The Chocolate Maker’s Wife

by Karen Brooks

  Stifling a yawn, Rosamund did her best to appear alert.

  Sir Everard tamped tobacco into the small bowl. ‘Allow me to tell you about my first wife, my family. I feel I owe you an explanation —’

  Rosamund interrupted. ‘Sir, if any dues are owed, then I think it’s me who has incurred the debt. But aye —’ She twisted the ring on her finger, a gold band that Sir Everard had taken from his smallest one to place upon hers. It was a little big, but he’d promised her another as soon as possible. ‘I would be grateful for any understanding about your life — former and present — you might offer, thus ensuring my mistakes are few and far between.’ She thought of the servants, of Bianca.

  Sir Everard grunted. ‘Very well.’ He sat back in his chair. After a time, he began to speak, his voice low and measured as if he was unaccustomed to the topic. ‘My wife, my old,’ he winked at Rosamund, ‘nay, my first wife, was Margery Montagu — her uncle is the Earl of Sandwich.’

  Rosamund hoped she looked suitably impressed.

  ‘We were married many years. Of all the children she birthed, there were two sons, Gregory and…’ he hesitated, ‘Aubrey, and a beautiful daughter, Helene, who survived. In fact, you look uncannily like her; you may hear the servants who knew her say as much.’

  Rosamund tried not to appear astonished. Three children who lived — and one who resembled her. Resisting the urge to look around, as if the children would suddenly manifest from behind the tapestries or march through the doors, she dared more questions. ‘What… what happened to your wife, sir? Where are your children?’

  ‘Sadly, Margery left us,’ said Sir Everard brusquely, his eyes flickering towards the bed. ‘She died more than two years ago.’

  Rosamund plucked at her robe, the understanding she’d been so eager to attain dawned. She was not only wearing a dead woman’s clothes, she was about to sleep in her bed and walk in her shoes.

  Lost in his own thoughts, Sir Everard failed to see her unease. He put the pipe in his mouth, struck a flint and lit it, drawing heavily. Smoke poured from the bowl and settled around his head. His eyes grew distant.

  ‘The boys, well, where do I begin? When he came of age, I sent Gregory to take care of my interests in Africa. He was killed by savages.’

  Rosamund’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘My lord. I’m… I’m so sorry.’

  ‘So was I, so was I.’ Sir Everard let out a deep sigh.

  ‘What about your other son, Aubrey?’

  Sir Everard’s eyes darkened and his entire body grew still. It was a while before he spoke again. ‘I encouraged him to settle in the New World.’

  Rosamund’s ears pricked and, as she caught the expression on Sir Everard’s face, the way he lingered on the word, she wondered what Aubrey had done to require ‘encouragement’.

  ‘But he too is dead.’ Sir Everard cleared his throat.

  Rosamund was lost for words.

  ‘Margery found it… difficult. The loss of our boys was more than she could bear; Helene was all she lived for.’ Sir Everard’s voice was tight, as if he was working to bury the pain. ‘She was all I lived for as well.’ He studied Rosamund, his mind working behind his eyes. As if he had reached a decision, he took a deep breath and sat up. ‘I was going to spare you the less savoury parts of my story, but now that you’re here… now that you’re my wife, I feel you deserve to know them.’

  Rosamund waited.

  ‘Just before Aubrey left for Virginia, an acquaintance of his, a man named Matthew Lovelace, son of a poet and with very modest means, began to pay court to Helene. Swept her off her feet.’ His eyes clouded. He rested the pipe on the edge of the table and picked up his drink. ‘I admit, I abetted him in his pursuit; blessed their union. I even brought him into my business, encouraged him to invest as I do in the Royal Adventurers into Africa. With the right investment, the right attitude, there’s a great deal of money to be made.’

  ‘There is?’ asked Rosamund.

  ‘Indeed. I only learned later that Lovelace was not the man I thought. He disapproved. The man was in possession of a conscience.’ Sir Everard’s mouth twisted; the quality an unforgivable flaw in his eyes. ‘Still, all was not lost. He’d caught wind of a new fad — chocolate — and recommended investing. After he and Helene wed, we even travelled together to learn what we could about the stuff, set up agents in Spain and the Americas so we could import the raw materials. In fact, the chocolate house was his idea.’ With a laugh that sounded like a howl of pain, he dashed the goblet upon the table so hard, what remained of the wine slopped over the lip. Rosamund jumped. ‘No sooner had we returned from that trip, than he revealed himself for the rogue he was, the black-hearted knave.’

  He paused. Rosamund held her breath.

  ‘He turned Helene against us, against me. If it hadn’t been for Margery, I doubt I would ever have seen my daughter again. But she begged to see the baby…’

  ‘There was a baby?’

  ‘My grandson. I knew Helene was being coerced, forced against her will to deny me. How could she call the baby Everard, after her father, if she didn’t love me?’

  Rosamund shook her head.

  ‘Yes, there was a child. But I only saw him once. Once! So did Margery, God bless her soul. You see, the very same night Margery held her little grandson, she passed into the Lord’s arms.’

  ‘She was so ill?’

  ‘Beyond physick. Her loss was… unexpected. I knew she wasn’t well, but… You see, Rosamund, before Margery was even pronounced dead, Helene was gone. Helene, the babe and Lovelace.’ He growled at the memory. ‘He stole her from me, the last of my children, the last of my family. He took her away as if she was a common bawd and put her on a ship bound for the colonies. God-damn his rotten soul.’ This time, he took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Helene never made it.’

  Bands tightened around Rosamund’s chest. ‘Oh, milord, you have my deepest sympathy.’ She wanted to reach out, but a little voice inside her head warned her to keep her hands in her lap. When he said nothing, she finally asked another question. ‘What happened?’

  Sir Everard raised bleak eyes to hers. ‘The blackguard murdered them. Helene and the child. Lovelace killed the last of my kin.’

  Rosamund could scarce believe what she was hearing. Why, this Lovelace was a scoundrel of the worst kind. Far from being in possession of a conscience, he was unconscionable. Poor Sir Everard, poor Helene and her little boy. Poor Margery. She repressed a shudder, the urge to cast off the gown and slip her feet out of the satin pumps.

  Wine forgotten, Sir Everard puffed silently on his pipe for a while. ‘That was over two long, wretched years ago. I just thank the good Lord Margery wasn’t here. If she hadn’t already gone to God, the knowledge that the last of her children was dead would have killed her. It near enough killed me.’

  This man had been visited by so much grief in such a short space of time. Sympathy welled within Rosamund as the smoke thickened, and she coughed into her fist.

  ‘Forgive me, sir, but I must ask. What happened to Mr Lovelace? Did the law catch him?’

  Aware of the discomfort the tobacco was causing, Sir Everard rose and went to the window. ‘I prayed the poltroon was dead. Alas, my prayers weren’t answered.’ His quiet words took wing into the night. ‘He stayed in the New World awhile, flitting from place to place, causing trouble, leaving misery and strife in his wake. As for the authorities? The law — well, sometimes you have to…’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘I’ve recently learned he’s returned. His intention is to commence business here, in London.’

  ‘He would dare? After what he’s done?’

  ‘He exists merely to torment me. But not for much longer.’ His eyes met hers briefly before he returned to contemplating the view from the window.

  Rosamund studied the set of Sir Everard’s shoulders. How could he stand the weight of such grief? To know that the murderer of your child and grandchild walked God’s good earth; the streets of this very city. No wonder Si
r Everard rated loyalty so highly — and obedience.

  ‘Still,’ he said, turning back towards her. ‘This is not the night to raise ugly spectres, is it? I made myself a promise I wouldn’t speak the knave’s name again, and here I am…’ He shrugged. ‘Now you’re a Blithman, you must needs know who we call enemy as much as those we embrace as friends. And believe me when I say that Lovelace is my avowed enemy.’

  ‘Well then, he’s mine too,’ said Rosamund swiftly. She meant it.

  Sir Everard gave a wry smile. ‘Thank you, my dear. Now, let us put the sorry past behind us; after all, we’ve much to celebrate.’ Limping back to his chair, he picked up his goblet, raised it towards her and drank. Smacking his lips together, he sat back down. ‘Which brings me to the other reason I wanted to talk to you tonight, to set your mind at rest regarding your other… how do I put it delicately… obligations as my wife.’

  Rosamund felt her heart grow cold and heavy. Her mother’s words rang in her ears; dread filled her chest.

  ‘Why do you think I married you?’ he asked softly.

  ‘I… I assume you wanted a wife — another one that is — for the reason any man does… Because… because you would like an heir… especially since…’ She left the sentence unfinished, grimacing at how clumsy she was.

  Sir Everard made a bitter, angry sound. Rosamund tried hard not to recoil. ‘Not this man.’ Composing himself, he sighed. ‘Anyhow, even if I wanted to father another child…’ his mouth worked itself into a peculiar shape, ‘I cannot.’

  Oh, dear God, he was… What was the word she had heard Widow Cecily use to describe Reverend Madoc? That’s right, a sodomite. A man who loved men. She tried to keep her expression neutral. Well, there were worse things.

  Sir Everard looked her directly in the eye. ‘Don’t misunderstand, Rosamund. I find women very attractive —’

  Out went that notion.

  ‘And you’re a very beautiful young woman. Very. If circumstances were different, I would enjoy what’s now rightfully mine.’ His eyes lingered on her and she shivered, resisting the urge to wrap the gown about her more tightly. ‘But you see, some years ago I was beset by an affliction which kept me abed for a long time. When I could finally rise, I had a most peculiar tremor in my hands.’ He held them out and for the first time Rosamund saw that they did indeed shake slightly. ‘It comes and goes. The worst thing was my sense of balance was disturbed. I took a tumble in the middle of Cheapside. Couldn’t move. Had to be carried home and one of those blood-thirsty quacks examined me — he and his foppish cronies. Upshot was, they attributed it to an imbalance of the humours. They purged me, lanced my veins, stuck me with leeches, gave me emetics. Depending who it was, they all had a different solution. One of them swore I’d never walk again. Shouldn’t have said that, should he?’ His face grew grim. ‘No-one tells me I what I can and can’t do. I took it as a challenge. With Margery, Helene, Jacopo and Wat’s help and the aid of my stick —’ he wrapped his hand around the gold-tipped head, ‘I was back on my feet. It was declared a miracle, I was the toast of the medical establishment, let me tell you. The Royal College of Surgeons came to examine me; doctors published pamphlets about my remarkable recovery.’

  Finally, his limp was explained.

  ‘That’s marvellous,’ said Rosamund, bringing her hands together beneath her chin.

  ‘Marvellous?’ Sir Everard blustered. ‘It was a bloody catastrophe.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Her hands dropped.

  ‘Oh, yes. While my legs worked, and the shakes that occasionally beset me became less frequent, there was a part of my anatomy that ceased to function.’

  Rosamund stared at him blankly.

  Slowly, he spread his hands and lowered his gaze to his crotch.

  Rosamund’s cheeks flooded with colour. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Sir Everard wasn’t laughing now. ‘My fleshy flute has fallen silent.’

  She looked away swiftly; anything she said would be wrong. How could you offer any reassurance about that?

  ‘I’ve embarrassed you. I’ve grown used to my… my situation. Well, as accustomed as a man can. It’s God’s will, isn’t that what they say? Either that, or punishment for my many sins. Likely for those I’m yet to commit as well.’ He chewed his lips for almost a full minute, as if trying to swallow something unpalatable. ‘Now I’m an old man. Margery is dead. Not being able is not as… hard for me as it once was.’ He gave a bark of laughter.

  Why, this wasn’t funny at all. She didn’t think it was possible to grow any hotter, but she did. If she’d been in possession of a fan, she would have hidden her face behind it.

  Sir Everard shifted in his seat. ‘I’ve given you cause to be further discomfited. My apologies.’

  ‘None necessary, my lord, I assure you. I’m sorry for your —’ she glanced at the area between his legs before looking away quickly and, searching for a word, said the first one that popped into her head, ‘loss.’

  He snorted. ‘I didn’t lose it, dear girl. It simply no longer works. For all the good it does me, I may as well be a blasted eunuch. I hope you don’t feel cheated,’ he said. ‘Though, from the look in your eyes, I imagine you feel somewhat relieved.’ Now it was her turn to find the floor interesting. ‘But I’ll not expect anything from you in that regard. Only, as I said, loyalty. Loyalty and obedience.’

  How did she articulate, without causing the utmost offence, that she felt nothing but joyous relief? To be spared the attentions of a man, even one who seemed as nice (if somewhat old and lame) as Sir Everard, her husband by law and God. Why, she couldn’t quite believe her luck. Not for the first time, she sent thanks to the twins for chasing her, the horses for running her down… Oh and her grandmother, her father and God. Immediately, she felt bad that she was thanking them for another’s ill-fortune and tried to reverse her prayer.

  She simply said, ‘You have them, milord.’

  A couple of minutes passed in silence. For all that Sir Everard appeared to have the world at his feet, with wealth, fine clothes, servants to attend his every need, slaves at his beck and call and a large if somewhat damp and ancient home, as well as a chocolate house, appearances didn’t account for everything. He was like the portraits she had glimpsed in the corridor, or those that used to hang in her grandmother’s hall and parlour; often she’d wondered what the subjects were thinking, how their lives were beyond the frame. She’d never have guessed that behind those searching eyes, the facade of success, was a man buried in grief with no family to support him, an enemy hovering, and a terrible affliction.

  She poured more wine while Sir Everard repacked his pipe. ‘I’m told tobacco helps my condition, that it will keep the tremors and other symptoms at bay.’ She waited patiently for him to elucidate, but he did not.

  ‘Well, my dear. There you have it. Do you have any more questions?’ It was evident she’d extinguished the quota allowed.

  Outside, bells began to toll, sonorous and hollow. It was later than Rosamund thought. They’d been talking for hours. The food was still largely untouched, but she felt as if she’d gorged. As for questions, oh aye, she had many, but they could wait.

  ‘No, no more questions, not tonight. Oh, forgive me. That’s not true, I do. One.’

  Sir Everard arched a brow.

  ‘Where does that door lead?’

  Sir Everard followed the direction of her gaze. ‘That was Margery’s closet — her equivalent of Tradescant’s Ark — you know, the fabulous collection of objects the Tradescant family put together over years.’ He snorted. ‘I’m afraid it’s not in their league even if it’s where she kept her curios and useless flibbertigibbets. You’re welcome to use it. Discard or keep what you find. I care not. I’ll have Bianca find the key.’

  Rosamund wondered what flibbertigibbets were, and why they were useless; she also wondered how Sir Everard could be quite so dismissive of them. Uneasy that what was Margery’s was now hers, including a defective husband, she refrained from aski
ng.

  ‘Very well,’ said Sir Everard and, with some difficulty, pulled himself out of the seat. Rosamund leapt up to assist him. He waved her away. ‘Please, do not fuss.’ Grabbing his stick, he slowly straightened his back, wincing. ‘Tomorrow we’ll attend the chocolate house.’

  ‘That would be wonderful, milord.’

  ‘Call me Everard.’ He reached out and gently pushed a stray hair behind her ear. It had dried in the warm breeze drifting through the window. ‘Your hair is very long; long and untamed…’

  Startled by his touch, Rosamund jerked away from him. Sir Everard frowned. ‘Forgive me, milord… I mean, Everard. I’m unaccustomed to…’ She paused. How did she explain the kind of touch she was used to receiving? She could not. Once again, her cheeks grew red.

  ‘You owe me no explanations, Rosamund.’ With another sigh, he headed towards the door. ‘One last thing.’ He stopped and looked over his shoulder. ‘Tomorrow Jacopo will bring some papers for you to sign. They’re not important; they’re to do with our nuptials.’ He turned around. ‘But you can read that for yourself.’ He smiled that odd smile again.

  Rosamund felt her face burn. ‘Indeed.’ So much for loyalty. Just how long could she keep up a masquerade of being literate before her deceit was discovered?

  His hand was on the door when he appeared to recall something. Gazing for a moment at his shoes, he took a deep breath and raised his head. ‘After my son… sons, and daughter died and Margery too, and Lovelace roamed the earth able to spread his foulness, I believed God had deserted me. That was, until something miraculous occurred.’

  ‘What was that, milord?’ asked Rosamund softly.

  He turned and beheld her. ‘I met you.’

  SEVEN

  In which a new wife begins a new life

  Waking before the sun had quite risen, Rosamund was disorientated as her dreams melded with reality. The strange blankets, the unfamiliar scent of the pillows, the shift tangled around her legs, all filled her with momentary panic. She sat bolt upright and peered through the swags of sarcenet and heavier fabrics surrounding the bed, seeing nothing until she slowly recalled where she was and why. Gradually her breathing returned to normal, her heart steadied. She twisted the little gold band about her finger, cast aside the demons of the night, tossed back the covers and bed-curtains and ran straight to the window.