by Karen Brooks
At closing time a combination of starlight and candles turned the empty chocolate house into a fantastical space of shadowy nooks and lambent planes. From the kitchen came the faint sounds of Grace washing the dirty bowls and the boys cleaning the equipment, as did their incessant teasing. Mr Nick sat by a far window, wreathed in pipe smoke, gazing upon the street below. Bianca was at the bar, polishing the wood and bringing it up to the sheen she insisted was imperative before they could offer service again on the morrow.
Shooing Rosamund away when she offered to help, she nodded in Matthew’s direction. ‘Close the door and join him. You’ve worked so hard today, signora, and while I know why, he’s been inordinately patient. I’ve taken the liberty of pouring you both a jug of canary.’
Grateful to Bianca because her feet were aching and she was weary — and not merely because they were busy but because she’d worked so hard to suppress emotions that kept batting away at her all day like moths at a lit window. The patrons had been joyous in their drinking; lavish in their praise of the chocolate and the Phoenix.
Matthew should be pleased.
When he’d first appeared, the rush of warmth that flowered in her belly and travelled to her cheeks found release in the smile she bestowed upon him before, once more, Aubrey’s face appeared and banished her joy. She forced his image away — after all, he was no longer a pressing concern, having quite unexpectedly withdrawn his suit and offered her the use of Blithe Manor for the foreseeable future. Memory of the utter relief his note brought filled her again, and she relegated him to the recesses of her mind.
Only, she suspected the reason for Aubrey’s actions. It was no coincidence, surely, that his hastily penned note and its generous offer arrived a few hours after Matthew would have seen him. What had passed between them? If she read him aright, Aubrey was not a man whose pride would allow him to easily relinquish what he had set his heart upon. She chose not to dwell on the cause, but to be grateful for the effect. The effect and the man who made it possible.
All afternoon she was aware of Matthew sitting only a few booths away, observing the bar. It was hard not to think he was also watching her. No matter how often her glance wandered in this direction, it continued to find his. Why would he choose today of all days to indulge in such things, especially when her own flights of fancy had taken wing?
Finally she was free of Aubrey and the multiple pressures he’d placed upon her from the moment he stepped into Blithe Manor. He’d become a disease eating away at her contentment — no more.
Ever since she left Bearwoode Manor there’d been people dictating what she should do, think, feel — how she should behave. Why, even her grandmother had, but to good purpose. Now for the first time in her life it was as if, like a reptile, she’d shed her skin, abandoned an old version of herself and was ready to strike out anew, every day becoming more resistant to the expectations of others — of men.
Part of her longed to fly free, not to escape the chocolate house or Blithe Manor, but to relish what these places gave her — freedom and safety, and within those bounds, the liberties they bestowed.
Sliding along the seat, she took in the sight Matthew presented, his face half-shadowed in the flickering candlelight, his eyes mysterious beckoning pools. He had given her opportunities — first by asking her to lease the chocolate house and mange it in his absence, and now by helping to remove the impediment Aubrey had become.
Who would’ve thought the day she was knocked down by horses on that dusty road in Gravesend she would one day run a London chocolate house, share ownership of a bookstore, let alone bear a title and have a manor to dwell in? Who would have thought her best friends in the world would be a blackamoor and a correspondent whose favourite pastime was to needle the conscience of the King and court? Who would have thought that she, little Rosamund Tomkins, the abandoned babe, would have the courage to help him?
‘Shall I?’ she asked, picking up the jug and, without waiting for Matthew to respond, poured them both a glass of the sweet yellow wine.
‘A good day, my lady,’ he said softly.
‘It was a good day — a fine one,’ said Rosamund, gazing around the room.
‘Ah,’ smiled Matthew, ‘I think the best is yet to come.’
‘Do you now?’ said Rosamund, picking up her glass and holding it out ready to toast. The liquid sparkled like molten gold. Tiny bubbles climbed to the surface before dissolving. Mesmerised, she gazed at the glass, turning it, only becoming aware that once more, Matthew was transfixed by her face. ‘What is it, Matthew?’
For the first time since she’d met him, he appeared awkward. He sat up straight and stared at his glass, his gloved fingers wrapped around the stem. Rainbows of light shot over the table. Lowering her own, she could see he was struggling for words.
‘Matthew?’ she asked quietly, placing her hand over his, stilling his movements. Had something else happened when he visited Aubrey? Dare she ask?
‘I… I’m not sure how to say this, Rosamund.’ Matthew looked at their joined hands. ‘I’ve wanted to do this for so long, dreamed of a time when I might be able to and now that I can, that the moment has arrived, I find that even though I make a living from words, I can’t seem to find the right ones.’
Rosamund sat very still. She could feel his breath on her cheek as he spoke, leaning so far across the table their mouths were but a sigh apart.
‘What I’m trying so very badly to say is —’ His voice was suddenly deep, strong and certain. ‘I wonder, if you would honour me, Rosamund Blithman, by becoming my wife?’
Rosamund caught the words, inhaled the scent of them and him and all the chocolatey-vanilla promises they contained. She clutched them to her heart. She thought of how he’d come back to her after so long away, how they’d suffered so much since then, lost too many loved ones. How death compressed time but also bestowed a clarity that life oft lacked.
Matthew was asking for her hand. Rosamund Blithman. Aye, that’s who she was now. From Tomkins to Ballister to Blithman — a series of names, like masks she wore for others, adopting a costume and being whatever and whoever they wanted her to be. He was asking her to forgo all those and become Rosamund Lovelace. It was what she’d long hoped for, without really acknowledging it — in the way we don’t admit our most secret desires lest we risk losing them. Except she had to ask, why? Why was he asking her? And now of all times, when Aubrey’s relentless suit was withdrawn?
Sir Everard had married her to serve a purpose; Aubrey proposed because he was trying to hurt Matthew, of that she was in no doubt. What other reason could he have for suggesting such an outrageous match? But Matthew? What was she but a widowed chocolate maker with an empty title — a title that had no lands or wealth attached to it. A woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to his former wife. Or was he asking her in order to secure complete victory over Aubrey? Succeed where his former brother-in-law failed?
The little shard of self-doubt that lived in her heart dislodged itself, as it sometimes did, only to reinsert itself with cruel precision. The voice she tried so hard to ignore began to whisper, fuelling her uncertainty.
It’s not really you he loves, is it, Rosamund? It’s the woman who looks like his Helene, only you’re unencumbered by lovers and a babe that is not his. This is about triumphing over the Blithmans once again — whereas once it was Sir Everard, now it’s Aubrey he seeks to vanquish. The voice went on and on in Paul’s tone, as it always did, undermining her joy.
That was the other reason Aubrey had wanted to marry her — to replace his lost sister with a wife; it mattered not to him that she’d been wedded to his father. On the contrary, that made her the perfect choice.
For the first time in her life, as a widow and businesswoman, she could choose. For the first time she could be herself, in her own image, not Paul’s, Helene’s, Sir Everard’s, Aubrey’s or anyone else’s.
Was she so ready to surrender herself again? Even to this man?
In the se
conds it took for these thoughts to whirl through her head, the distance between them remained as it was. He was waiting for her to close the gap, seal his declaration with a kiss.
Freeing her hands from his, she tipped her head and looked at him, really looked at him, in the candlelight. His dark unruly hair. Those midnight eyes that contained galaxies within them, galaxies and a fire that tonight burned just for her. No question, he was a fine man. Maybe not handsome in the conventional sense, but to her, he was beautiful. His heart shone in his expression and that was enough — or would have been, once upon a time.
‘Matthew,’ she sighed. ‘You have no idea how much I have longed to hear those words from you.’
His eyes explored her face, moving from her nose to her cheeks and lips before lingering on her chin. He raised a hand and cupped it gently.
‘And?’ he prompted.
‘And,’ she hesitated, ‘I’m afraid my answer is no.’
His hand fell.
‘I cannot marry you, Matthew. I cannot.’
FORTY-THREE
In which an adjournment is requested
The hurt in his eyes was a dagger that skewered her innards again and again. She had to remain resolute.
‘At least, not yet,’ she added, almost wincing at how calculating it sounded, when she felt anything but.
‘Not yet? What does that mean?’ Matthew flung himself back in the seat.
‘It means… Well, it means not yet. Do you understand?’
‘No, not really.’ He picked up the glass of wine and drained it.
Rosamund supposed that at this point many men would stride off in a huff, vowing never to see the woman again. But not this man. Not Matthew. He would stay, understand too, if he could.
Aye, he was a man worthy of her love. So why was she rejecting it?
She wasn’t. She was simply asking for an adjournment. ‘If you could see it in your heart to ask me again sometime in the future, that is, if you don’t meet anyone else worthy of your affection in the meantime —’ The idea he might was a sword in her ribs. ‘Then I would indeed agree to be your wife.’
‘You would?’
She nodded.
‘May I ask why not now?’ he asked.
Rosamund sighed. ‘Of course, though I’m not sure I can explain it sufficiently — even to myself.’ She opened her hands, stared at the palms as if they were pages containing the words she needed. ‘I simply need time to be me. To not be beholden to anyone — not even you. No, especially not you. I want to enjoy my hard-won liberty, for which I know you’re partly responsible. Does that make sense?’
Matthew nodded slowly, considering. He unhurriedly poured himself another drink. ‘Do you have any idea how much time you might require?’
Rosamund buried a smile. ‘I’m afraid not. But if you could be patient, I would be very grateful.’
‘Ah, madam,’ he sighed, putting the decanter down carefully. ‘You have been so patient with me and I didn’t do you the courtesy of asking first.’ He rested his head on the back of the seat and began to chuckle.
‘What’s so funny?’ she asked.
‘Never before have I been given such a rejection.’
Rosamund arched a brow. ‘I see. You make a habit of asking women to be your wife?’
He ceased to laugh. ‘No. I do not. As you well know, there has been one other and that didn’t go well.’
Rosamund could’ve kicked herself for being so tactless. ‘Forgive me, Matthew. I… I —’
‘Forgive you? Pray, what for? For not deceiving me? For not leading me on with falsehoods and duplicity? Madam —’ he reclaimed her hands and held them as one might a fragile butterfly, ‘your honesty both refreshes and pains me. It assures me I have given my heart well and that yours is more than worth waiting for… Lest my intentions not be clear, I want you to know, I love you, Rosamund.’
Their eyes locked. The moon waxed and waned for eons as they made unspoken promises; quenched their desires in a chaste silence.
Letting her go reluctantly, Matthew slid out of the booth, picked up his glass and held it out. When she had gathered her own, he tapped his against hers — crystal lips sharing the kiss they denied themselves.
‘Here’s to the future. Our future — whatever form it may take.’
‘Ours,’ said Rosamund and drank.
She set down her glass and turned to thank him, but before she could utter a word, he leaned towards her and drew her into his arms.
The embers of her passion, burning steadily since she had sat down, leapt to sear her insides; armies of tiny sparks scattered over her body igniting little fires.
His mouth descended towards hers and a groan that was matched by her breathless one escaped him before, placing her hands against his chest, she prevented him from coming any closer.
‘I cannot, Matthew. As much as I want to, I must not… not yet. I’m… I’m afraid, if I do, I won’t be able to stop.’
Tilting his head until his forehead rested against hers, he sighed. ‘On that score, you’re not alone.’
She forgot to breathe.
Cradling his cheek with her palm, she leaned back in his arms and gazed into his eyes. ‘Thank you.’
Releasing her, he took her hand from his face, planted a long kiss upon it. ‘You’re a cruel mistress, Lady Harridan, but you are my cruel mistress. Don’t forget that.’
Unable to speak, she shook her head.
Bowing to her, then Bianca, who was pretending not to watch, and touching his hat to Mr Nick, he left.
Rosamund fell back into her seat. Dear God, but that had been difficult. Her senses reeled, unable to settle as ribbons of pleasure travelled along her veins. And what was that delicious, hot nudging in her lower regions? Placing a hand over her stomach, she pressed. Dear God, there was a thirst she needed to quench.
Laughter began to build within her — a joyous, unforced, uninvited release. Leaving the confines of the booth, she began to twirl about the room, exchanging smiles and laughs with Bianca, Mr Nick — who pulled his pipe from his mouth and gave a crooked grin. When Grace came out to see what all the fuss was about, Rosamund swung her around, the little bouquet of flowers Grace had taken to pinning to her neckline scattering petals about the floor. Dancing now, with a smile, Rosamund invited Filip and the boys to join her, and together they clapped, stomped and laughed with abandon. Not once did she strike a table or bench, but magically avoided contact with anything but her wild and naughty imagination and her full but tortured heart.
FORTY-FOUR
In which revenge is served warm
If anyone had ever dared to suggest to Rosamund that Matthew Lovelace and Aubrey Blithman had anything in common, she would have dismissed them with sharp words for having the temerity to compare chocolate to bilge water. But as the weeks rolled by, she was forced to admit that both men did indeed seem able to keep their word — albeit for very different reasons.
Surprised she’d not heard from Aubrey despite his claim he would no longer contact her, and the coincidence that his notes ceased the day after Matthew paid him a visit, she finally confronted Matthew, who admitted he had extracted an agreement from the man, but how he had accomplished this, he refused to reveal. Rosamund chose not to pry further lest she upset what was a very pleasing outcome. Rumour had it Aubrey had gone to Portsmouth to lick his wounds and employ a new agent to deal with shipping, the last one having defected to the Dutch. Contradicting this was gossip that he’d been sighted at court, spending time with Joseph Williamson. Williamson was renowned as a ruthless and efficient spy, uncovering plots both real and imagined in order to keep His Majesty safe and his own role at court secure.
While most men who’d had their marriage proposals spurned might have become bitter, bellicose or persistent, Matthew did none of those things. If anything, he was more respectful of her and was oft seen propped in the chocolate house writing, content to share her with the customers. Likewise, Rosamund felt no discomfort in taking h
im a drink in the bookshop and lingering to discuss something in a current news sheet or receiving copies of his latest anonymous tract for the drawers to covertly distribute.
One day upon returning from dropping pamphlets at Charing Cross and St Paul’s, Adam, Kit and Hugh — all of them adept at disguising themselves and staying clear of anyone who looked like they might be from the government — asked to speak to Rosamund.
Leaving the bar in Filip’s capable hands, Rosamund found the boys changed back into their uniforms and waiting near the table at the rear of the kitchen. They looked worried, which immediately put Rosamund on alert.
‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Were you seen?’
‘No, my lady. Not delivering the pamphlets,’ said Adam.
Hugh and Kit nodded and Rosamund relaxed.
‘But —’ Adam began, ‘the last few times we’ve gone out, we noticed a man watching the chocolate house.’
‘Either here or the bookshop…’ corrected Hugh.
Pulling the boys further away from the kitchen, Rosamund lowered her voice. ‘Explain what you mean.’
‘It might be nothing,’ said Adam. ‘But there’s this fella been hovering around the lane the last few days. He thinks we don’t notice, but because you asked us to be extra vigilant, we seen him.’
‘Never in ’ere, mind,’ said Hugh. ‘Only out there.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of the windows.
Rosamund was thoughtful. What if this man was watching the bookshop? The dissenting tracts being left about the city were causing a great deal of talk, especially the one about the behaviour of the court while at Oxford, detailing how the courtiers drank themselves senseless, shat in fireplaces and corners, had their way with the ladies of the city — willing and unwilling — all while their fellow citizens suffered and died. It had done nothing to enhance the King’s already precarious reputation, nor those of his hangers-on who were named, including Aubrey. Members of the Nonsuch Club in particular, a group of well-known republicans who plotted to seize the gates of the city and restore the Commonwealth, had made much of Matthew’s words, using them to recruit people to their cause and attracting the authorities’ attention. While not a republican (he came from a family of loyal royalists), Matthew wasn’t alone in disapproving of what the court had become. The intention of the pamphlets was to rouse the conscience of courtiers, not rebellion; it was a call for sense and discretion. Not that L’Estrange or Joseph Williamson would see it that way with the Nonsuch Club using his words to inspire seditious action. Rosamund feared that government spies were after the author of the piece.
