The Chocolate Maker’s Wife

by Karen Brooks

  Happy to stay at Seething Lane in case news arrived of Matthew and Filip, Rosamund and Bianca went with Ashe and Grace to the rooftop to watch the city burn.

  It wasn’t until Sam returned at seven that evening, his clothes streaked with ash, carrying the scars of falling cinders, and his face grey, that Rosamund realised more than exhaustion dragged his feet and made him unable to meet her eyes. He had come straight up to the roof, where he found her transfixed by the sight of the conflagration.

  Her heart went into her mouth.

  ‘What is it, Sam?’ she asked, tearing her gaze away from the golden arcs of fire. ‘Is it Matthew?’

  Sam blinked, resembling a confused owl. ‘Matthew? No. No. I do not know what has become of him. I am sure he is fine. Señor de la Faya and that giant, Mr Nick, as well.’

  Relief made Rosamund turn away lest the tears banking behind her eyes fall. She sat back on the stool she’d brought to the rooftop. Bianca found her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Ashe drew closer.

  ‘What is it then?’ she asked, trying to make her voice heard above the fury of the flames.

  ‘I’m afraid I do bear grave tidings, Rosamund.’ He came and knelt by her side.

  Bewildered, Rosamund beckoned Grace, who’d ceased to arrange the flowers she’d managed to pick from Sam’s garden, and the young girl leaned against her.

  ‘Dear Lord,’ said Rosamund, sitting upright, her arm creeping around Grace’s waist. ‘Please, tell me it’s not Solomon or Thomas?’ Sam shook his head. ‘Adam, Hugh, Kit, Art or Timothy?’

  ‘No, no, no, no. As far as I’m aware they’re still fighting that,’ he waved a tired arm towards the west. ‘No, Rosamund, this is about Birchin Lane.’

  Rosamund’s throat grew dry. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m afraid the fire jumped the breaks and consumed most of Lombard Street before travelling through all those little alleys and snickets that wend their way towards the Royal Exchange…’ Sam paused. There was such sympathy in his round eyes. The glow of the city was reflected in them and made his chubby cheeks into shiny planes. ‘Pasque Rosee’s Turk’s Head is no more. Rosamund…’

  Her hand flew to her mouth. For all she declared no affinity with those who saw their houses as more than just buildings, a wave of nausea rose within; nausea and despair.

  ‘The Phoenix —’ she gasped.

  Bianca made a strangled noise.

  ‘The Phoenix?’ Her eyes swam. She felt suddenly cold. Grace touched her hair.

  Sam shook his head sorrowfully. ‘It and the bookshop. They’re ashes, my dear. There will be no rising from them — not this time. I’m sorry to tell you, they’re nothing but a charred ruin.’

  Rosamund felt the world spin. ‘Poor Matthew…’ she said, as if her losses were not as great — greater. They were all she had.

  A lead weight settled on her shoulders, dropped to her middle and welded her legs to the ground. She sat immobile, a solid lump of aching sadness. The chocolate house — gone. The bookshop — gone. Why, the very idea was preposterous. How could something that contained so much hope, so much joy, so much of herself and her ambitions, vanish like this? She glanced up at the molten border limning the horizon. It marked the great golden crack in her world.

  How could the hopes and livelihoods of those dependent upon her be wiped out so unthinkingly? Were they not good boys and lasses who worked there? Good men? Hadn’t they struggled to survive so much already? And what of those who had died? No longer would her success be a monument to their memories — to Robin, Harry, Cara, Owen, Wolstan, dear Mr Henderson… Jacopo…

  How, having failed to understand the misery of others, could she feel this way about a place? Yet the Phoenix was so much more than just a place. It was her business; it was her investment. It was, like the bookshop, a great gift that gave her life purpose and through which she gave to others. It was what united her and Matthew when nothing else did.

  Without it, what was she? What did she have?

  Nothing.

  Not even Matthew.

  What did any of them have?

  Like the blackened ruins she saw around her, the smoking hulls of buildings, homes, churches, businesses, she too was reduced to nothing. She might be Lady Blithman, but she was nobody. She was nessuno.

  Ever so slowly, aware of Bianca’s hand rubbing her back, of Sam’s resting gently on her knee, Ashe’s fingers upon her shoulder and Grace tucking one of her flowers behind her ear, she buried her face in her hands and wept.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  In which what starts in Pudding ends in Pie

  Rosamund never left Sam’s house. There was no need. It was there she learned that Matthew and the others were alive, and that by Tuesday morning the fire had swept through the Royal Exchange, melting the iron-lace framework and leaving the great bell an igneous puddle. The statues of the kings and queens of England fell face-first to the ground, many losing their heads as their subjects had in life. Only the statue of Sir Thomas Gresham, the man who built the Exchange, survived. Even Barnyard’s Castle was taken, its glorious facade tumbling into the river, swamping boats and overturning rafts. A central tower remained, a last post to history.

  The odour of spices drifted about the city as the great storehouses in the cellars of the Exchange owned by the East India Company were destroyed as well. Many believed it to be incense lit by Papists, and the idea that the fire was a Catholic plot spread as swiftly as the flames.

  When the fire leapt the River Fleet, the King finally gave orders to remove valuables from Whitehall. That was the signal the nobles had been waiting for and as they abandoned their grand mansions in The Strand, the Thames was filled with craft stacked to the brim with the goods of the rich, all moving west as fast as they could.

  In Seething Lane, Rosamund learned these things piecemeal. When explosions rang out throughout the city, it was only later she discovered that they were efforts to create a firebreak ordered by the King himself who, instead of remaining detached, as he had during the plague, was in the thick of it, unrecognisable, according to Captain Lark, as he rolled up his sleeves, pitched in beside commoners, and did whatever had to be done.

  To no avail.

  While the King’s involvement might not have changed the outcome, it did make a huge difference to the way people regarded him. Hailed as heroes, he and his brother were cheered wherever they went. Money was given to those who manned the command stations, bread and beer were handed out.

  Beer. Rosamund’s mouth watered as the captain told his story. Since Sunday, they’d been surviving on Sam’s leftovers and his pantry was now practically bare, especially as another man had joined their sorry band — Tom Hater, who had lost all he owned when Fish Street Hill burned.

  Hungry, tired beyond reckoning — for how could anyone sleep when so much was at stake? — they waited on the roof, dozing when exhaustion overcame them, stirring when something exploded or a building nearby collapsed, or when coughing fits overcame them. The stifling heat didn’t subside despite the strong winds; they tried to remain vigilant. They owed it to the men risking their lives to survive, even if the city didn’t.

  Sam’s friend Sir William Penn came and joined them, the two men retiring to the garden to discuss prospects. Neither believed their offices or their homes had much chance of survival. They rescued reams of Navy papers, books and reports, intending to bury them like the wine Sam had already dug into the ground with his huge wheel of Parmesan cheese.

  Returning to the men some time later, bringing a flask of sack she’d found stashed at the back of a kitchen cupboard, Rosamund surprised herself by scolding them.

  ‘Listen to you both. You haven’t ceased with your dour predictions since I left. So what if the buildings don’t survive? So what if Seething Lane is reduced to rubble? Surely, it’s far more important that we live — that people survive. We can rebuild. We can recreate what is lost. Not exactly, but something even better.’

  There was a moment of silenc
e. Beyond the walls of the garden flames roared, and they could hear the shouts of men and cries of women and the never-ending grind of drays and carts. Another explosion resounded; no-one even flinched, they’d become so common.

  ‘It’s not the buildings, so much, Rosamund,’ said Sam in a condescending manner, turning a meaningful glance upon Sir William. ‘As a woman, you wouldn’t understand. It’s the fact that such a loss will undermine the King’s business.’

  ‘Will it?’ said Rosamund, looking from one to the other. ‘Surely, Sam, losing you and Sir William here, let alone all the clever men he has working for him and the country, would hinder it a good deal more?’

  As she left, she couldn’t help but notice Sam’s chest swell and Sir William’s eyes brighten at her words. All this value placed on possessions, when the greatest prizes were those who breathed life into them.

  Unexpectedly, she found herself comforted by the thought. Back on the rooftop, she gazed out over London. Night had fallen and before her lay an unrecognisable expanse of blackened, smoking and burning buildings. Instead of forests of spires piercing the sky, dancing arches of tangerine, titian and blazing gold bordered what was left of London. It might have been beautiful if it wasn’t so dreadful, so utterly devastating it made her chest tighten.

  Started by humans, it was beyond anyone to contain it and yet… She pondered what she’d said.

  No longer did she worry as the fire crept closer to the White Tower and its stores of gun powder — for they’d be long gone before that was a danger. No longer did she dwell with a heavy heart upon the destruction of the Bridewell, Newgate and Ludgate prisons, instead thanking the dear Lord that those confined within had made good their escape. When St Paul’s finally erupted in flames at nine of the clock — all the books stored in its cellars providing marvellous fuel for the hungry fire, ruining all but a few booksellers in the city, and the lead on its roof raining down into a river of mellifluent marvel through the streets — she watched without shifting, even when the stones erupted like cannon, shooting up into the air and landing with loud cracks.

  No longer did she see the wreckage of a once glorious, if grimy, city filled with spirals of burning paper, silk and God knew what else, but endless possibilities. Aye, there would be hardship, there would be despair — but there would be opportunity as well.

  What were buildings but the work of man? And what were buildings if there were no men, women or children to fill them? To make the walls echo with conversation, arguments, joy, grief, laughter, tears and, above all, love?

  The buildings were empty shells that she — all of them — must, when this was over, rebuild and fill.

  She stared into the distance. And what of her building? They’d saved (at least, she hoped they had) the equipment from the chocolate house. The chocolate maker, the apprentices and all those who worked with them were, she prayed, safe as well. What was the Phoenix in the end but a roof and walls? Much had happened beneath and within them — happiness, discovery, death and love. But it was the people — both in the kitchen and those they served — who made the chocolate house what it was.

  Be damned if they couldn’t recreate that again. Maybe not at once, but over time…

  She stood and went to the edge of the roof, trying to discern how far the fire had spread, how much more damage it would wreak. The wind whipped her hair and cinders floated about her like crazed insects, stinging her eyes. She blinked them away with a curse. The streets glowed red. People were everywhere, dark shadows flitting between blazes of shocking light and bursts of sparks, geysers of fiery flames.

  On the street below, she saw that Elizabeth and her maid had returned. Despite all the danger, the threat coming up the hill towards them, Elizabeth chose to be with her husband…

  That man was busy rescuing stone and wood, silver and gold, other precious objects — but also cherished memories, prized possessions; like others, the sum total of his livelihood, his entire wealth. She must remember that while she could see their value was mutable, not everyone could. While she could rebuild a future for some, she couldn’t for all.

  At that moment, she made a promise to the Almighty. Please, she asked, let Matthew Lovelace live and if you do, I will not mourn the loss of a mere building, of one or even many futures. I will, I promise, make a new one — for myself, for all of us.

  The Phoenix might no longer stand, but Sam was wrong. I will rise from its ashes. London will. Please just let Matthew Lovelace live so I may rise with him.

  FORTY-NINE

  In which truth rises from the ashes

  After four long days, the fire was quelled. As soon as she learned from Matthew that Blithe Manor was, against all odds, untouched, and that he would meet her there as soon as he was able, Rosamund could no longer presume upon Sam and Elizabeth’s hospitality. Thanking Sam for his generosity at such a time, she once more packed the cart belonging to Sam’s friend, Lady Elizabeth, and set off with Bianca, Ashe, Grace and the maids to return to Bishopsgate Street.

  Refusing to admit to herself that Matthew was the real reason for her haste, she picked her way through the streets, feeling the heat of the cobbles through the soles of her shoes. Thin beams of sunlight penetrated the pall of grey, striking the smoking ruins through which, even now, scavengers picked. Passage was slow and difficult. The wind had dropped, but rubbish, flakes of burned paper, parchment and clothing whirled through the air in a macabre dance. They often had to stop to hoist crumbling beams or shattered pieces of stone out of the way, or simply to wade their way over hot hillocks of debris, the detritus of lives ground beneath their scalded feet.

  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

  Aye, this was a burial, their journey akin to a cortege; the city had died. But they lived. They lived and they would resurrect it too.

  Rosamund couldn’t yet rejoice, but the hope that bloomed in her heart on Sam’s rooftop had not been crushed to cinders. On the contrary, she gathered it close so it could be rekindled when it was most needed.

  Blithe Manor was a relief she could not have foreseen; as she entered, it overcame her. The rooms were awash with the odour of smoke, but it was fresh air compared to the streets. For the first time since she had come to this place, she felt a sense of ownership and pride. Aye, Blithe Manor was hers — for the time being — and never before had she relished its welcome embrace as she did now.

  She supervised the unpacking of the cart and found coin to pay the grateful carter who, after downing an ale, lumbered out the gate and back to Sam’s. He’d decided to head north and skirt the city, anything to avoid negotiating the wretched streets again.

  Rosamund understood.

  Ashe wasted no time getting things out of the well — including the precious chocolate-making equipment — and setting the house to rights. Seeing the crates of bowls, pots, molinillos and sacks of spices around them, relieved beyond measure they were unscathed, only then did Rosamund allow herself to relax.

  Somehow, Ashe found water for her and Bianca to wash. Not wanting to see another naked flame, they both relished its coolness. Finding clean clothes was easy, but not ones free of the reek of smoke.

  Once they were bathed, clothed and fed, Bianca begged leave to see how the Quakers fared. Careful not to reveal where she was going in front of Grace or Ashe, Rosamund agreed, realising how selfish she’d been. Of course, Bianca was part of an entire community outside Blithe Manor. She prayed they managed better than they had during the plague. Remembering Sam’s warning to Bianca about the suspicion of foreigners on the streets, Rosamund urged her to be careful. Bianca flashed her a smile.

  ‘I will be among Friends,’ she said, using their informal title. ‘You’ve no need for concern, bella.’ She kissed her on the cheek and left.

  With Bianca gone and Grace put to bed, the poor child having hardly slept for the last four days, Ashe and some of the maids went out to find what victuals might be for sale. Rosamund found the tiredness she expected to overcome her swept aside in
the joy of being back — of knowing all was not lost. Truth be told, she also didn’t wish to sleep lest she miss Matthew’s return.

  Instead, she went to her closet. It had been a while since she’d spent time within her cave, reading, learning, allowing her imagination to be filled with the treasures she hoarded.

  Bringing her bowl of chocolate with her, she sipped it slowly, sinking into the chair by the window. Outside, the alley looked much as she’d last seen it, except that it was empty. Beyond the line of houses to the west, smoke still billowed in great coughing plumes. North, past the walls, she could see rows and rows of tents, blankets, boxes, carts, drays, horses, sheep, dogs, chickens and people. So many people. The carter said there were thousands upon thousands of homeless people spread out across Moorfields, Parliament Hill, areas around Islington — wherever a clear patch of ground was available. Looting was rife and there’d been more than a few scuffles, especially when rumours spread that the Hollanders and Frenchies were coming to attack and rape the women. People were starving, afraid, and so very, very despondent. Most had lost everything.

  If there was room left at Blithe Manor once Matthew and the others returned, Rosamund was determined to offer shelter to whomever might need it — even Bianca’s Quakers. This was not a time to worry about difference but to cleave to what united them.

  Losing an appetite for chocolate, guilty she could so indulge when there were people over there — just over there — who suffered, Rosamund turned away from the window and sought comfort from her books and papers. Humans were remarkable, really, she thought as she scanned some titles. Had not the Trojans continued after the Greeks and their armies all but wiped them out? Had not the Roman Empire survived in the Italian people, as diverse and complicated as they were with their city-states and dialects, producing great works of art and literature, wise philosophers and magnificent inventions? And look at Bianca’s Quakers (funny that she thought of them belonging to Bianca) — did they not continue despite the efforts of the King and Council? Well, London would as well.