The Chocolate Maker’s Wife

by Karen Brooks

  Sir Everard had no choice but to aid his children, his wife. Even after she died (When had that happened? How?) he had no alternative but to protect the lies she’d set in place.

  Matthew believed Sir Everard had orchestrated the whole ghastly deception and sought to destroy him.

  In so many ways, they had both been trapped in each other’s webs of lies and betrayal; both wanted revenge for acts committed against them. Sir Everard had sought to permanently remove the last person who could reveal the truth. And to use her as his instrument to do it.

  How would Matthew feel when he learned all this? Should she tell him? She brushed a hand across her brow. Aye, she must.

  It also explained why Matthew had never revealed the lover’s name… it wasn’t to protect the Blithman family, it was to protect her. Rosamund Blithman. The name was bitter on her tongue.

  Wiping away tears she didn’t even know she’d begun to shed, Rosamund marshalled the pages carefully.

  So many victims. And what of Bianca and Jacopo? Their presence aroused jealousy, ensured they were treated with — how had Bianca once put it? — ‘cold contempt’. They hadn’t deserved this. What had they seen, heard, guessed? She shuddered. Dear Lord. Putting down the pages, she rubbed her temples. She needed to think, to ponder these revelations; but first, she needed some wine.

  Feelings of disgust, sorrow and confusion warred within her as she collected the papers, left the closet and went to her bedside table where a decanter waited. As she was about to pour, there was a knock on the door.

  No doubt Matthew had arrived. What would she say? He would surely sense the terrible knowledge writ on her face. If anyone deserved to see the remnants of this last diary, it was him.

  Before she could even summon a word, the door opened and who should be standing there but none other than the monster himself: Aubrey Blithman.

  FIFTY-ONE

  In which a long-worn vizard slips

  Trying to keep her voice neutral and summon a smile, Rosamund moved towards him. She’d no intention of admitting this man to her Aladdin’s Cave, the same place his mother had likely poured out her soul. Shaken by what she’d read, she was unprepared for the effect his presence would have on her. Revulsion swept her body, followed by a driving need to get him away — from her, from the room, from the house if she could.

  Deciding assertiveness would be better than pleading, she folded her arms. Only then did she become aware she still held the pages in her hand. She tried to curl them into a smaller shape without him noticing. It didn’t work, so she made a point of folding them brazenly before him.

  ‘What are you doing here, Aubrey? You made a promise to Mr Lovelace, or have you already forgotten?’

  ‘What do you know about my agreement with Lovelace?’ he asked swiftly, jittering from foot to foot. Glancing at what she held, Aubrey’s gaze went back to her face.

  He looked thinner than she remembered, and mauve crescents sat in unflattering pouches under his eyes, eyes that regarded her slightly warily. She tried hard not to let her repugnance show.

  ‘Only that you made one and, up until this moment, adhered to it.’

  Aubrey made a noise of disparagement. ‘Circumstances change, my dear, so do people. You know that better than most.’ Any rebuke was softened with a smile. ‘I need to talk to you,’ he said. His cheeks were red. His hat and hair were littered with small pieces of ash. Streaks of grey ran the length of his jacket. He’d made an effort to tidy himself and failed.

  Rosamund’s heart plummeted. ‘Shall we retire downstairs? We would be more comfortable there.’ Before he could protest she pushed past him.

  Subdued, Aubrey followed her down the stairs and into the withdrawing room. Musty from being closed up for the last few days, the room was filled with tiny motes that spiralled in the sunbeams. Rosamund pushed the pages into a pocket, crossed to the windows and opened them. The air outside was warm, infused with ash, dreck and stinking of smoke; smoke and whiffs of burned metal, straw and other things Rosamund didn’t wish to identify. All the same, she needed to let the outside in.

  Silently counting to ten, Rosamund turned to face Aubrey.

  ‘What is it you wish to say to me? I’ve only just returned from Sam’s place and I have much to do —’ Her gesture encompassed the whole house.

  ‘This is more important.’ Without waiting to be invited, he sat down, gesturing for her to take the chair opposite.

  Instead she found a decanter and some glasses and poured them both a drink, taking the chance to shove the pages further into her pocket. They still protruded slightly, but it was the best she could do. She handed Aubrey a glass and sat down.

  ‘What is it you want?’ she asked, taking a sip of the wine. It was warm and too sweet.

  Aubrey settled, regarding the room with a proprietary air. ‘You know,’ he began, ‘I never imagined I could set foot in here again after Helene died. I thought the place would echo with memories of her. And it does. Memories that not even your redecorating has managed to bury.’ His eyes settled upon her. ‘I wondered about that at first. How a place that’s altered, even slightly, can still evoke the same feelings. How, even with her gone, I can still be happy when I’m here. Then I worked it out. It’s because of you. You suit this place, Rosamund, and it suits you. You belong here.’

  Rosamund didn’t like where this was going. ‘That’s what you wished to tell me?’

  ‘Partly.’ He took a long swallow of his drink and pulled a face. ‘What I also wanted to do —’ he continued, reaching across to deposit his glass on the table, ‘is offer my condolences on your losses. I heard about the chocolate house, the bookshop.’

  Rosamund bowed her head.

  ‘They were your… how do I put it? Assets. If I recall, once the will was executed, they were the sum total of your wealth; if I’m not mistaken? Unless you count your slave, Bianca.’

  Rosamund snapped, ‘Bianca is not an asset except in the way that a good friend always is.’ She met his gaze steadily, wishing Bianca were here now.

  ‘Ouch,’ said Aubrey, then laughed. It was shrill, discordant and more than a little unnatural. ‘I assume from that you neither value nor trust me.’ He placed his hand over his heart. ‘A pity. You’ve no reason not to.’

  Rosamund could barely countenance what she was hearing. But then, he didn’t know what she now knew.

  He rose and began to walk about the room, touching objects, lifting curios and putting them down again.

  ‘You see, when I learned of the destruction of the Phoenix and the bookshop, and knowing the value you placed on them, how essential they were to maintaining your — how do I put it? — your means of living and maintaining a household, well, once I learned they were gone up in a puff of smoke —’ he made a motion with his fingers, ‘I began to wonder and, I admit, to re-evaluate my promise to Lovelace. Before the fire, you were an independent widow, a woman of small means, but means nonetheless. You had shares in a bookshop, in the chocolate house too. Now, you have nothing. You don’t even have a roof over your head, except through my munificence.’

  Rosamund stared at Aubrey. What was he playing at? ‘I thought you a man of your word.’

  As she slowly rose, unaware of the pages falling out of her pocket, Rosamund made an effort not to let her perturbation show.

  Aubrey gave a bark of laughter. ‘What you need to understand is my word was given under duress, when I was in no position to bargain. Therefore, it does not count. Things have changed. Not only has the fire caused a great alteration to this city, but to your circumstances. Lovelace’s as well. As far as I am concerned, this voids any prior agreement.’

  Rosamund narrowed her eyes. ‘I’m afraid I don’t see how…’

  ‘Don’t see? Come on, Rosamund, you’re being deliberately obtuse. Lovelace threatened me. If I didn’t leave you alone, desist in my wooing, allow you to live here with no obligation, he would injure my person or worse. I’d no choice but to obey, especially since y
ou appeared determined to refuse my advances.’ He leaned towards her. ‘Truth is, while you had the chocolate house and the bookshop, you had alternatives. I would have to be patient. Now my patience can come to an end.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ So much for his word — it was as empty as the wind. ‘You wish me to leave.’ She made to pass him. He grabbed her arm, forcing her to stop. She looked at his fingers wrapped around her sleeve, then up at his face. His eyes were so different to the deep, dark azure of Matthew’s…

  ‘On the contrary, I insist you stay.’ He released her. ‘You will stay here. With me.’ His finger stabbed his chest.

  Needles pricked the back of Rosamund’s neck. ‘No, Aubrey. I won’t.’

  Aubrey threw back his head and let loose a merry burble. ‘Is that so? Where will you go? I tell you now, if you do not remain here, with me, then I will tell the government what I know to be true about you.’

  Rosamund went cold. ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Not only do your chocolate drawers disperse dissident material written by Matthew Lovelace about the streets, but you harbour Quakers beneath your roof. You even welcomed them into the bookshop.’ He gave a coarse laugh at her expression. ‘I’ve known for a long time about Bianca’s religious disposition. If you care about her as you claim, then you will do all in your power to protect her… and those boys you dote on at the Phoenix. If you care about Matthew Lovelace, you won’t want the authorities knowing what else he writes; those delightful little pieces to which he doesn’t put his name.’ He laughed. ‘Doesn’t matter the place no longer exists, proof of what he was doing, they were doing — what you were facilitating — does. All it takes is one word from me and the men I paid to watch you all will run straight to the Secretary of State. They work for him and, it turns out, anyone else for the right fee. Very convenient. And don’t think for a moment of turning to Lovelace. Once he knows the information I have, the witnesses I can produce, the damage I can do to you, to those you harbour affection for and, indeed, to him, his threats to me are rendered neutral. Choose carefully, Rosamund — you can either live here with me as my lawful wife or you can languish in prison after you’ve been thoroughly questioned. I hear Henry Bennet is a master at extracting confessions, he and Mr Williamson… Ah! I know what you’re thinking, but ponder this: when one is proved a traitor, friendship counts for nothing; I know. Just ask Lovelace. As for Bianca, well, she’ll be bundled on a ship and sent to a plantation somewhere — if she survives. And while I know you employed a boy without a hand, how will the other drawers find employ with none?’

  Rosamund’s mind galloped.

  When she didn’t answer, he smiled. ‘As of this moment, I’m taking possession of my home and, my dear, sweet Rosamund, my little chocolate maker, I’m taking possession of you.’

  He whipped an arm around her waist. When she pushed him away, his hand closed over hers, holding it captive. She could feel the thud of his heart through his jacket.

  Stroking the hair that fell down her back, he bent towards her.

  ‘Rosamund, Rosamund. Don’t you understand? This is how it should be. You and me. We can live beneath this roof. If not as husband and wife, then just together. It’s all I want. It’s all I’ve ever wanted…’ His voice was a furnace in her ear. ‘Just you and me… always. Not one word of what I know will ever escape my lips. I will keep you safe — and those you lavish your affections on — with my silence. I’ll give you everything you ever wanted — another chocolate house if needs be, as many slaves as your heart desires, a babe to love. Just say the word.’

  He caught her lobe in his lips and nibbled it.

  Disgust made her pull away. His mouth made a popping sound as her ear escaped.

  ‘The word is no, Aubrey. It’s always been no.’

  Suddenly he released her. Staggering back to a chair, she saw the pages crumpled beside it.

  ‘Without a chocolate house, without a place to call your own, where will you go? You can’t go back to Gravesend. As for Lovelace, you think he’d take you? The woman who looks like the wife he despised? Whom he killed? He didn’t deserve her. He doesn’t deserve you.’

  Rosamund could not tear her eyes away from the pages.

  ‘But I want you. I want to take care of you. Love you. I do. We are Blithmans. Together, we can live here, run the business. Don’t you see? It’s perfect. God brought you into my life so I might atone —’ He stopped.

  Sweeping up the torn pages, Rosamund was left with no choice. She had to stop this lunacy before it went any further. ‘Atone for what, Aubrey? What were you about to say?’

  His eyes flicked to what she held and back to her face. He frowned. ‘What’s that you have there?’

  She shook them. ‘The truth, Aubrey. I hold the truth.’

  At first she thought he was going to snatch the pages from her. Instead he strode to the table and scooped up his drink and downed it.

  ‘Truth? What are you talking about?’

  Making sure the table remained between them, Rosamund held up the remnants of his mother’s diary. ‘I know about you and Helene, Aubrey. I know everything. About your obscene sins; about the baby.’

  His face paled. His expression became guarded. ‘What nonsense is this?’

  ‘Your mother —’ Rosamund stopped. She was about to betray a woman’s last attempt to admit to all the wrongs she’d done. While she was unrepentant, Aubrey could at least own his actions; admit his wickedness. ‘Your mother blamed herself for what you and Helene did… She took responsibility for everything, including hiding the truth, and it killed her.’

  Aubrey’s glass dropped from his hand. The sound as it struck the floor was stark. It rolled under the chair. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘Killed her? What nonsense is this? Helene and I did nothing wrong. My mother was ill, unwell…’

  ‘Lady Margery pulled strings, made decisions, manipulated people all to protect you and your sister; concealing your foul sin. She knew everything; she wrote it all down in her diary, confessed to God that it sickened her just as it sickens me.’

  ‘Sickens?’ exclaimed Aubrey. ‘There’s nothing sickening about love.’

  ‘Love? You call that love?’ Rosamund stared at him aghast. ‘Because of your love, innocent people died — Robin, the baby, your mother. Even your father declared you dead. Matthew Lovelace nearly died because of you.’

  His face contorted. ‘He should have.’

  Rosamund shook the pages in his face. ‘Matthew? He was innocent; deceived. Your father was willing to become a murderer to protect your secret; to turn me into one.’

  Aubrey’s face changed. ‘But don’t you see?’ His voice was wheedling. ‘This is why you must stay. This is why we have to be together. We can make all that right. We can undo all those terrible things — the baby’s death. Father’s actions, Mother’s…’ He frowned. Shaking himself, he scooped up her hand and held it tight. ‘Helene and I were foolish, misguided, I know that now. But you, you’re not my sister, you only look like her. You were my father’s wife in name only. With you, I can love openly, out of the shadows. Even God Himself would bless our union. Why else would you have come into our lives if it isn’t God’s will?’

  Rosamund stared at him in disbelief. The man was deranged. He wanted to replace his dead sister with her. She bit back a laugh. They all did. Everard. Aubrey. She once thought Lady Margery was the dead woman whose shoes she walked in. But all along it was Helene’s shoes they’d wished her to wear.

  No more.

  ‘God would never bless something so, so wrong.’ She snatched her hand away. ‘I don’t love you, Aubrey. I never could. Don’t you see? Your so-called love for me is iniquitous as well.’ She lowered her voice, infused it with empathy. ‘I am not Helene. I never will be. You’re sick, Aubrey. Your mother saw you and your sister for what —’

  There was a loud crack. Rosamund’s head flew back and the pages scattered as she fell against the chair. Her cheek burned.
Flashes of yellow and crimson arced across the horizon of her sight.

  There was a rattling sound: Aubrey locked the door.

  Rosamund blinked. Nausea rose. She was being tossed on a wild sea.

  ‘Sick, am I?’ snarled Aubrey. All pretence at civility and persuasion was gone. His eyes were wild, sweat dotted his forehead and ran in rivulets down his face.

  He grabbed her by the throat and shook her. ‘Dear God, it would be so easy to stop those vile words coming from those lovely lips.’ Bending, he pressed his mouth against hers. When she tried to push him off, he tightened his hold. She couldn’t breathe. Forcing her lips apart, his tongue scraped her mouth. Planting his knee between her legs, he pulled her against him as she fought the darkness at the edges of her vision.

  As quickly as he bundled her to him, he flung her away. She tumbled into the chair. Drawing lungfuls of air, it was a moment before she became aware of him standing over her. He was reading his mother’s words. His face was blotched with patches of carmine and a spiderweb of veins. He finished one page and tossed it aside, his shoulders slumping as if by reading it, he taken the weight of the contents upon himself.

  Rosamund surreptitiously wiped her sleeve across her mouth and searched for something to arm herself with. Anything to prevent him hurting her again. Her neck was tender, it was difficult to swallow. Blood was in her mouth. There were candlesticks, but they were too far away.

  A tortured sound escaped him and he fell to his knees. As she watched, moment to moment his expression changed from calmness to storms and back again. Her heart swelled. How could she feel so sorry for such a man? Yet she did. Like Fear-God and Glory, like Ben and Jed, like her, children are the choices their parents make. Aubrey was the result of the choices his mother and father made. He was not absolved. But at the same time he never understood the price others paid for his lustful sins — and Helene’s. Now he confronted his mother’s anguish.