The Chocolate Maker’s Wife

by Karen Brooks

  There was something to be said for beginning again, and if it wasn’t for the chocolate house, Rosamund knew she would have been tempted to do the same. In a sense that’s exactly what they were all doing: making a fresh start in a new year.

  In fact, the year 1666 was a cause of great perturbation — both at the Phoenix and in the news sheets — with many writing about what the triple six portended.

  Only last week, Sam showed her a book he’d purchased from Matthew called An Interpretation of the Number 666 by Francis Potter. It discussed how such a number signified the End of Days and related to the beast or the Devil. Like many others, Sam was convinced a great doom awaited them, something Matthew scoffed at.

  ‘As if the plague were not enough.’

  Rosamund was inclined to agree. Nonetheless, she was fascinated by how the number and what it portended preoccupied folk. When Matthew found an old copy of William Lilly’s Monarchy or No Monarchy (a pamphlet that would have had Matthew thrown in the Tower had one of Henry Bennet’s other spies seen it) and pointed out the part where he prophesised a period where England would battle disease then fire, she wanted to dismiss it with him. After all, as Matthew rightly said, it didn’t take a seer to make such a pronouncement, not with diseases always afflicting the capital and fire a continual risk.

  ‘It’s akin to saying Tuesday follows Monday or it might rain in winter,’ said Matthew. They then spent far too much time laughing and thinking of other analogies. Rosamund relished those moments. Matthew dropped his guard and entered into discussion with fervour, treating her as both confidante and partner.

  Rumours of a Jewish Messiah dominated the chocolate house for days. Even Sam had something to say about it, bowling in one Monday agog with the news he’d heard at his booksellers about a man all the princes of the East were accepting as the King of the World.

  ‘Much like we do His Majesty, the King of England,’ said Sam, lest Rosamund failed to comprehend his meaning. ‘They’re saying this one’s the true Messiah.’

  Rosamund finished agitating a pot of chocolate, placed it on a tray and nodded to Adam to take it the customer. ‘Is it not blasphemous to say such things, Sam?’

  Sam glanced around and saw Sir Henry Bennet sitting a mere two benches away, the black plaster on his nose identifying him immediately. He hunched his shoulders and lowered his voice. ‘Only if they’re not true,’ he whispered.

  ‘What makes you so sure they are?’

  ‘What makes you so sure they are not, hmmm? Surely, it’s better to have a foot in both camps, hedge your bets, don’t you think?’

  Rosamund felt laugher bubble. Good God, she loved this strange little man who could make her forget her woes. ‘Likely you’re right, Sam, but I don’t think your reverend or mine would be pleased to hear you say such things.’

  ‘I suspect you’re right, Rosamund, so we’ll just keep it to ourselves, shall we?’ He paused and looked at the little bowls filled with an assortment of spices and other additives lined up on the bar. He indicated the ones he wanted in his drink and settled back on his stool.

  ‘Mind you,’ he continued as Rosamund prepared his chocolate, ‘my dear friend Sir George Carteret is so perplexed by what he’s hearing about the Jews being on the march across the Continent and in Persia, he’s decided we’re all about to face some great catastrophe. He’s quite beside himself with melancholy.’

  Before Rosamund could make an appropriate noise of sympathy, Sam appeared to forget all about his friend and hopped off his stool and rested the back of his elbows on the counter, surveying the room and touching his hat to Sir Henry, who nodded gravely.

  ‘Blithman not here?’ he asked, swinging back to her.

  ‘Aubrey does not come to the chocolate house,’ said Rosamund. ‘It’s beneath him.’

  Sam turned slowly. ‘Ah, you mean, Matthew Lovelace is beneath him, for I will not countenance for a moment that you are.’

  In that regard, Sam was right. Aubrey took the role of suitor very seriously, sending her tokens of his affection and, as if to make up for the fact he didn’t write one missive the entire time he was in Oxford, scribbling something to her every other day, forcing Wat to deliver his notes. In different circumstances Rosamund might have been amused by his ramblings. As it was, she cast a cursory eye over them, before sending a careless line or two in response.

  ‘You’re encouraging him,’ Bianca would warn.

  ‘That’s the point,’ Rosamund would reply.

  She sighed as she passed Sam his chocolate.

  ‘How go your preparations for his return to the manor?’ he asked.

  Was there anything this man did not know? ‘They progress… slowly.’

  Sam took a sip of his drink, let out an exhalation of appreciation and nodded sagely. ‘I’ve heard he’s fallen in with John Wilmot, the Earl of Rochester.’

  ‘Is that a bad thing?’ Rosamund continued to mix drinks.

  ‘Only for those upon whom he turns his formidable wit. I hear the King intends to make Rochester a Gentleman of the Bedchamber. Never fear, Rosamund, the young earl will keep Aubrey occupied.’ Before she could respond, Sam saw someone he knew and, picking up his bowl, hurried off.

  ‘A groat for your thoughts,’ Matthew said, slipping onto the stool Sam had vacated.

  ‘I can assure you, sir, they’re worth a great deal more than that.’ With a smile, she quickly threw ingredients into a bowl — sugar, musk, vanilla and a pinch of chilli — and poured him a chocolate. With a flourish, she slid the steaming bowl over.

  His eyes twinkled. ‘Is that so? Well, next time, I’ll fatten my purse before I come.’ He looked over his shoulder at the men bent over their news sheets, their voices rising and falling, smoke and steam swirling about their heads. ‘Custom seems good.’ He took an appreciative sip.

  ‘Aye, it is,’ said Rosamund, as Hugh and Timothy ran over with more orders. They greeted Matthew before racing away to attend the tables. ‘Picking up every day. If it wasn’t for the faces we no longer see, it would be hard to credit the plague ever happened.’ Her voice broke. Matthew placed a hand over hers.

  ‘I know what you mean.’ He left his hand on hers a moment. The warmth of his fingers through the glove, their shared memories of Jacopo, Mr Henderson and the others washed over them.

  ‘Anything or anyone of interest?’ asked Matthew, removing his hand and turning sideways to watch the room as she prepared more chocolate. Rosamund knew his question really meant: was there anything worthy of being written about?

  Further down the bar, just out of earshot, Solomon made chocolate as well while Bianca mixed the coffee. In the kitchen, Thomas was supervising Grace using the metate, his voice authoritative as he gave directions. Matthew would later ask them the same question. It was surprising what could be gleaned moving between tables, serving and appearing not to listen. To many of the men, the drawers, Bianca, and even Rosamund were simply there to serve them, and many were careless with their words. Considering they were at war and spies were being ferreted out everywhere, Rosamund found this casual approach to sensitive information appalling and fascinating in equal parts. News was currency — the more you had, the greater esteem in which you were held, and where to better to flaunt your wealth than a chocolate or coffee house.

  ‘Only the usual,’ said Rosamund. ‘Many are still talking about the Jewish Messiah, others grumble about how the King’s many infidelities set a bad example. There are those —’ she gave the barest of nods towards a group of men by the windows, ‘who bemoan the vice of the court and claim the King is ruled by his prick and not his head.’

  ‘Well, they wouldn’t be the first to make that claim. Nor would they be wrong.’

  ‘True. But there’s a viciousness in their words that wasn’t there previously. Some mention the old ways.’

  Matthew cocked his head. ‘The old ways? Is that so? Do they mean the Catholic days or the parliamentary, I wonder?’

  Rosamund gave a slight shrug. ‘
They’re openly referring to Lady Castlemaine as a whore and the Duchess of York as a slut.’ She winced as she said the words and wondered what was said about her.

  As if reading her mind, Matthew closed his hand over hers. ‘They could never call you anything but what you are, Rosamund.’

  Her eyes dropped to where his hand covered hers for the second time in a few minutes. ‘And what might that be?’ she asked softly. Her heart tumbled at her daring, inviting him to reveal his feelings.

  He didn’t respond but tightened his hand over hers. Breathing hard, he stared at her, his blue eyes like a storm-tossed sea. Her mouth opened and his eyes dropped to her lips.

  ‘What else,’ he said hoarsely, ‘but the manager of a fine establishment.’ He withdrew his hand.

  Rosamund’s lungs deflated. ‘What else?’ she said lightly and turned aside before he read her disappointment.

  Sensing he was about to leave but not yet ready to let him go, she gave a weary sigh. ‘There is one other thing I must tell you.’

  He sank back onto the stool. ‘What is it? If it’s that the queen’s mother is sick, I know.’

  She placed her hands either side of the tray she’d just prepared and studied him. Whether or not he’d already heard, she knew the news needed to come from her.

  ‘It’s not that. It’s something far closer to home — well, to the manor, really.’

  Matthew raised his brows.

  ‘Aubrey is back from Oxford.’

  Did she imagine it or did Matthew’s eyes narrow? She was certain colour fled from his face before it returned, heightened, pronounced.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Thank you for letting me know. May I ask, for how long has he been back?’

  ‘In London, or at Blithe Manor?’

  ‘Either. Both.’

  Already, Matthew appeared to be planning some crusade. She could see it in his face, in the way his hands moved.

  ‘He came back to London a short time ago. I probably should have told you, but it didn’t seem… important.’

  ‘Important?’ Matthew gave a dry laugh. ‘No. Not important.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’ She sighed in frustration. ‘Truth is, I deliberately withheld the news as I feared it would upset you.’

  ‘In that regard, you’d be right. As it is, I’d heard rumours but awaited confirmation. Now I have it, I must make certain to welcome him back… this time.’

  Rosamund hesitated, then feeling guilty she’d not mentioned Aubrey sooner, capitulated. ‘I believe he has taken lodgings in Thames Street.’

  ‘He’s not staying at the manor?’

  ‘Ah…’ Rosamund had the grace to look discomfited. ‘He was under the impression the premises needed to be fumigated before he took up residence again.’

  Bianca snorted. So much for believing she couldn’t be heard. She had Matthew’s attention now.

  ‘And who,’ said Matthew, ‘gave him that impression?’

  ‘I cannot think, sir.’

  Matthew gave a bark of laughter. It was so loud, the people at the nearest table swung around to look. They waved and turned back to their drinks.

  ‘How goes it with you, Rosamund?’ he asked. ‘With him, I mean. It can’t be easy knowing he’s returned. He does not… bother you?’

  Surprised and secretly delighted he would think to ask, Rosamund hesitated. Should she mention the proposal? Mayhap that would be too forward. Anyway, what would it serve?

  ‘Bother me? Not exactly, but I confess, it’s easier with him absent.’ Did she reveal how Aubrey made her feel? The way he looked at her like a hungry beast?

  Matthew’s eyes narrowed and he considered her response carefully. ‘Do you know exactly where in Thames Street his lodgings are? I should pay my respects, offer my long overdue condolences, especially considering the last time I tried, I was deprived of the opportunity.’

  Because Aubrey had fled as if the hounds of hell were on his heels.

  ‘Bear with me,’ said Rosamund and searched her placket. She still had the last note he sent stuffed in there. ‘Here,’ she said, pulling it out and unfolding it.

  ‘He writes to you?’

  ‘Only every other day,’ said Rosamund smoothing out the paper. ‘He doesn’t feel safe coming to the house — yet.’ She pointed to the address in the corner. ‘He’s at the Dragon and Unicorn Inn, next to the sign of the spindle.’

  ‘You have my thanks, my lady.’

  ‘Shall I tell him you’re coming, sir?’

  Matthew shook his head. ‘I want to surprise him.’ From the look on his face, he wanted to ensure Aubrey had no chance to avoid him; it was a look that said if Aubrey had any sense, he would hightail it out of there.

  FORTY-ONE

  In which a threat is vanquished

  ‘Nice room, Aubrey,’ said Matthew, barging past Wat and sauntering over to the window as if he were a welcome visitor, not an intruder.

  When Aubrey didn’t reply, Matthew tore himself away from the vista to regard him. Aubrey sat, a glass of claret in one hand, a pipe in the other, his mouth still open at the sight of Matthew. The colour had fled his usually ruddy cheeks, his eyes were bloodshot. The smell of stale wine rose from him like heat off cobbles at high summer.

  Unperturbed, Matthew dragged over a stool, removed the satchel from across his shoulders and, placing it by his feet, picked up the brimming jug and poured himself some wine.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ he asked as it splashed into the glass. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ He gave a laugh and then drank.

  Aubrey put down his pipe and took a hefty swallow of his wine without speaking. His eyes were wary and he kept shooting glances at Wat, who remained at the ready by the door.

  Ignoring the exchanges between Aubrey and his steward, Matthew continued as if they were old friends. ‘Which is ironic, considering you’re the one back from the dead. Speaking of which, that’s what I’m here to discuss. The dead… and the living.’

  Aubrey indicated Wat should retire to the other room.

  ‘I will remain in here should you have need of me, sir,’ said Wat, casting a cautious glance in Matthew’s direction as he shut the door.

  Knowing Wat’s ear would be pressed to the wood, Matthew nudged his seat closer. ‘It’s been a while, Aubrey. I have to say, I could scarce believe my ears when I heard you were not only alive but here in London.’

  The red stains that marked a heavy drinker slowly returned to Aubrey’s cheeks. Putting down his glass, he sat back in his chair, resting his elbows on the arms and locking his fingers together over his lap. The appearance of nonchalance might have worked had his hands not been shaking. A tic pulsed in his jaw.

  ‘W… what do you want?’ he asked, his voice low.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Truth be told, I do not know.’ His eyes met Matthew’s before sliding away again. ‘I do not think we’ve anything to say to each other.’

  Matthew chortled. ‘You might not, but I’ve plenty to say to you.’

  Aubrey gripped the arms of his chair and pulled himself straighter, as if trying to gain higher ground. ‘If that is so, I do not want to hear it.’

  ‘Maybe not, but you will all the same.’ Matthew paused and took his time studying Aubrey. ‘But first, indulge me. I need to know. How did you do it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Avoid detection.’

  A sly look crossed Aubrey’s face. ‘Why should I tell you?’

  Matthew sighed. ‘I searched, you know — Africa, the New World — but everyone told me you were dead. I began to persuade myself that perhaps you were, after all. Yet, here you are, larger than life.’

  A slow, smug smile transformed Aubrey’s face. He waggled a finger at Matthew. ‘If Father and I learned anything from you, Lovelace, it was how to dissemble. The moment I left these shores, Aubrey Blithman disappeared to be replaced by none other than Everard Blithman, nephew to his namesake, tasked with managing the business inter
ests of his uncle.’ He laughed. ‘Preposterous, isn’t it? So simple and yet so perfect. Making my new self younger by some years, all I had to do was steer close to the truth while at the same time never quite revealing it. Were you not a master of that? A lovelorn writer who was really a spy? Or was it the role of husband you never quite mastered?’

  Matthew didn’t bite.

  ‘No-one questioned who I was, my relationship; after all, poor Sir Everard had lost both his sons, hadn’t he? It made sense that his closest living relative would look to his business interests.’ He cackled. ‘Whenever I was asked about the Aubrey Blithman business — and I oft was in the beginning — I was overcome with shame and grief. Once I established my reputation, and it didn’t take long, people ceased to question me and prevented others from mentioning the name Aubrey in my presence. Before long, they were asking what they could do for me.’ He stared into his glass, a twisted smile upon his lips. ‘All I had to do was avoid those who had known me in London. It wasn’t as difficult as you’d expect. I managed to avoid you, after all. When I couldn’t? Well, wasn’t hard to put about that the resemblance between cousins was striking.’ He smirked. ‘You’d be astonished what people will believe. All it took was a different name, a believable story and, of course, the occasional bribe.’

  It required all Matthew’s willpower not to show his surprise at Aubrey’s admission. He’d underestimated him. Oh, he’d heard of this nephew and even made efforts to contact him, to no avail. Now he knew why. That stung.