The Chocolate Maker’s Wife

by Karen Brooks

  Mr Remney had found them a rather large gentlemen, a former soldier with only one eye, named Mr Nick, whom they hired to wander around the tables and make his presence known. Matthew was concerned about leaving Rosamund upstairs without a male chaperone other than Filip. Mr Nick had only to fold his burly arms or cock a brow to curb any poor behaviour.

  Not that it was a problem. That the chocolate house had remained open through most of the plague and only finally closed to prevent becoming a source of contagion had done much to endear the widow, as they still called Rosamund, to the gentlemen of London. Matthew as well. Their names were mentioned in the same breath as others who’d earned the gratitude of the city such as Lord Craven, General Monck, the former Lord Mayor, Matron Margaret Blague and the few physicians who’d braved the pestilence. Rosamund, Matthew and the Phoenix were much admired.

  Sir Everard would have hated the names of Blithman and Lovelace being linked in such a manner. How would Aubrey feel?

  On the first day of February 1666, the court and Aubrey returned to their respective abodes: King Charles to Whitehall and Aubrey to Blithe Manor. Bonfires and bells greeted the King’s return, but Aubrey, looking about the capital as he and Wat rode through the cheering crowds that had braved the snow and cold, liked to think they were for him.

  He paused briefly at his warehouses and was perturbed by the low quantities of stock. Like many merchants, his ships had been quarantined in the ports of Venice, Calais, Amsterdam and the Black Sea, unable to either deliver or receive goods, and he’d suffered heavy losses. Reassured by the lifting of restrictions — at least with countries not affected by the war — so trade could resume again, he signed various purchase orders and said he’d send further instructions the following day.

  It wasn’t until he arrived at Blithe Manor and saw the new faces awaiting him in the courtyard, the gauntness of the familiar servants and the lack of supplies in the cellars, that the alterations the plague had effected literally came home. Riding through London earlier, it had been hard to credit the stories of death and misery that had entertained him and those he’d kept company with in Oxford for so many months. All about, the streets were jammed with vendors, carriages and folk burdened with shopping baskets. Thick smoke chugged into the sky and the tang of tanneries and coal fires burned his nostrils, just as he remembered. Nothing seemed to have changed.

  Only, it had.

  When he first sighted Rosamund that evening, he was appalled. It was as if a paler, thinner imitation of a cherished memory had entered the withdrawing room and dropped a curtsey. The blasted blackamoor, who also looked worse for wear, followed close on her heels. Rosamund politely enquired after his health and asked him to describe his time away. Happy to oblige as his mind worked to reconcile reality and dream, he was barely able to recall what he said. Transfixed by the large-eyed, hollow-cheeked woman before him, he marvelled that he ever likened this… this drab to his beloved Helene. Her skin was dry, her hair no longer shone and sadness was a perfume in which she liberally doused herself. The blackamoor was not much better, standing behind her mistress’s shoulder, offering her profile. He’d heard her brother had died and good riddance. According to gossip, so had most of the drawers at the chocolate house. Maybe now Rosamund would come to her senses and abandon her designs on the place; maybe now she wasn’t quite the beauty she’d been, she would see the sense in the proposal he’d added to his note. He’d demand a response from her shortly.

  As he answered her query about the plague in Oxford (as far as he knew, there had only been a couple of deaths and those among the poor — though there was mention of one of the King’s servants dying), he felt there was something almost ethereal about her, the way she listened so earnestly to his responses. There was a fragility that awoke a protective streak in him he’d thought long extinguished. Dressed in pale pink that captured the faint colour in her cheeks, she made an effort to flash that lovely smile, even if it didn’t reach her eyes. On second thoughts, though she looked different, there was a sense in which she even more beautiful. Weak. Vulnerable.

  Sitting up straighter, he cast aside the blasé tone he’d picked up from the other courtiers and described the journey back to London in a manner more becoming someone who’d survived.

  Just as Rosamund had.

  He supposed he’d have to ask her about that — and console her over the losses she’d endured, only he detested the thought of Lovelace’s name upon her lips. It had been hard enough tolerating it from Helene, yet he supposed he must. Damn the fellow. He was a blight in every regard. In his mind, the plague and Lovelace arrived simultaneously — if only others would see it that way then he’d be rid of the man for good. How could he avoid him now he was here in London, working at the same premises where Rosamund dirtied her hands? He looked at her hands now, so reddened, so worn. Like a servant’s. Indignation and anger flared. How could she do that to him? How could she do that to the family name, sully it in such a manner? Not only serving in a chocolate house, of all places, but by working with his father’s mortal enemy.

  His mortal enemy, too.

  His heart began to thunder. He put a hand against his shirt and could feel its vibrations. It seemed so loud he wondered if anyone else could hear it. Damn his father for failing to rid them of the Lovelace curse once and for all. For leaving it to him. He’d no stomach for such matters. As far as he was concerned, the best revenge he could have upon Lovelace was to win Rosamund to his side; win her heart. He’d half-expected to come home and find that she and Lovelace had made a promise to each other. Maybe Lovelace wasn’t interested? He found it hard to believe, considering he’d been so infatuated with Helene. But maybe that was the point; the thought of a woman who would remind him of his dead wife was too much. For him, the resemblance only added to her attraction. Even if Rosamund no longer looked quite how he remembered, once she was fed and had slept well, it would be an altogether different prospect.

  She dimpled at a memory, before her great eyes filled. Dear God, he wanted nothing more than to reach out and take her in his arms, sop up her misery with his lips. Damnation if his gospel pipe wasn’t vibrating in his trousers. He shifted in his seat, becoming aware as he did so of the blackamoor watching him. He stared back, his eyes narrowing. She looked away, her full lips curved. He’d wipe that sneer off her face with the back of his hand given half a chance. Only, that wasn’t the way to Rosamund’s heart — or, if not her heart, her capitulation. He could be stubborn and persistent and if he didn’t have Lovelace to contend with in this race, he could well be the victor.

  In fact, regarding Rosamund objectively, now was the time to strike. Maybe she wouldn’t be so cocky having borne witness to death; maybe she’d view him and his suit favourably. Maybe, now Rosamund knew what awaited a woman alone in the world, she would be eager to marry again. She might be damaged goods, but she was still his — moreso than ever. This plague had done him a mighty favour.

  He leaned forward eagerly and begged her to tell him what had happened while he was away: all that had been talked about in Oxford was the Bills of Mortality and they were impossible to give credence to — over two thousand deaths in a single week! He’d seen the mass burial pits outside the city, but they were covered in charming hillocks of snow and surely could not be evidence of such a calamity. And he was keen to discover what had happened at the manor while he was gone.

  Rosamund looked at him in a manner he wasn’t accustomed to: almost as if he was a stain upon a rug. Though perhaps he’d imagined it, for the expression disappeared, replaced by a flicker of something — her old self? She flashed him what he thought was a smile.

  Knocking back a glass of sack like one of her patrons and ordering another to be poured, she quietly told him about the losses that had occurred — not only of beloved servants, but all her acquaintances. He was on the cusp of telling her that he didn’t care about her drawers or the owner of the blasted bookshop when he recalled his new tactics: listen, be sympatheti
c, pander to her. At least give the appearance of concern. Absorbed in these reflections he only caught the end of her saying the white cross upon their door was harder to remove then the red. White cross? Red? Was not one the marker of infection within and the other a sign it had passed? Who had marked the door of Blithe Manor? Why?

  Looking about, his skin began to goose and not because he was cold. The fire in the hearth threw out a goodly heat and thick curtains were drawn across the windows to keep the frosty night at bay. He found his ears were pricked just as his stomach began to sink.

  ‘Did I hear you aright, my lady? This very house was afflicted?’

  Rosamund steadily told him how her brothers, the twins, not only had the audacity to intrude and bring infection into his home but Bianca had fallen victim as well.

  The blackamoor? He recoiled as she outlined all that followed.

  Opening and closing his fists, swallowing thickly, Aubrey longed to jump to his feet and run from the house. Why had no-one told him of this? Why had that widow — what was her name? Ashe. Why had she not mentioned that the plague had invaded his home? Why had none of his friends?

  Because you chose not to correspond lest you catch the pestilence, and all your so-called friends were in Oxford with you.

  Unable to remain still as Rosamund described how, after her brothers died, between them she, Bianca and that Papist, Filip, had wrapped their bodies and dragged them down the stairs, he stood abruptly. How could he enjoy the comfort of his seat knowing some low-born cove had perished suppurating among its cushions? He signalled for the footman to fill his glass. Where was Wat? He should be here by now.

  He began to pace up and down the room. As he paused by the window and pulled aside the curtains, Rosamund calmly told him how Jacopo had met his end.

  ‘He died here?’ choked Aubrey, dropping the curtains and spinning around. ‘In this house?’

  ‘What choice did he have, sir?’ asked Rosamund. Was she mocking him?

  He repressed a shudder and brought the glass to his lips, but did not drink — what if an infected person had drunk from the very same vessel? Aubrey studied her anew.

  ‘And you? Did you fall foul of the pestilence, madam?’

  Rosamund considered his words and as she did, his heart dropped into his boots. ‘Aye, I fell foul of it,’ she said quietly, her head bowed.

  ‘But you recovered?’ Aubrey put down his glass and stepped away.

  ‘Recovered?’ Rosamund glanced up at Bianca who met her eyes then looked away. ‘No, sir, I’m afraid I am not recovered.’

  Aubrey stared at her, his eyes growing wide, his cheeks pale. Suddenly, the dry hair, the pale skin, the merest hint of roses in the cheeks took on a whole new and sinister meaning. He bolted to the door and flung it open, shouting for Wat.

  Aubrey turned back to face her. ‘Forgive me, madam, but I recall I have some very important business to attend to in town.’

  Rising, Rosamund brushed her skirts carefully. ‘I am sorry to hear that, sir. Shall I ask Ashe to see that your bed is prepared? It hasn’t been used since… Who was it last slept in Aubrey’s bed, Bianca?’

  Bianca tilted her head and frowned. ‘I cannot remember, madam. It might have been Jacopo, or perhaps someone else…’

  Horrified, Aubrey yelled for Wat again and, with a barely polite bow, rushed from the room.

  Once they heard him stomping about in the hall, ordering his bags and chest to be loaded onto a conveyance, Bianca nodded for the footman to shut the door.

  Sinking into the seat he’d so recently vacated, Bianca grinned. ‘You’re a wicked woman, Rosamund Blithman.’

  ‘I didn’t say I had the plague,’ said Rosamund, a whisper of a smile on her lips, ‘that would have been a lie. But did I recover from it? In answering him, I only told the truth. None of us have.’ A parade of bloated, swollen faces dying in agony tramped through her mind. ‘Anyhow,’ she sighed as they heard Wat’s voice, ‘he won’t stay away long. I’ve merely bought us a few weeks, if we’re lucky.’

  ‘A few weeks for what, may I ask?’

  ‘To prepare for my future.’

  ‘Future?’ asked Bianca, pouring herself a drink and refilling Rosamund’s glass as she held it out to her. ‘But, bella, you have a future, don’t you?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? I’ve been offered another. When Aubrey wrote to announce his return, he also formally asked for my hand in marriage.’

  Bianca almost dropped the jug. ‘I would remember if you made mention of that.’

  ‘Oh, how forgetful of me.’

  ‘But, he cannot — in the eyes of God, surely, he cannot marry his father’s wife.’

  Rosamund released a long sigh. ‘Apparently, if the marriage was never consummated, he can. And, as you know, Bianca — and it turns out Aubrey knew as well — his father, while a capable man in many areas, was not in that regard.’

  ‘Allora. He has thought of everything.’

  ‘His father did. Aubrey wrote he has proof of his father’s… incapacity. A doctor’s note, no less. Keeps it with him at all times. Sir Everard wrote it as a precaution: to be used if ever I thought to contest the will or, I imagine, those papers I signed.’

  Bianca waited. When Rosamund said nothing, she cleared her throat. ‘You’re not seriously considering marrying him, are you?’

  Rosamund stared into her glass. ‘Considering, aye. Seriously? No… not yet. But there may come a time when I have to — seriously consider it, I mean. If my marriage to Sir Everard is to be annulled, as Aubrey suggests, then I lose my widow status, my title, this —’ She looked about the room. ‘I become nothing but a single woman with, how did Aubrey put it? Ah, no prospects.’

  ‘Flatterer,’ said Bianca wryly.

  ‘And I know what else you would say, Bianca, and it isn’t anything I haven’t already considered. I will do all I can to keep Aubrey, and his demands for an answer, at arm’s length and have him believe his cause is not lost. I will play on his fears of contagion and suggest he fumigate the house, repaint each and every room, and replace all the linens before he moves home. I will persuade him it is the safest thing to do and that I am the best person to oversee this. I will ensure it takes time. A great deal of time…’

  ‘I see. And once he’s back here and realises his cause is lost?’

  Rosamund made a bitter sound. ‘I think Aubrey thwarted will be much more dangerous than Aubrey courting. I need to be prepared.’

  Nodding solemnly, Bianca raised her glass. ‘To the future.’

  ‘To my widowhood, long may we enjoy it.’

  FORTY

  In which the end of days draws nigh

  Mr Remney commenced the work on Blithe Manor a few days later. In the meantime, Rosamund continued to work at the Phoenix, looking after her patrons and finding excuses to interact with Matthew.

  He was like the sun, drawing her into his orbit; the more she resisted him, the more she found herself compelled to seek him out, even if it was just to ask for the latest edition of what was now the London Gazette (it had moved from Oxford and out of Muddiman’s hands; Sir Henry’s secretary, Joseph Williamson, had taken over as editor and Thomas Newcombe in Thames Street published it) or any new bills or pamphlets she might distribute among the patrons. Always friendly, always ready to talk with her about what she read and to share snippets of news, or surreptitiously pass her his latest tract for the drawers to distribute, he appeared content to remain the friend he declared himself so long ago. Whereas once she would’ve been overjoyed with that, in the secret recesses of her soul she longed for more, though exactly what ‘more’ entailed, she wouldn’t examine.

  Sometimes she’d catch him in an unguarded moment and she would see possibilities she’d thought extinguished the moment Aubrey Blithman returned. But as soon as he was aware of being watched, his expression would alter. Other times, when he’d shut the shop downstairs and come to sit in a booth and scribble thoughts or simply listen to the men gossiping, she’d brin
g him a chocolate and slide onto the bench opposite. They would sit in companionable silence as nearby conversations washed over them about the King’s many bastards, the resumption of trade, rumours the queen was pregnant, and fear of what the continuing war with the Dutch signalled. Occasionally, they’d share a smile at some overheard absurdity. Then she would lose herself in those azure eyes and the laughter she feared had been stamped out would kindle once more — though not enough to give it expression.

  But she could hope.

  If only she could see into his head — into his heart. But Matthew wasn’t going to grant her admission to that.

  Preparations for yet another sea battle proceeded apace, especially since an attempt to sue for peace with the Dutch had failed. London was abuzz with news. Much to Sam’s chagrin, his great patron Lord Sandwich was displaced as Admiral of the Navy by General George Monck. Monck and Prince Rupert, the King’s cousin, were to lead the newly assembled fleet. Seamen were ordered to return to their ships, promises of overdue pay dangled before them like ripe fruit. Rosamund thought of Avery at Gravesend and wondered if he too was summoned to duty. Was the risk of death at sea worth not having to ‘fuckin’ wait’ for his pay any more?

  The plague had struck Gravesend with a vengeance. Even if her mother had still been alive, Rosamund believed she wouldn’t have survived the pestilence. Part of her prayed Paul hadn’t, but it didn’t seem right to be so uncharitable. According to Frances, who had endured, the Maiden Voyage Inn had been taken over by a family from the country whose village had been all but wiped out. Frances had lost her mother to the contagion, and in her last letter she told Rosamund she and her father were moving north, away from shipping lanes and rivers and anywhere they might have contact with outsiders in an effort to keep themselves safe. Although saddened by her friend’s departure, she understood. London’s streets were filled with those displaced by the plague and ready to fill positions left abandoned.