by Karen Brooks
KAREN BROOKS is the author of twelve books, an academic of more than twenty years’ experience, a newspaper columnist and a social commentator, and has appeared regularly on national TV and radio. Before turning to academia, she was an army officer for five years, and prior to that dabbled in acting.
She lives in Hobart, Tasmania, in a beautiful stone house with its own marvellous history. When she’s not writing, she’s helping her husband Stephen in his brewery, Captain Bligh’s Ale and Cider, or cooking for family and friends, travelling, cuddling and walking her dogs, stroking her cats, or curled up with a great book and dreaming of more stories.
Also by Karen Brooks
Fiction
The Brewer’s Tale
The Locksmith’s Daughter
The Curse of the Bond Riders trilogy:
Tallow
Votive
Illumination
Young Adult Fantasy
It’s Time, Cassandra Klein
The Gaze of the Gorgon
The Book of Night
The Kurs of Atlantis
Rifts Through Quentaris
Non-fiction
Consuming Innocence
The Chocolate Maker’s Wife
Karen Brooks
www.harlequinbooks.com.au
This book is for two Stephens.
Firstly, Stephen Bender: dearest of friends, and mentor.
It’s also for Stephen Brooks, my love, my life.
It is interesting to consider that beverages like coffee, chocolate and even sherbet, seemingly innocuous to us (because they are nonalcoholic) began life in England as dangerous, expensive and exciting symbols of dissidence…
— Antonia Fraser, King Charles II
Revenge is a kind of wild justice; which the more man’s nature runs to, the more ought law to weed it out… Certainly, in taking revenge, a man is but even with his enemy; but in passing it over, he is superior; for it is a prince’s part to pardon… Some, when they take revenge, are desirous the party should know whence it cometh. This is the more generous. For the delight seemeth to be not so much in doing the hurt, as in making the party repent.
— Francis Bacon, ‘On Revenge’, 1625
CONTENTS
About the Author
Also by Karen Brooks
Part One: May to September 1662
Chapter One: In which a young woman encounters four men and some horses
Chapter Two: In which Sir Everard Blithman finds a treasure
Chapter Three: In which an unconventional deal is struck
Chapter Four: In which a newcomer is made to feel most unwelcome
Chapter Five: In which a new role is bestowed
Chapter Six: In which husband and new wife discourse about chocolate
Chapter Seven: In which a new wife begins a new life
Chapter Eight: In which a wife indulges in sin (in a bowl)
Chapter Nine: In which a husband hears a confession
Chapter Ten: In which a Navy clerk responds to gossip
Chapter Eleven: In which Sir Everard recruits an ally
Chapter Twelve: In which a woman’s worth is determined
Chapter Thirteen: In which Lady Harridan is introduced to Mr Nessuno
Chapter Fourteen: In which a wife befriends a correspondent
Chapter Fifteen: In which a friend fails to live up to expectations
Chapter Sixteen: In which plans are gently foiled
Chapter Seventeen: In which the many benefits of chocolate are explained
Chapter Eighteen: In which a troubled conscience is pricked
Chapter Nineteen: In which Sir Everard stipulates the impossible is possible
Chapter Twenty: In which the Lady Rosamund is declared fit for Bedlam
Chapter Twenty-One: In which a chocolate house is opened Monday, 15th September, 1662
Chapter Twenty-Two: In which the present is clothed as the past
Chapter Twenty-Three: In which Nobody is actually Somebody
Part Two: Autumn 1662 to Spring 1665
Chapter Twenty-Four: In which a chocolate house is mourned
Chapter Twenty-Five: In which the devil reveals a conscience
Chapter Twenty-Six: In which a widow is propositioned
Chapter Twenty-Seven: In which a Navy clerk contemplates the passage of time
Chapter Twenty-Eight: In which restoration and anticipation rule
Chapter Twenty-Nine: In which there is a surprising homecoming
Part Three: Spring 1665
Chapter Thirty: In which the past returns with a vengeance
Chapter Thirty-One: In which Lady Rosamund becomes a woman of property
Chapter Thirty-Two: In which old wounds are made afresh
Chapter Thirty-Three: In which death rides a pale horse
Chapter Thirty-Four: In which the bells were hoarse with tolling
Chapter Thirty-Five: In which the chocolate maker’s widow provides hope in bowl
Chapter Thirty-Six: In which death enters unbidden
Chapter Thirty-Seven: In which the Lord has mercy upon us
Chapter Thirty-Eight: In which the calamity is inexpressible
Part Four: January 1666 to September 1666
Chapter Thirty-Nine: In which voluntary exiles make their return
Chapter Forty: In which the end of days draws nigh
Chapter Forty-One: In which a threat is vanquished
Chapter Forty-Two: In which a proposal is made
Chapter Forty-Three: In which an adjournment is requested
Chapter Forty-Four: In which revenge is served warm
Chapter Forty-Five: In which a plot thickens
Chapter Forty-Six: In which a baker burns pudding 2nd September, 1666
Chapter Forty-Seven: In which London burns
Chapter Forty-Eight: In which what starts in Pudding ends in Pie
Chapter Forty-Nine: In which truth rises from the ashes
Chapter Fifty: In which Lady Margery speaks
Chapter Fifty-One: In which a long-worn vizard slips
Part Five: September 1666 to March 1667
Chapter Fifty-Two: In which truth rises out of the ash of lies
Chapter Fifty-Three: In which Rosamund walks in her own shoes
Chapter Fifty-Four: In which love finds the way
Chapter Fifty-Five: In which Nobody becomes Somebody
Chapter Fifty-Six: In which a new world beckons 4th March, 1667
Author’s Note
List of Characters
Acknowledgements
Excerpt
PART ONE
May to September 1662
To conclude, if God give you success, use it humbly and far from revenge. If He restore you upon hard conditions, whatever you promise, keep.
— Charles I’s final letter to his son, Charles, Prince of Wales, 1649
’Twill make Old women Young and Fresh;
Create New-Motions of the Flesh,
And cause them to long for you know what,
If they but Tast of Chocolate.
— Chocolate: or, An Indian Drinke, translated by James Wadsworth, 1652
ONE
In which a young woman encounters four men and some horses
On the 29th May 1662, God Almighty and Ever-Punishing chose to make it bloody hot. At least that’s what Rosamund heard Sissy Barnes say as she staggered into the kitchen with a pail of milk. The current of warm air she brought with her caused the other two scullions to moan and flap their aprons at their faces, earning a scolding from Dorcas, the housekeeper, who told them to stop making such a blasted fuss. Rosamund pressed her lips together lest she too be accused of making a blasted fuss and instead picked up the
tray of bread, melting cheeses and coddled eggs to deliver to the sweltering guests waiting to break their fast in the taproom.
Tobacco smoke hung thick in the air, punctuated only by the chittering of the finely dressed women who appeared to be competing with each other to see who could be the loudest. As Rosamund entered, one of them lamented in strident tones that the inn didn’t provide coffee, a protest greeted with much head-shaking and tut-tutting. Rosamund didn’t feel inclined to inform the heavily powdered woman, whose cheeks carried more patches than flesh, that they did indeed provide the bitter, silty beverage, but supplies had run out with the sudden influx of visitors. The women made a point of ignoring Rosamund, holding her responsible for their having to drink ale or sack like commoners instead of the fashionable new drink fast becoming the rage in London. Their male companions offered her sly smiles and surreptitious winks. One of the so-called gentlemen even leaned behind his lady to pat Rosamund on the bottom. Overlooking this liberty, as she did all others because her stepfather, Paul Ballister, said a man was within his rights to treat a woman any way he wanted (a view Rosamund silently maintained her grandmother, Lady Ellinor Tomkins, would have contested), she replaced the tray behind the counter and waited to see if her services would be further required. The men and women puffed on their pipes, sipped the liquids they claimed to despise, ate the tepid but tasty food placed in front of them and prattled emphatically — usually about whatever they were reading in the news sheets and pamphlets so many of them brought with them from the capital or purchased in town. She’d have to make sure to remove them when they’d finished lest Paul happen upon them. Poring over the discarded papers that he was too tight to buy himself, he would rail about the ‘rubbish royalist claptrap’ the ‘cunting correspondents’ published, then take his anger out on all those around him — mostly, her. He never said anything negative about the King within earshot of the guests; he was too clever for that. Choosing to nod amiably as they recited snippets from the pages and praise His Majesty like the most practised sycophant, he presented a picture of affability.
Looks could be so deceiving.
Rosamund rubbed a streak of egg-white from her bodice and frowned at the greasy mark it left on an otherwise reasonably clean gown. For the umpteenth time she wished she could read the news sheets too, especially since whatever was written seemed to incite such passionate conversations and aggravate Paul so very much. A contrary part of her had no doubt she’d like what he loathed and that gave her a little warm feeling right between her breasts.
She examined her fingernails and resisted the urge to chew them. Her mother had warned her that her usual lacklustre efforts at personal hygiene were unacceptable while there were so many guests, and insisted she wash her face and hands every night and morning. Pleased to obey her parent in this instance, knowing the additional patrons also meant Paul was kept occupied tending to them, Rosamund enjoyed feeling relatively clean, even if the condition was only temporary.
When she glanced at her reflection in the mouldy mirror hanging behind the bar, she marvelled at how pink her cheeks were when they weren’t decorated with smut and mud, and how her brows formed neat arches without soot in them. Whereas no-one would have given her a second look a week ago, it was remarkable what a little soap and water could do. Tucking a stray lock of hair back into her cap, she was trying to fathom how she could remove the egg stain when she caught a glimpse of her stepfather weaving his way between the tables, bowing in his fawning way to all and sundry. Before he could detain her, Rosamund ducked below the counter and slipped out of the room. Keen not to be accused of slovenliness, or anything else that might earn her stepfather’s opprobrium, she grabbed the besom and some rags and swiftly ascended to the upper floors, wiping the bannister as she went, searching for the dust and dirt inevitably trailed inside from the road. The Maiden Voyage Inn might be on the verge of decrepitude, but there was no reason for the old place to be filthy as well.
Squeezing against the wall to allow some patrons passage, dropping a curtsey and murmuring a ‘God’s good morning’ as she did, Rosamund couldn’t remember the place being so full. Why, if they’d been in Bethlehem and the blessed Joseph and Mary had asked for a room, they would have been turned away. As it was, anyone who was anyone (and quite a few with no claim even to that) had left London either to join the King in celebrating his bride’s arrival in Portsmouth or simply to celebrate. Rumour had it the real festivities wouldn’t commence until King Charles brought his Portuguese wife, Queen Catherine, back to Hampton Court, and would no doubt resume all over again when the court moved to Whitehall. Not that anyone seemed to care. Lords, ladies, courtiers, hangers-on, servants, messengers, actors, actresses (whores by any other name, according to Paul — which didn’t stop him ogling each and every one), and canny vendors had spent the best part of the past month rushing from town to country and back again like bees in a summer field. They drank like thirsty dogs and, as she overheard Mister Rohan, the night soil man, saying to Dorcas, rutted like ‘tiffany-traders persuaded they were bleeding rabbits’, whatever that meant.
With all the extra guests came additional duties, and Rosamund didn’t mind throwing on an apron and helping the servants they’d employed to assist with the rush — after all, they lightened her tasks considerably. With more hands, they could present the illusion of being accustomed to serving fine people and catering to their peculiar needs and tastes, never mind all the personal servants guests had at their beck and call. Beds for the extra men and girls had been made up in the stables, and two lads even dossed down in the kitchen. There was no doubt her stepfather and mother were enjoying the bounty these sorts of patrons and their coin provided. Her mother donned her best dress each day, fashioned her hair beneath a stylish bonnet (Rosamund was certain she’d seen it atop the head of an actress who’d stayed with them one night about three months ago) and, apart from ordering the staff around as if she were a queen in her own right, had arisen early today so she might escort a party of their guests to the river. From there, some would board craft to take them back to London, while others would watch the flotilla of caparisoned boats passing. Even Paul had made an extra effort with his brocaded Sunday jacket, fixing a smile beneath his finest periwig and visiting the barber for a shave. He’d ordered his sons from his first marriage, the twins Fear-God and Glory, to bathe, make sure their collars and cuffs were clean, and to assist the ostler they’d hired, an ex-sailor named Avery who’d joined the Navy years ago and fought under Cromwell and, after the Restoration, for King Charles too, in the hope it would make his fortune. Fighting for the Lord Protector, he’d enjoyed regular pay, but since the King returned, he hadn’t seen a single penny, even though he’d been back from Guinea for months. He’d many a bitter word to say about His Majesty, who could spend a fucking fortune on his strumpet’s jewellery but not see fit to pay good honest sailors who helped secure the throne as well as new territories for the crown.
Rosamund was actually grateful to the King — not for spending the money Parliament granted him on his latest fancy-woman, but because his marriage kept her stepfather from noticing her lapses of judgement or finding flaws in her work and using these as a pretext to give her one of his lessons. She tried so hard to be good and obedient as the catechism she recited for him every day demanded. While she didn’t adhere to the rules around cleanliness as much as she probably should, she felt there were good reasons for that and God in His wisdom would understand. Mind you, spotless or dirty, well-behaved or disobedient, it didn’t seem to matter, as Paul would always find reasons to punish her. Thus she’d developed the habit of keeping her ears and eyes tuned for his presence lest he order her into his study and close the door or find her alone in a corner of the inn or the stables and begin the lesson there. He could be quieter than a hungry cat stalking a mouse, looming out of the shadows and pouncing when she least expected it. However, as long as the inn was at capacity, she was relatively safe from Paul — and his sons, who were fast d
eveloping the unnatural tastes of their father — and could enjoy the pleasure of warm water and soap and more besides. If that meant the King deserved her gratitude, well, she wouldn’t begrudge him a little. As far as Rosamund was concerned, even though these royal hangers-on treated her as if she was the ash in their hearths, she wished they’d never leave.
Rosamund wished for many things of late. It was nine years since her beloved grandmother, Lady Ellinor Tomkins, had died and she’d been rudely taken from the comfort of Bearwoode Manor. She might not have been a legitimate granddaughter — no-one, not even the servants at Bearwoode, bothered to pretend that her father, the dashing Sir Jon Tomkins, had ever considered marrying her mother, a mere miller’s daughter — but when Rosamund’s mother left her newborn bastard on the doorstep of the Tomkins’ estate, Lady Ellinor had taken her in and cared for her as if she were a rightful scion. Having lost her son to the first King Charles’s cause, her heart would not allow her to do otherwise, despite, or perhaps because of, those who held firm to the notion that in publicly acknowledging Rosamund her wits had deserted her. When Rosamund remembered those days, days when her laughter rang through the house and grounds at Bearwoode and her ready smile brought answering ones from everyone around her, she also recalled she’d never had cause to mourn her state as a bastard. On the contrary, she revelled in the firm love and many kindnesses proffered to her. Lady Ellinor might not have shown a lot of affection, but she took care to instil in her granddaughter good manners, an appreciation of her position and the rudiments of an education. Alas, this was short-lived as, upon Lady Ellinor’s sudden death, the moorings securing Rosamund to her life at Bearwoode came adrift. The mother she knew only from dreams and had been forbidden to mention sailed into her life. Tilly Hobson, miller’s daughter, had become Tilly Ballister of the Maiden Voyage Inn. Respectable, married and, after taking the payment promised her, prepared to be what she had once denied — a mother to Rosamund. Tilly and her husband, Paul, brought eight-year-old Rosamund south to Gravesend. And put her to work. Barely given time to draw breath, let alone become accustomed to her change of circumstance, Rosamund went from being waited on to doing the waiting. And wishing.