, shouted from its windows, and the letters passed between the cracks in its gate which the watchmen allowed to change hands, he knew that Rosamund endured. She, Bianca, Filip and the boys had, thus far, survived.

  Nine more days. Just nine more days.

  Folding his arms, he stretched out his legs and buried his chin in his chest, feeling his bristles scratching through the fabric of his shirt. Without a decent bath, he itched all over. Not even a fresh shirt could quite disguise the stale odour of his body. He sniffed and pulled a face.

  A noise from the kitchen told him Ashe had arisen. She must be feeling better. She’d been afflicted by a slight megrim and gone to lie down some time ago. No doubt she was seeing to coffee. God knew, ever since Rosamund had left, he’d no desire for chocolate. It simply reminded him of her.

  The day he’d forced everyone to leave, effectively quarantining himself and Jacopo in order to save them, the last thing he expected was for Ashe to arrive less than two hours later, flushed, distressed beyond measure and demanding he return to Blithe Manor with her. When he learned what had prompted her to come to the Phoenix, banging on the entrance until her fists were torn, he felt paralysed.

  That evening Ashe and most of the staff had been finishing their dinner in the kitchen at Blithe Manor before preparing the mistress’s supper when Rosamund’s stepbrothers burst in. Unable to see them properly at first with the light at their backs and the darkened kitchen failing to reveal their features, they’d thought them simply cupshotten, boorish soldiers as they staggered about, their speech slurred, picking up a jug of wine and downing it, thrusting food into their mouths before spitting it back onto the table. It wasn’t until the one called Glory fell to the floor, laughing like a lackwit, that they saw his face and understood with icy clarity what had entered their home.

  Trying not to surrender to panic, Ashe had ushered all the servants out of the kitchen and through the front door, ordering them to wait for her at the church. Then, with great courage, she’d returned to the kitchen and coaxed the men to the withdrawing room with the promise of as much wine and food as they could consume.

  She managed to shut them in, but in her haste forgot to lock the door before seeing to the servants waiting in the churchyard. Those who were able, she told to go to their homes, the others were to remain with the vicar until she could receive instructions from the mistress. Then, Ashe had bolted to the chocolate house. When she discovered the door locked and the mistress gone, she’d become hysterical.

  Immediately, Matthew and Jacopo set out with her for Blithe Manor. By then, some hours had passed and the sun was setting, the scorching air replaced by welcome cooler breezes. They’d arrived at Bishopsgate Street to find watchmen already in place, a fresh red cross splashed upon the door and the rear gate chained to prevent anyone entering or leaving.

  Matthew felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. What had he done?

  It wasn’t until he felt Jacopo’s long fingers on his back that he straightened and, following the direction of his gaze, saw a sweet face pressed to a window. Rosamund leaned out. She tried to speak a few times, but tears rolled down her cheeks and fell upon the sill. Holding the window frame like a staff, she took a deep breath and tried once more.

  ‘Matthew, it’s here. The pl… pl…’

  It was another punch. But this time he received it without flinching. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Ashe told me.’

  Bianca appeared, then Filip, and they stood together, a forlorn tableau — the men and Ashe looking up, the women and Filip peering down.

  ‘You need to move on, sir,’ said one of the watchmen. When Matthew didn’t respond, he continued, ‘Please, sir, it does no good to loiter about lest you breathe in the foul miasmas and become infected yourselves.’ He lowered his voice. ‘If you bring supplies and the like, we’ll make sure she gets ’em —’ He held out his palm before rubbing his fingers together. ‘If you make it worth our while.’

  Matthew continued to stare up at the window. ‘Rosamund,’ he called. ‘Fear not, we will look to you and the others. Bianca, Filip, stay strong. Pray for your deliverance, as will we. Believe that we will do everything in our power to aid you however we can.’

  He could see the tears on Rosamund’s cheeks, a rivulet of diamonds glinting in the gloaming.

  It was Filip who answered. ‘Gracias, Matthew. Gracias. All we ask is that you look to each other.�
��

  ‘Look after Ashe as well,’ called out Bianca.

  Quite forgetting the young woman, Matthew turned. Courageous, she too had faced the afflicted and risked herself for others. ‘You will come with us, back to the chocolate house.’ It was not a request.

  ‘But, sir,’ she began. ‘I… I have touched them.’ She glanced up at the window. ‘The men… Lady Rosamund’s brothers.’

  ‘Stepbrothers,’ said Matthew, as if it made a difference. ‘We will return to Birchin Lane together and live in self-imposed quarantine, leaving only to get supplies and share what we have with those here. These gentlemen —’ the sweep of his arm took in the guards, ‘assure me they will see provisions and notes are handed over.’ He reached into his purse and deposited some coins in the eagerly awaiting hand. The man spat on one before secreting it about his person and handing over what remained to his partner. Matthew tried not to recoil. Gazing back at the house, he raised his voice.

  ‘Did you hear that, Rosamund?’

  ‘I did. You have my thanks, good sirs.’

  The men lifted their caps.

  ‘I will come every day. I will write.’ Matthew’s words were a vow.

  That was over a month ago. Since then, many notes had been exchanged. The irony of being reduced to communicating through the written word when they were less than a bell toll away did not escape him. He glanced down at his papers, his eyes alighting on the other writing he’d done.

  In the thirty-one days they’d been apart, there’d been so many deaths. He’d kept a list of those they knew: there were twenty names in all — so far. First upon the list was Wolstan and the rest of his family — seven in total. The father had gone to sea to support kin who no longer lived, poor man. May God bless him. Then there was Will Henderson, who had lasted two days after he collapsed in the street. Fear-God and Glory Ballister died the night they entered Blithe Manor. Matthew could hardly think of them as a loss. His fury that they’d brought plague to Rosamund, that God could be so cruel as to put her at risk, overcame all other emotions. He’d learned more about Rosamund from Jacopo — including the condition in which she was found by Sir Everard, which explained how she had come to be married to the man in the first place. Anger towards Paul Ballister grew and simmered; he understood now why Rosamund had been so ambivalent about the news of her mother’s death. Between them, he and Jacopo had pieced together Sir Everard’s intentions. His loathing of the Blithmans, which had been briefly dulled, burned afresh. It made him think of Aubrey, who’d so readily avoided an encounter with him, the poltroon. He pleaded with God to let the man survive so he might say his piece. Some things should not be denied.

  Cheeky Harry and his four siblings had also died — only their grief-stricken mother lived. She was still shut away in their tiny house off Beer Lane; Matthew didn’t know whether to pray for her death or endurance. Kind, gentle Cara had also passed away — not from plague but some other disease. It was easy to forget as the pestilence ravaged the city that there were still other illnesses capable of carrying away dear ones. Mr Remney had been brought down with a terrible fever but recovered. The owner of the ordinary that supplied the chocolate house with food died, along with his wife, and the stationer across the street and his elderly sister. Art, Kit, and Owen were alive, but of Mr Remney’s other workers, he knew not.

  Matthew wiped his hands over his face and wondered if he shouldn’t go down into the bookshop and select some reading material. God bless Will, he wouldn’t mind. Not any more. Fear of infection had been overcome by the necessity to amuse and distract themselves, and he and Jacopo had taken to treating the bookshop like a giant library, borrowing and returning books and reading to each other. Jacopo had also decided to teach Ashe to read.

  ‘I’m atoning,’ he explained when Matthew queried him.

  They were long, long days of waiting, dreading and hoping; devouring any morsel of fresh news. God knew, they were hungry for it.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’ Matthew asked as Jacopo mounted the stairs from the bookshop.

  Jacopo didn’t hear him at first. He looked pale in the silver-grey light, and there were shadows forming beneath his eyes. No wonder. None of them were sleeping well. He stared at a note in his hand.

  ‘What is it, Jacopo? News?’

  Jacopo raised stricken eyes to his. ‘It’s Bianca,’ he said hoarsely.

  Matthew gripped the edges of a table. ‘Rosamund…?’

  Jacopo shook his head. ‘No, no. She’s the author of the note, not the subject. My sister is infected. She has the pestilence.’

  Matthew froze as the enormity of this struck him; sorrow followed by, God forgive him, relief it wasn’t Rosamund… yet.

  ‘I… I must go to her,’ said Jacopo.

  Matthew knew there was no point arguing. ‘Of course. I will come with you.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ said Ashe, appearing from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her grubby apron. ‘Not until I’ve packed some spices and herbs. Milady would never forgive me if we arrived without the right ingredients or some extra cakes of chocolate.’

  ‘And some medick,’ added Matthew. ‘Leave that to me.’

  Sending thanks to God for Ashe, Matthew sent extra prayers for Bianca, and for Rosamund. She’d survived one bout of plague beneath her roof… would the Almighty see fit to grant her another reprieve?

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  In which the calamity is inexpressible

  Disturbed by movement rather than noise, Rosamund opened her eyes. She had fallen asleep in Bianca’s room and it took her a moment to orientate herself. When she did, she was shocked at what she saw.

  Lowering himself onto Bianca’s bed was Jacopo.

  ‘Jacopo!’ exclaimed Rosamund, suddenly wide awake. She sat up and watched as he leaned over and stroked his sister’s grey face. ‘How did you get in here?’

  Bianca groaned.

  ‘Jacopo —’ began Rosamund. ‘You shouldn’t be here. The risk is too great —’

  ‘Allora, please, Rosamund. Do not waste your breath. I will not heed your warnings — not when it comes to Bianca. She’s my sister.’

  Rosamund stood and stretched, brushing her skirts. Tears trailed down Jacopo’s cheeks as he gazed upon Bianca. The love and utter devastation in his face took Rosamund’s breath away. She wrapped an arm about his shoulders and pulled him to her. Still holding Bianca’s hand, he resisted at first, then pressed his face into Rosamund’s bosom and wept. Kissing the top of his head, she prayed he wouldn’t feel her scalding tears.

  She whispered comfort and held him as he held Bianca, who opened her eyes. ‘I… I thought I was dreaming,’ she said faintly.

  Jacopo composed himself and smiled at her. ‘No, bella. I am here. I’m not leaving you again. When we came to this city, we promised never to be apart. It was the one thing the master allowed us — to be together.’

  Bianca smiled. Her lips were dry and the action caused her to wince. ‘Si, that’s true. But even so, you will leave if I say so, mio fratello.’

  Jacopo pressed his forehead against hers. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘You’re a fool.’ Bianca gave a laugh that became a cough.

  Jacopo quickly tried to help her into a sitting position as Rosamund plumped the pillows behind her.

  ‘Stay, Jacopo,’ said Rosamund. ‘I will fetch water to bathe her face and something to drink. I’ll let the others know you’re here.’ Opening the door, she paused. ‘How did you get in? There were watchmen on the gates, were there not?’

  ‘Si, but I didn’t live here for years without learning how to enter and leave without the master knowing.’ He gave her a cheeky wink. ‘How do you think we went to the Friends meetings? How do you think I saw Filip?’ He tilted his head. ‘You will tell him I am here?’ he asked softly.

  ‘I will and you must tell me how you did so.’ She paused. ‘And what of Matthew? Is he with you?’

  Jacopo frowned. ‘He has gone to seek medick. He may be a
while.’

  Shutting her eyes briefly, she thought of him roaming the infected streets, risking himself for their sakes. She almost laughed. Here she was concerned lest he expose himself to the contagion when they were all in danger no matter where they were.

  Touching Jacopo lightly on the shoulder, she whispered, ‘We will use what we have till Matthew arrives.’ She went to fetch all she thought Jacopo would need for Bianca.

  Filip found her as she was carrying a bucket of scalding water upstairs. ‘How goes the patient?’ he asked. His eyes were pouched with tiredness and an oily sheen on his cheeks reflected the dawn light.

  Rosamund passed the bucket to Filip gratefully. ‘There’s something I must tell you.’ She quickly relayed what had happened.

  Filip almost dropped the bucket. Tears sprang into his eyes. ‘He’s here?’

  ‘Aye, but he’s with Bianca. He is… you must understand, he’s not keeping a distance.’

  ‘Of course he’s not.’ There was pride in his voice. ‘And neither are you. You never have, Rosamund. We’ve been through too much together to consider keeping distant. What are families for if not to provide comfort and hope when others cannot? Are we not family?’

  He smiled and ran a finger down her cheek, catching a tear she didn’t know had escaped. He held it up to the light, where it sparkled like a jewel. Filip was right. It was easy to be a friend when times were good. It was in hard times that true friends revealed themselves. Their friendship had been forged in the hottest of fires and fused them into family.

  ‘Come,’ she said, wrapping a hand around one handle of the bucket as Filip took the other. ‘Let’s offer more comfort and hope.’

  In his wisdom, God saw fit to dole out comfort and hope in small but even measures. Where he gave to one, he took from another and so kept the scales in some kind of divine balance. As Bianca miraculously recovered, Jacopo fell ill.