The Chocolate Maker’s Wife

by Karen Brooks

  Reginald, being the porter, not only greeted everyone who entered and exited the building, but also related to them any little morsel of news he might have gleaned. Reginald was particularly thrilled when one of his favourite people, the earnest and hard-working Mr Samuel Pepys, was among the first to arrive. Even though he’d left the office around midnight the night before, Mr Pepys was back at his desk before the bells tolled eight. Well, what was Mr Crew to do but reward the man by inviting him to sup at the gossip table.

  What Mr Crew didn’t know was that Pepys, being a distant relative of the late Lady Margery Blithman, connected through the Montagu line, was shocked by what Reginald told him. Dissembling quickly, he nevertheless wasted no time and set foot into the offices simply to excuse himself. He hurried home and collected his wife, Elizabeth, their two servants and some victuals. Using the boat put aside for the Navy Office’s use, Pepys ordered it rowed to Gravesend under the pretext of entering the waterways of the Hope and boarding the ship Royal James. What he learned while questioning folk at Gravesend excited him so greatly that, much to his wife’s chagrin, he ordered them to turn back to London so he might see the evidence for himself.

  But first he had to endure a meeting with an acquaintance, Mr Shepley, and then invite the man to supper, a delay Pepys could barely tolerate. Somehow, amidst the fluster of his thoughts and half-hearted responses, first to Shepley and later to Elizabeth, he promised to take his wife to Hampton Court on the morrow, when what he really intended was to visit his widower cousin. It was only when he finally fell into bed late that night and listened to Elizabeth’s joy in their plans that he understood he would have to fulfil his hasty promise. Ever resourceful, Pepys decided it didn’t mean he couldn’t also get to the bottom of the rumours.

  Rousing himself early the following morning, he ordered his servants to tell his wife he’d gone to the office and, without an invitation or warning, made his way to Bishopsgate Street, pausing only to down a dish of coffee in Mark Lane. Not even the other patrons’ cries of ‘What news?’ tempted him to reveal what he’d learned.

  As a consequence, he arrived on the doorstep of Blithe Manor just as the gates were being opened so a sleepy drudge could find a maid from whom to purchase milk — all as the sun was just opening its igneous eyes.

  Pepys’ reserve counted for nothing in a city of gossips. Clementine Rochford, Reginald Crew, his wife and all those who entered and exited the Navy Office, fanning out into the streets, down to the docks and even as far as Whitehall, Moorfields, and Deptford, had already done the damage. Before midday the day after the marriage, half of London knew what Sir Everard had done — Sir Everard Blithman, the man who’d bought his way back into the King’s good graces in an effort to save his family name and mitigate the damage caused by his younger son’s rumoured treachery.

  By midnight, the other half knew and by then the narrative had undergone dramatic changes: Sir Everard had kidnapped a bastard child and wed her; fought a duel, killed a man and was now responsible for his progeny; some claimed he’d rescued a noblewoman from a highwayman; married his mistress’s daughter; snatched his niece from a fate most foul; committed no sin but kindly employed the widow of a worker; married his own daughter; and, most hilarious of all, that he’d bought a blowsy bride from a former Roundhead.

  Samuel Pepys was, by his own admission, a highly-regarded clerk at the Navy Office in Seething Lane, an honest and diligent Justice of the Peace, a beloved relative of Sir Everard and Lady Margery Blithman, an up-and-coming gentleman of London who could number among his acquaintances peers of the realm (the Duke of York, Sir William Batten, Sir William Penn, Sir George Downing, Sir Carteret, and his distant relations, Lord and Lady Sandwich, of course), and knew the King personally, having been aboard the very ship that returned His Majesty from exile. He had heard from the King’s own mouth marvellous stories of his escape from England years earlier — including the miracle of Boscobel and the grand old oak in which His Majesty concealed himself from searching Roundheads.

  On arriving at Blithe Manor at cock’s crow, Sam was ordered peremptorily to remain in the hall like a common servant. But the man who knew the King refused to obey. When that curmudgeon, Wat, had gone to fetch his master, Sam swiftly followed him up the stairs and diverted down the corridor towards the withdrawing room his cousin (God bless her) used to enjoy. Sam reasoned if it was good enough for the first Lady Blithman to favour, then it was highly likely her replacement would also find it pleasant.

  He was not mistaken.

  Without knocking, Sam cautiously opened the door to find a young woman standing by the window, a book in her hand.

  He saw the book was by Descartes and could not help but be impressed. As she was unaware of him, he made a leisurely study of her profile, noting a mark upon her forehead; a recent injury perhaps, but which brought to his mind thoughts of an angel’s brand. Was this the woman who had caused London’s tongues to wag so furiously? Pale golden hair fell in waves against her face before tumbling down her back. Her slim figure was topped by a generous bosom that even from the door he could see rising and falling, the exposed flesh glowing in the early morning sunlight streaming in the window. The way the ill-fitting gown nevertheless cinched her waist before falling to the floor failed to hide a bottom that was just begging to be pinched and all but made his mouth water. Her eyebrows and lashes deserved sonnets. Her mouth a melody. Good God, who was this ravishing creature? Surely, she couldn’t be the source of all these rumours, the inn-sloven to whom Sir Everard had hitched himself? The highwayman’s get? Or his mistress? Sam couldn’t quite recall; not that it mattered. Whoever or whatever she was, whatever her origins, one could hardly blame Sir Everard. He’d paid his penance and deserved a reward. Why, if Sam wasn’t encumbered with a pesky wife…

  He was unaware he’d made a noise until the woman looked up, the book almost falling from her grasp. Sam swiftly swept off his hat, not so much because he suddenly remembered his manners, but to hide his rather prominent erection.

  Stumbling forward, his other arm outstretched to suggest peace, he tried to speak, but as he drew closer and she turned in the light, he saw her face and stopped.

  ‘How extraordinary,’ he blurted and wondered if, despite what he’d been told, perhaps the rumours of a niece were indeed true.

  ‘What is?’ said the young woman, unperturbed by his manner as she placed the book on a table.

  ‘Why,’ said Sam, still staring at her face, ‘for a moment there, I was struck by your resemblance to Sir Everard’s daughter, Helene.’

  Was the girl — no, woman — trying not to smile? Surely those lush, rose-petal lips were twitching; certainly, a pair of exquisite dimples impressed those porcelain cheeks.

  ‘Ah,’ she sang. ‘Sir Everard has made mention of a likeness.’

  ‘Indeed. But upon closer inspection, I see your eyes are darker and not so near to one another; your face lacks the sharpness to which Helene’s tended and your…’ His own eyes locked onto the woman’s bosom, before with flaming cheeks and much clearing of his throat, he tore them away. ‘You are taller and more… more…’

  ‘More likely to ask who you might be, good sir?’ the woman finished. This time, she was smiling.

  Sam’s breath caught, his heart stilled. Now he was only a matter of inches away, he could smell the perfume coming from her. His mind began to drift, his pulse to quicken. Forget Helene, this goddess eclipsed even the Lady Frances Stewart, the beauty who currently preoccupied the King — though why he bothered when he had the alluring Lady Barbara between his sheets was beyond Sam’s ken.

  ‘Forgive me, madam.’ Unable to help himself, Sam took the young woman by the shoulders and kissed her lingeringly on the lips. ‘I am your cousin, Samuel Pepys, at your service.’

  Releasing her with great regret, he ran his tongue over his mouth, hoping to recapture the taste of hers, to imprint it on his memory. Her lips were so soft, like pillows. Damn if the maypole in his pants wa
sn’t stirring again. He willed himself to concentrate. Think of Elizabeth, his sister, the clodpole who opened the door to him…

  The distaste that crossed her face was surely a trick of the morning shadows. She touched her fingertips to her lips (was she wiping them?) and the goddess’s eyes twinkled. ‘Then it’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. Will you please sit and I’ll have one of the servants notify Sir Everard of your arrival.’

  Grateful to be asked, Sam wasted no time falling into a chair, his hat in his lap and waved a hand at the door dismissively. ‘Do not trouble yourself on that account… Madam… er… Cousin… er… What do I call you?’

  ‘My name is Rosamund… Just Rosamund.’

  Hardly just. As she seated herself across from him, the sunbeams struck eyes that a moment before were almost black, but now contained flecks of amber, honey and swirls of iridescent chestnut. He felt sure if he kept staring, he’d be mesmerised or, far worse, allow her access to the secrets in his soul and find himself confessing all his wicked thoughts about Lady Barbara, his wife’s maid Jane, and his imbroglio with the delicious Betty Lane.

  ‘Rosamund,’ he repeated. (Rosamund, my sweet almond… No. That would never do. Rosamund, the flower of Eng-a-land… Rosamund, I do envy thy hus-a-band…)

  Aware she was speaking and he hadn’t listened, Sam nodded but was devastated when she rose and went to the door. It was only when he heard her talking to someone (good God, even her voice was delightful, a dulcet siren’s song to lure men to their ruin), asking for coffee and breakfast beer to be brought to the parlour, that he began to relax. He could savour her company longer.

  When Sam first heard the news about Sir Everard, he thought the dreadful scandal of his son, followed by the terrible tragedies that had visited his cousin, had finally undone him. But now he’d met the woman — Rosamund, he sighed — he quite understood why Sir Everard had wed her. If, indeed, this vision was his wife. But who else could she be? Not even the descriptions the Gravesend locals had given yesterday prepared him. Oh, they’d prattled on about an unusual-looking chit, a good-natured, hard-working sort and her terrible parents and even worse bully-boy siblings. They’d spoken of her piety and goodness almost as if she was some Romish nun. But good God, unusual, even lovely, didn’t begin to describe her. She was a beauty, and not the regular sort that was much admired like the sumptuous darkness of Barbara Castlemaine. Rosamund was both darkness and golden light. A striking and most disturbing combination. No wonder Sir Everard snatched her up. And curse his luck he found her in a backwater like Gravesend… Or mayhap he knew she was there all along and had delayed until now to fetch her. Wait until the King saw her. Or, God forbid, Buckingham or Sedley. They wouldn’t be able to keep their eyes — their hands — off her.

  And she was clever too, he thought, glancing at the book. No woman of his acquaintance read Descartes first thing in the morning. No man either, for that matter.

  Moments later Rosamund returned, shortly followed by servants carrying a tray filled with a steaming coffee pot, bowls and some warm bread. In no time at all, the drink was poured, the bread smeared with butter and the servants positioned by the hearth, unmoving, unseeing, all-hearing.

  Damn their souls.

  Now there were chaperones he would just have to make the best of it and find another opportunity to question the woman closely. Sam took the bowl and sipped, expressing surprise it wasn’t chocolate. He leaned back and smiled.

  ‘So, my dear cousin, for that is surely what you are. Tell me, what do you think of your husband’s new venture with the West Indian drink? Have you tried it yet? You have? Someone, and I know not who, left a quantity for me at my house months ago. Is that not strange?’

  ‘I would have said, most generous,’ replied Rosamund.

  ‘Ah… yes. Of course. It was. Yes. Yes.’ Flustered, Sam forgot what they were discussing.

  ‘You have tried chocolate, sir?’

  Bless her for rescuing him. ‘Oh, many times now. The first was the day after the King’s coronation. What a fine day — such pomp, such ceremony, and a banquet of many courses. When, after the King left the hall that evening, a mighty, tree-shredding storm broke, it was only matched by that in my head and stomach for, I confess, I was utterly foxed. The following day, I went to my very good friend Mr Creed’s house and, upon seeing the condition I was in, he offered me a bowl of chocolata swearing it would soothe my wretched discomfort.’

  ‘And did it?’

  Sam patted his rotund paunch. ‘Very nicely, though I recall a bitter aftertaste.’

  ‘Then you have not tasted Sir Everard’s chocolate.’

  He grinned. ‘In that regard, you have the advantage of me. In fact, I’ve not seen my cousin — oh… for some time.’ He paused. Did she know the scandal that had attended her husband and all that he’d done to try to repair the damage? Clearly not. Best he not be the one to tell her. ‘Tell me, cousin, coming from Gravesend, what do you think of London so far?’

  If Rosamund thought it odd that he knew her origins, she didn’t remark on it. She broke off a piece of bread and chewed slowly, considering her words.

  ‘Why, I have seen so little of it, I do not think I am fit to offer an opinion, Mr Pepys.’

  ‘Come now,’ said Sam, daring to reach over and pat the back of her hand, a pat that quickly turned into strokes. ‘We are related. Call me Sam.’

  ‘Then Sam it is,’ said Rosamund, withdrawing her hand. She smiled to soften the gesture, then her mouth drooped.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, tilting forward so hastily he almost spilled his coffee.

  ‘Well, here I am, given the gift of a new relative and yet I know nothing of you. It would give me the greatest of pleasure if you would tell me about yourself, sir. About your life in London. Perhaps you can be the window through which I come to view this marvellous city,’ she said and bestowed upon him the most glorious of smiles.

  Sam sat back. Could this woman be any more wondrous?

  ELEVEN

  In which Sir Everard recruits an ally

  Forced out of bed earlier than planned because damn Sam Pepys had arrived unannounced like a recurrence of the French pox, Sir Everard was most vexed. Why, the man had not darkened his door since the business with Aubrey, and even then, despite repeated attempts to gain entry after Margery’s death, he hadn’t been admitted. And here was Everard thinking the fool had learned his presence wasn’t wanted.

  When he entered the parlour with Wat and Jacopo close behind him an hour after Sam burst in, it was to find his new wife looking glorious in one of the old gowns Bianca had the seamstress, Mrs Wells, adjust. A pale blue and rose ensemble, it showed her colouring off to perfection. Calmly seated with the naval clerk by the window, pretending to drink a bowl of coffee (the servants had informed Jacopo she didn’t seem to enjoy the beverage; Sir Everard kicked himself he hadn’t thought to tell her to order chocolate), she was chatting to him as if they were old acquaintances. Through the window, the sky was a wash of coral and plum, the mellow light making Rosamund’s hair glow like spun gold. The room, lit by burgeoning sunlight and smelling of leather and beeswax, looked tired. Fortunately, Rosamund did not.

  Fixing a welcoming grimace, Sir Everard shook off Jacopo, nodded to Wat’s unspoken question, and with no small effort tapped his way towards the little tête-à-tête.

  ‘Samuel Pepys. What a surprise. It’s been too long. Too long.’

  Sam leapt to his feet, sweeping off his hat and bowing deferentially. ‘Why, cousin, your man over there told me you were indisposed.’ He flapped his hat towards Wat, who hid his expression as he left the room. ‘But instead, after all this time, I find you looking the picture of health. Now I know why —’ He winked in Rosamund’s direction. ‘You old dog.’

  ‘Don’t stand on ceremony,’ said Sir Everard with more tolerance than he felt. ‘Sit, Sam, sit.’ While he might look the picture of health (something he very much doubted), Sam was wilting, either in the growing heat or, m
ore likely, Rosamund’s presence. His puffy face, usually ashen, was pink and shiny and his protuberant eyes gleamed with discovery. Signalling to one of the footmen who, understanding the gesture, dashed through the doorway, Sir Everard flipped the tails of his house coat and lowered himself into the chair Jacopo deposited by the table. He smiled at Rosamund, who returned his greeting cautiously.

  ‘My lady,’ he said. ‘I trust you’re well.’

  ‘Indeed, Sir Everard, most well.’ She gave a bell of laughter.

  Staring with his mouth open, Sam reclaimed his seat along with his wits as Sir Everard and Rosamund exchanged pleasantries like a well-acquainted couple. His eyes flicked from one to the other as if he were watching the King play tennis. Sir Everard could see Rosamund was very amused. His rebuke the previous evening had not affected her.

  ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything?’ Sir Everard asked and blessed Rosamund’s astuteness that she knew exactly what he was asking.

  ‘No, no, not all, sir. Mr Pepys,’ she began, and Sam coughed, ‘I mean, Sam —’ she flashed him a smile.

  Good God, did Sam just groan? Sir Everard buried a smirk.

  ‘— has been entertaining me with stories about his family and his work.’ Before Sam could protest she continued. ‘Did you know, Mr— Sam, is responsible for victualling the King’s entire fleet?’ Without waiting for an answer, she went on. ‘And, as if that wasn’t enough, he’s made it his business to learn how to draw the ships as well as read sea and tide charts. Why, your cousin, my cousin —’

  Sam clutched his heart and Sir Everard thought the man was about to expire. Rosamund had Sam spellbound, clever minx. Why, she was masterful. As if she were born to it. Tilly Ballister had the right of it. This woman bewitched men.

  Just so long as she bewitched one in particular…