by Karen Brooks
Rooftops thatched and shingled and a forest of steeples met her gaze, rising like a wave until they dipped at the great stone wall encircling the city. Beyond the wall lay ordered fields and what looked like a huge manor house in the distance. Lines of people — so many people, little more than dots on the landscape — moved steadily into the city through one of the great stone gates. In their wake came carts, animals, carriages, barrows and men and women laden with baskets, screeching, lowing, talking and shouting. A river of humanity, they surged into the streets, some peeling away from the principal stream to form narrower tributaries, the noise rising and falling. Above her, flocks of birds wheeled in the air, their songs simultaneously melodic and shrill. Wreathing all was heavy smoke that wove its miasma over those below. Rosamund longed to explore and hoped Sir Everard would be kind enough to allow her a tour. Though how could she expect to see the city when she’d not yet inspected the house?
Uncertain what to do, or wear, since Bianca had removed the clothes she had travelled in, she opened her burlap and began to pull out the few possessions inside. A silver hairbrush belonging to her grandmother, a spare pair of gloves (that had seen better days, she thought as her fingers breached the tips), two old shirts, some collars and cuffs, her everyday dress which, she noted with disgust, was horribly discoloured and stained. Lifting it to her nose, she quickly pushed it away. Hopefully, she could get her clothes laundered. The last thing she wanted was to be accused of smelling like a jakes again. She placed the remainder of her paltry belongings on the mantle — a silver toothpick, her grandmother’s copy of Descartes’ Meditationes de prima philosophia (though she couldn’t read it, nor could she bear to part with it), a cracked hand mirror, some ribbons her friend Frances had given her, and a small bottle of perfume she’d bought from a pedlar. It wasn’t much to show for seventeen years — well, almost eighteen — and two different homes. No. Only one was a home. The other was just a place. A place she wanted to forget and to which she had been forbidden to return.
Don’t worry, she thought, I won’t.
Dropping the ragged burlap and kicking it under the table, she wondered whether dressing herself was expected. Recalling the indignity of last night, bathing was clearly considered beyond her capabilities. The apricot ensemble was hardly suitable past the boudoir. Staring at her only dress, it was evident she possessed nothing worthy.
Instead of dwelling on what she lacked, she focussed on what she’d gained, her eyes alighting on the other doorway. Margery’s closet. It sounded tiny. Full of useless curios and flibbertigibbets. It also sounded very interesting. Expecting it to be locked, Rosamund was surprised when the door opened.
Beams of sunlight filtered through an oriel window revealing an appreciable space crammed with shelves filled with objects of all shapes and sizes. The first thing she noticed was how neglected everything looked. A shawl of cobwebs wrapped itself around two large shells and all but obscured a dull jug. There were ostrich feathers, a dried-up inkhorn, quills that appeared never to have been used but possessed beautifully engraved shafts. There was a small tarnished container that might have held toothpicks. Some books leaned casually against three folded fans, the titles eluding her. There were also gaps where books must once have stood, giving the shelf the look of a mouth with missing teeth. A much-loved hat with the brim almost detached hid a tiny round box studded with turquoise and painted with ruby swirls. There were ribbons, a baby’s bonnet eaten by insects — and rat droppings everywhere, which accounted for the pungent smell. Dust lay thick upon everything. Rosamund dragged a finger along a shelf, creating a path that only ended when she reached a carved wooden box with an ornate key. Unable to resist, she turned the key, gratified when the lock clicked. The interior was filled with beads of all colours. Thrusting her hand inside, Rosamund delighted in the feel of the smooth baubles and wondered why Margery had collected them. What was their purpose apart from looking pretty? Then her fingers felt something buried beneath them: a wad of paper tied with string. Folded many times, it was yellow with age and slightly brittle. Rosamund sat on the window seat, raising more dust as she landed on the cushion, and untied the bundle. With great care she smoothed the pages out, anxious not to damage them. They appeared to be torn from a book. Unable to read them, she stared at the words, wondering why Margery had hidden the pages in the box. Who had written them? What did they say? What would possess someone to remove pages from a book? Or were they from a diary?
Before she could fathom an answer, she heard a noise in the bedroom. Swiftly she refolded the pages and shoved them and the string back under the beads in the box. She wiped her hands on her clothes as she exited the room, her face flushed. Why did she feel guilty?
As she shut the door to the closet, Bianca was closing the outer one, bearing garments and a pair of worn but serviceable shoes.
‘God give you good morning, signora,’ she said, dropping the barest of curtsies and holding up one arm, over which a dress was draped. ‘I’ve had these modified for you to wear.’ Putting down a pair of jade-coloured shoes and draping a clean silk shift over a chair, Bianca shook out a pale green gown with long puffed sleeves and a cinched waist, heavily embroidered. It was also, Rosamund noted as she stroked the fabric, well-loved, in truth quite shabby, even for a once-fine piece of apparel. A faded port-coloured mark blossomed in the centre of the skirt and the stitching around the neck was frayed. Even so, the dress was grander than anything she’d worn for a long time. The colour was not what she would have chosen but then, who was she to gripe?
She caught herself. She was the lady wife of Sir Everard Blithman; the chocolate maker’s wife, no less. The thought made her smile. From the way Sir Everard spoke of his venture, how important it was to him and how he valued her participation in it, that must account for something as well. She noted the impatient look in Bianca’s eyes. Fat lot of good those titles did her here.
‘Why, thank you,’ she smiled. ‘It’s quite lovely.’ She meant it, well loved or not, and held the dress against her. It was a bit long and quite wide. ‘I’m certain it will fit,’ she lied. ‘Can you thank the person who adjusted it for me? They must have stayed up all night.’
‘Only half, signora.’ Turning aside, Bianca began to pour water into the wash basin.
Rosamund tried hard not to sigh.
When she was washed and dressed and her hair styled, she was escorted to the withdrawing room. It was only as Bianca left, flashing a hesitant smile in response to Rosamund’s thanks, that she’d felt something of the person beneath the housekeeper’s cold exterior. The thought gave some comfort. It would be good if they could be allies. Better than good.
She sank into a chair, once again not knowing what to do. Two young men in blue livery entered, one carrying a tray of food, the other what appeared to be a pot of coffee. Rosamund’s heart sank. She’d never developed a taste for the acidic, silty drink and avoided it wherever possible. Nevertheless, she greeted them with a God’s good day. They gave her the briefest of nods, their noses averted, as if she’d just carried in horses’ ordure from the street. Rosamund felt her cheeks begin to colour with a mixture of disappointment and embarrassment. What had she done to earn their contempt?
She had to admit, the conditions of her arrival and the way she’d looked… and smelled… she’d struggle to gain respect as well. Well, if she wasn’t going to be given respect, she’d just bloody well earn it.
After depositing the tray and pouring a bowl of coffee, the footmen retreated to stand either side of the hearth, their faces neutral as they stared towards a space in the middle of the room.
Waiting to see if they’d leave (and wishing they would), or if Sir Everard would join her, it was some time before Rosamund understood that she was on her own; or as alone as one could be with two other humans pretending to be furniture in the room. Marvelling that their duty was simply to stand when such a large house needed tending, Rosamund tried not to be self-conscious in their presence. Accustomed to d
oing the watching, to fading into the background, she felt awkward in the lead role. Anything she did or said would surely become fodder for the servants to gossip over; after all, that had been the way at the inn. This natural state of affairs would only be magnified in such a grand house with so few interlopers to discuss. She sat demurely.
Outside, the cries of the ostlers rang, answered by the throaty neigh of horses and barking hounds; faint shouts came from vendors beseeching passersby to examine their wares, carriage and cart wheels ground on the streets and the ever-present clamour of bells interrupted the illusion of peace the room bestowed. Dear God, the city was a noisy place. With a small sigh, Rosamund raised the cup to her lips and took a sip.
Her memory served her well. The coffee was vile whether taken in the taproom at the Maiden Voyage Inn, her friend Frances’s kitchen or in London. Not even the delicate porcelain bowl could disguise the taste. It was like drinking dirt, including the gritty aftertaste. Holding the cup to her mouth, she pretended to swallow a little more before exchanging the bowl for a piece of bread, and caught a look of sympathy from the taller of the footmen. She gave him a smile. Dear God, she prayed chocolate was more to her liking or every time she drank it she’d be conducting a performance that would do the actor Charles Hart proud.
She had time to finish a single slice of bread when, with nary a knock, Jacopo appeared, a folder of papers under one arm, bowing deferentially. The footmen’s backs straightened.
‘You slept well, madam?’
‘Very, thank you, Jacopo.’ The falsehood tripped from her lips; she’d had a wretched night filled with dreams of Paul, of her mother screeching ‘don’t you never come back’ while the servants at the inn cheered. There were rearing horses and the milling, smiling, sweating faces of strangers urging her to kiss her husband who, when she turned to him, was a vile old leper with no teeth who forced her to drink chocolate from his decaying mouth.
Jacopo laid out the documents on the table. ‘Allora. Signore wants you to read these carefully and then sign. He would have brought them himself, but he’s currently indisposed.’
‘Indisposed?’
Jacopo grimaced. ‘The last few weeks have been most busy and yesterday…’ he searched for the right words, ‘was extraordinary to say the least. I’m afraid the signore is taking a little more time to rise from his bed.’
Trying to ignore the twinge of regret that the trip to the chocolate house might be postponed, Rosamund made noises of sympathy and prayed it hadn’t been revisiting the grief of the last few years or talk of that cur Matthew Lovelace that had upset Sir Everard.
‘Please pass his lordship my good wishes.’ She wondered briefly as she shifted on her seat if his backside was also suffering from yesterday’s coach ride.
‘But,’ continued Jacopo, ‘he did ask me to inform you that he looks forward to escorting you to the chocolate house later in the morning.’ Rosamund’s heart soared. ‘He asks that you remain here until then. He said to tell you that while you are to feel free to explore the house, he wants you to know his study is out of bounds.’ Jacopo paused for Rosamund to acknowledge this. ‘He also said to reassure you that he will refrain from announcing your nuptials as long as possible.’
Rosamund glanced at Jacopo in surprise. ‘Announce? To whom?’
Jacopo shrugged. ‘It’s what is expected. There are those among Sir Everard’s business associates who would be most offended if they’re not informed of his… change of circumstance.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s to the master’s credit that he wants to ensure you’re suitably… ah…’ his gaze swept her clothes, ‘prepared before this happens; before any announcements are made.’
‘So I don’t embarrass him,’ said Rosamund.
Jacopo took a step back. ‘I don’t think you could embarrass anyone, signora.’ He regarded her solemnly. ‘No, I think the master does this so you might feel more comfortable.’
So I don’t embarrass myself then… Rosamund tried not to gather the gown about her gaping décolletage. The first Lady Blithman had been a buxom woman indeed. ‘That is most considerate of him.’
Jacopo flashed a smile, his teeth so very white against his dark skin; his eyes twinkled. Rosamund could not help but return it. Jacopo was possessed of very long eyelashes. Perhaps all blackamoors had the good fortune to be so blessed? She considered him more closely.
‘Jacopo, do you bear any relation to Bianca?’
Jacopo lowered his head. ‘I do indeed. She is my sister. Older by five years.’
Rosamund was about to ask more when he leaned over and turned a page.
Understanding it was his way of prompting her, and that he was likely avoiding questions about his personal circumstances, she made a show of reading the papers, hoping and praying he could not tell she was struggling. Too ashamed to admit she could make out only a word here and there such as ‘of’ and ‘it’, she pretended to scan each page, nodding and making approving noises now and then, hoping Jacopo wouldn’t fathom the extent of her ignorance. Her reading had never advanced since she was taken from Bearwoode. When she reached the final page, she dipped the quill and left her mark where Jacopo indicated. At least she could do that.
Jacopo sanded the ink, allowed it to dry then shuffled the pages.
‘Thank you, madam. I will tell Signor Everard you have no concerns or complaints about the agreement.’
‘None,’ said Rosamund lightly, trying not to consider what it was that she’d signed.
There was no point worrying about it, especially when she had a house to explore and chocolate to taste.
EIGHT
In which a wife indulges in sin (in a bowl)
In order to compensate for what would have been a short journey to the chocolate house, which was only a few streets away, Sir Everard ordered the driver of the hackney carriage to take a longer route so Rosamund might see a little of the city. Filled with excitement at the prospect and touched by her husband’s consideration, she sat on the edge of her seat, leaning forward.
It was past midday, the heat growing as the small conveyance manoeuvred its way between slow drays, ornate coaches, impatient horsemen, messengers and tired vendors wheeling carts or carrying laden panniers promising ‘sweet oranges’, ‘fresh oysters’ and ‘oven-hot pies’, uncaring their falsehoods were as apparent as the scorching sun.
The swell of people grew as they passed the grand Merchant Tailors’ Hall before turning into Leadenhall Street and the markets. Some folk loitered around the buildings, others strode swiftly along the cluttered street, papers tucked under arms, or lugging baskets filled with purchases. Many strolled, stopping to examine the contents of a barrow or exchange a ‘God’s good day’.
The carriage made its way past wagons jammed so close together, Rosamund could have reached out and touched the sides as curses and greetings were offered in equal measure. Sometimes they were forced to a standstill as drivers argued for precedence based on the rank of the passengers they carried. Urchins took the opportunity to approach and beg coin or take some, darting dangerously between vehicles and hooves to escape, the shouts of their victims following them. The smell was pungent, a mixture of animal and human waste, unwashed bodies, flensed carcasses, cooked and rotting foodstuffs, all overlaid by various perfumes, most of them completely failing to mask the powerful combination of crowds and the reek of the nearby tanneries. Then there was the omnipresent smoke.
Rosamund was transfixed. She had never seen quite so many people in one place before. Sir Everard pressed a scented kerchief to his face while Rosamund inhaled and rejoiced in all she beheld that proved she was, indeed, in London.
‘How long is this blasted trip going to take?’ exclaimed Sir Everard, beating his cane on the roof.
‘Almost there, milord,’ cried Jacopo, who was atop with the driver, just as the carriage lunged forward.
Moments later the conveyance bounced to a halt amidst shouts of protest that they were blocking
the way.
Alighting carefully to avoid the dung, a hand on Sir Everard’s arm, Rosamund looked around. They were at the crossroads of Birchin Lane and Lombard Street. The latter was a cobbled street filled with carts, horses and people. There was an array of businesses down both sides of it selling everything from toys to oils and buttons and offering the services of a notary and a barber. On one corner was a stationer’s and across the road from him an insurance office. Inside narrow Birchin Lane she could see a crowded ordinary, a coffee house and at least two taverns before a bend obscured the rest. Above the businesses were residences and more offices with protruding upper storeys, replete with crooked, belching chimneys, making the roadway much darker than it should be for that time of day.
Sir Everard led her down the cobbles into Birchin Lane and past the curious bystanders who gave her more than a cursory glance. It wasn’t until they halted at a wooden door with a bell and a shiny doorknob, and a shingle swinging in the breeze above depicting a pair of crossed swords, the blades long and threatening, that Sir Everard smiled. Painted beneath the swords was, incongruously, an open book.
‘This is the chocolate house.’
‘It is?’
Seeing her puzzlement, Sir Everard explained. ‘This used to be a blacksmith’s premises, a long time ago. Now, it’s a bookshop — the Crossed Blades and Open Book — at least, downstairs. The chocolate house is above.’ He gestured towards the upper storeys.