The Chocolate Maker’s Wife

by Karen Brooks

  Under Mr Henderson’s supervision, Rosamund set a page and was about to have a turn printing it when the door was shoved open and Mr Nessuno burst in. ‘There you are, Will. Oh, my lady,’ he said, swiftly doffing his hat, spraying an arc of water. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ He brushed excess water off his arms.

  ‘I was showing her my printing press.’

  Mr Nessuno’s brows shot up. ‘Well, I’ve been looking all over for you. You’ve customers.’

  ‘I have?’ Swiftly cleaning his hands, Mr Henderson threw the cloth aside and undid the leather apron he’d donned. ‘Forgive me, my lady. Must attend to any mad bastards who’d brave such weather. If you could escort Lady Rosamund back, Nessuno?’

  ‘Gladly,’ said Mr Nessuno.

  Glancing dolefully skywards, Mr Henderson hesitated a second before ducking out into the rain.

  When he heard the shop door slam, Mr Nessuno turned to Rosamund. ‘Fascinating, isn’t it? The process.’

  ‘Indeed, it is. I had no idea.’ Rosamund regretfully put the paper she’d been ready to print away and wiped her hands, glancing at a box of paper. The title on the top sheet read Preface to the Book of Common Prayer. Mr Henderson was printing the approved text.

  ‘Most don’t. I too was ignorant until Will showed me how it was done.’ Mr Nessuno began to fiddle with the printing press.

  ‘He doesn’t do this by himself, does he?’ asked Rosamund, joining him.

  ‘He has a couple of apprentices who generally work here, but I guess the rain kept them away today. I’ve helped him on a few occasions.’

  Wondering what to say next and sincerely hoping he didn’t ask for her opinion of his writings, Rosamund was relieved when Mr Nessuno pulled a pamphlet out of a box. ‘Ha! Will has a copy of “Character of Coffee and Coffee-Houses”. Have you read it?’

  ‘No. I haven’t, but it sounds like something I should.’

  Mr Nessuno passed it her. ‘Here. Take it. I’m sure Will won’t mind. And if he does, then it’s a loan.’ He grinned at her.

  She took it from him and smiled back. As she glanced down at the pages, she wondered if what she read was in fact what was written. ‘Listen to this,’ she said. ‘The other Sex hath just cause to curse the day in which it was brought into England… I gather it’s referring to coffee?’

  Mr Nessuno nodded.

  She continued, becoming more confident. ‘Had Women any sense or spirit, they would remonstrate to his Majestie, that Men in former times were more able, than now, They had stronger Backs, and were more Benevolent, so that Hercules in one night got fifty Women with Child, and a Prince of Spain was forc’d to make an Edict, that the Men should not repeat the act of Coition above nine times in a night…’ She stopped. Her face grew hot.

  ‘Pray,’ said Mr Nessuno, folding his arms, ‘do continue.’

  She cleared her throat, and, throwing him a look, did so. ‘…for before that Edict, belike Men did exceed that proportion; That in this Age, Men drink so many Spirits and Essences, so much Strong-water, so many several sorts of Wine, such abundance of Tobacco, and (now at last) pernicious Coffee, that they are grown as impotent as Age, as dry and as unfruitful, as the Deserts of Africk. Having remonstrated this, they then would (were they wise) petition his Majesty to forbid Men the drinking of effeminating Coffee, and to command them instead thereof to drink delicious Chocolate.’ Rosamund stared. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Oh, indeed.’ Mr Nessuno laughed. ‘My intention was not to embarrass you by having you read on, but reach the point where chocolate is praised.’

  ‘And here I was believing chocolate to be naughty when this person —’ She flipped to the face page. ‘An MP by the name of John Starkey believes it to be the panacea for coffee-induced… ah… impotence.’ She paused. ‘He rather does the impossible, doesn’t he? Transforms naughty into nice.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘And what do you think, Lady Rosamund?’

  ‘I think chocolate is whatever you want it to be — nice and beneficial or beneficially naughty.’ She dimpled.

  ‘And what about you?’ asked Mr Nessuno suddenly, closing the distance between them. ‘What are you?’

  He stood so near, she could feel the damp heat of him, see how wide and dark his pupils were in his azure eyes, eyes which gazed solemnly into hers. Resisting the urge to touch him, to answer the molten melt in her veins, the quickening of her heart, she inhaled and took a step back. ‘My grandmother always said I was “mostly good”.’

  She prayed he would not venture any closer. If he did, she feared that mostly good would transform into something mostly sinful. Struggling to regain control of her senses, she began to recall what he’d written, her overwhelming disappointment at his words.

  ‘Mostly good?’ He chuckled quietly. ‘I too had a grandmother who was, how do I say it, reluctant to praise. She would oft say I was mostly clever.’

  ‘And when you weren’t mostly?’

  ‘Then, I was an addle-witted loon.’

  Rosamund flashed a grin. ‘My grandmother raised me for a number of years.’

  ‘Mine too. My father… well, let’s just say he didn’t have much to do with me.’

  ‘What about your mother?’

  A shadow crossed his face. ‘She died when I was born.’

  ‘Ah. I’m sorry.’

  ‘And you? What’s your story?’

  Sir Everard had instructed her not to tell anyone too much, but Rosamund decided sharing childhoods was harmless. Anyhow, wasn’t it what friends did? And wasn’t Mr Nessuno a friend? While she couldn’t admire his writing, there was much about the man she could. Aye, a very great deal, she thought as she took in his frame against the small window, the way he waited patiently for her to answer.

  ‘Mine is very like yours, sir, except it was my father who died — fighting for the current King’s father against Cromwell during the Civil Wars — and my mother who… didn’t have much to do with me. Not at first.’ She grew quiet.

  Sensing her discomfort, Mr Nessuno moved away to scrabble in another box, lifting pages out, giving them a cursory glance and replacing them.

  ‘I adored my grandmother,’ said Mr Nessuno, filling the silence. ‘It was she who first taught me to believe in the power of words — how, when used the right way, they could be harbingers of change.’ He made a dry sound. ‘She didn’t suffer fools — and she thought my father one and was determined I would not be — but she was kind. At least to me. What about yours?’

  Grateful he didn’t pursue the subject of her mother, Rosamund could not help but wonder what his grandmother would think of the words he wrote now. ‘My grandmother was…’ Had she been she kind? Rosamund recalled the way Lady Ellinor would sit quietly in a room as her granddaughter practised her scales, as she tried to read, stumbling over words and letters, as she unpicked a sampler… all the time insisting she try harder. She was firm, refusing to comfort Rosamund when she became frustrated, or to make light of disappointments. She rarely scolded, but never offered solace — except by her silent presence. She was always there, while appearing never to be, whether Rosamund needed her or not — watching from a chair, a window, the end of the garden. Often Rosamund didn’t know till afterwards. In hindsight, her grandmother wasn’t unkind. Rosamund always knew she was loved. It was more complex than that. Her grandmother was strong. A strong woman who thrived in a man’s world and desired that her granddaughter, regardless of her inauspicious beginnings, would as well. She also didn’t suffer fools, or those who bemoaned God’s will or fate. She believed in being a survivor, no matter what was meted out. The way to do that was by cultivating inner strength. That was what she tried to instil in her granddaughter. Mayhap she had. She prayed it was so; determined it would be.

  ‘My grandmother was noble —’ began Rosamund. ‘Not in the sense of gentility, though she was that. I mean, noble in that she believed in matters of honour — personal, social. She believed in the truth.’

  Mr Nessuno d
ropped the pages he was holding. ‘And what about you, Lady Rosamund, do you believe in the truth?’

  Rosamund considered, understanding that somehow this was very important. She locked eyes with him. ‘Aye, Mr Nessuno. I do. I believe that being true is the only way to be.’

  Before she could protest, he came closer, the look on his face unmistakable, the answer to the question her body was posing with every breath, every heartbeat. Dear God, was she the trull some whispered? What was this feeling flooding her veins, making her lose all sense? Was this truth? If so, she was certain it wasn’t one her grandmother would approve of, but try as she could, she couldn’t prevent her body from calling out to his, just as he answered her unspoken summons.

  ‘So!’ Mr Henderson stumbled through the doors, stopping in the small space between them. The rain had disguised his approach. At once Rosamund swung towards the press, as if it had kept her attention the entire time. Mr Nessuno returned to the box and flicked some papers.

  Mr Henderson looked from one to the other. ‘What have I missed?’

  In the bookshop a short while later, Rosamund listened as Mr Nessuno and Mr Henderson discussed first the Licensing Act and how it prohibited the importation or printing of any material that questioned Church or State, and then the Act of Uniformity, which would evict many clergy from their livelihoods and even their homes.

  ‘How are people supposed to swallow these measures?’ Mr Henderson growled. ‘And let’s not mention the blasted Hearth Tax. Since when are people charged for their chimneys? If it’s not more money the King’s after, it’s our faith. He can’t ask for both and not expect a reaction.’ He put his head in his hands and groaned. ‘They talk of little else in Elford’s Coffee House.’

  ‘What? The unjustness of the laws? Or ways to fight them?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘It’s the same in the Rainbow,’ said Mr Nessuno. ‘These new laws have men a-fired and not in a way that would please His Majesty. It’s a sorry state of affairs.’ He picked up a quill and began to twirl it in his fingers. ‘Already, hundreds of clergy are being forced to quit their parishes. They won’t even be allowed to teach. Whoever this latest Act is designed to harm, it’s not just the Quakers, Anabaptists and Papists who will be hit, but all of us. What affects one affects all, if only the authorities could see that.’ He made a bitter sound. ‘There’s already been riots.’ He nodded at Rosamund’s gasp. ‘A few have been killed; many have been imprisoned. They intend to transport the Quakers. I’ve even heard of folk stockpiling gunpowder and arms lest war break out.’

  ‘But that’s terrible,’ said Rosamund.

  ‘Beyond terrible,’ agreed Mr Nessuno.

  Mr Henderson raised weary eyes. ‘Please God, it won’t come to that again, will it? Riots? Bloodshed? Turning on our own? Civil war? Regardless of spiritual differences, aren’t we all English?’

  Mr Nessuno bit back a wry laugh. ‘There are those in power and those who listen to them who refuse to see what unites us and focus instead on what divides. But when you take a man’s livelihood, make him quit his parish, his community, just because you don’t like the way he worships the same God, and demand people take oaths they cannot in all conscience make, let alone keep, then trouble will follow. One has only to look to the past to know this.’

  Mr Henderson nodded gravely.

  Listening to Mr Nessuno, Rosamund marvelled. Here was a man who thought Lady Castlemaine’s bosoms worthy of words, but not those things he felt so passionate about. She could no longer keep silent.

  She touched his arm. ‘Forgive me, sir, but if you are so concerned about these important issues, why do you only write about ridiculous happenings in the court? Seems to me you have an eye and ear for real news, for matters that mean something to people. Why are you not devoting your energies to them?’

  Mr Henderson pretended to find his ledger very interesting.

  Mr Nessuno’s face reddened slightly. ‘You think what I write about is ridiculous?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  He didn’t reply.

  Uncertain how to continue, but knowing she had to — after all, she’d insulted the man — she sighed. ‘I fail to understand how you can discourse so emphatically and eloquently about the rights of people, about religious toleration, and then report on — oh, let me think — the King and Queen going for a ride in the gondolas the Venetian Senate gave them. Or the King’s bastard son, James Croft, arriving any day. You have such a gift, such a mind, yet, to my way of thinking, you don’t use it.’

  ‘I’m flattered you think so, madam.’ His tone suggested she choose her next words carefully.

  She did not.

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t be. Frankly, sir, you should be ashamed. If I had your gift, your ability,’ she flicked the stack of newsletters on the counter, ‘I wouldn’t waste my time or your readers’ on such nonsense, but instead seek to jab their consciences about vital matters. Seek to make real and lasting change by arguing on behalf of those who cannot argue for themselves.’

  ‘And what makes you think the people you wish to champion cannot?’

  She took a deep breath and drew herself up. ‘Because, as a woman, I am one of them. I know what it is to have no voice, to not be heard.’

  ‘You seem to have no trouble finding it now,’ he countered, his eyes flashing.

  Rosamund swallowed a little flare of annoyance. ‘That’s true. Your conversation inspired me — me, a mere woman. Imagine what your written words, focussed on such matters, might do for others?’

  Dragging his eyes away from her, Mr Nessuno studied the counter. ‘You don’t understand, it’s not that simple. I cannot.’

  ‘Cannot or will not?’ asked Rosamund.

  ‘Both. There are crucial matters that need all my attention.’

  Rosamund shook her head. ‘I fail to see what’s more important than championing the rights of others; putting authority on notice.’

  ‘Even if it brings the authorities down on you? Runs the risk of prison, transportation or worse?’

  Rosamund recalled how Paul changed from a Puritan to a royalist and would pretend to be whatever anyone wished — including righteous and godly. Weak, he had no courage, no convictions and she loathed him for it. Give her a man of sound principles, even those she disagreed with, any day.

  ‘Aye, even then. Sometimes, one has to make a stand. Fight for what one believes in, what is right.’

  ‘They may not always be the same thing.’

  ‘That’s true, nonetheless, I think a time comes when one must say enough is enough.’

  ‘And you would do that?’ There was an edge of mockery in his words.

  Affronted, Rosamund put her hands on her hips. ‘If I had your abilities, the means at my disposal, then I like to think I would. Someone has to. To say nothing is to do nothing. It’s to be nothing.’

  Mr Nessuno made a noise of exasperation. ‘Then, madam, clearly you are a better person than I am. You’re right, someone has to, but that person will not be me.’ He began to gather the pile of newsletters in front of him. ‘I too say enough is enough — enough of your righteous ignorance. No matter how passionate one’s beliefs or ability to express them, the current laws don’t allow for that; the authorities do not. A dead correspondent is no good to anyone. Now, if you have no further insults to level or reproachful suggestions to offer, I’ll be on my way. I must needs find something… How did you put it? Ah yes, ridiculous to write about and thus earn my keep for the next few weeks.’ His look dared her to say more.

  She pressed her lips together and turned aside. An uncomfortable heat travelled her body. Tears gathered behind her eyes.

  Mr Nessuno pushed some coins towards Mr Henderson and shoved the newsletters into his satchel. ‘I will see this nonsense gets to Muddiman so his men can distribute them,’ he said, glowering. Flinging his satchel back over his shoulder, he doffed his hat and gave Rosamund a deep bow. ‘My lady. I’m so sorry I prove to be a disappointment. How f
ortunate it is that you can console yourself with the likes of your husband and his chocolate house.’

  Rosamund was already regretting she’d said anything. ‘You’re wrong, Mr Nessuno,’ she said, her voice small. ‘I do not find you a disappointment. On the contrary… Merely your words.’ She slipped off the stool and tipped her chin so she could look in his face. ‘Much as your grandmother would, I suspect.’

  Each stared at the other.

  Before she could say anything more, he was gone. The shop bell’s merry tinkle a contrast to the heaviness of his departure.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Rosamund, slumping onto the stool. ‘I made a mess of that, didn’t I?’

  Mr Henderson patted her hand. ‘Not at all. I think you said exactly what that man needed to hear.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘For too long Mr Nessuno has been resting on his laurels, taking the easy way, avoiding risk. He holds you in high esteem, my lady, so you may have pierced his armour, wounded him right where it’s needed.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Right where you said: his conscience. If your disapproval wasn’t the prick the man needed to stop wasting his life on those inane scribblings of his and do something worthy with those words and ideas that tumble around in his head, then I don’t know what will. If I had your gumption, I would have told him the moment I met him.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, Mr Henderson. If you’re not, then I fear I may have lost the only friend I have here in London.’

  Lifting her hand into his, Mr Henderson gave it a squeeze. ‘Not the only one, my dear. Not by a long way.’

  It was a remorseful Rosamund who dragged her feet up the stairs, her mind buzzing, the empty bowl of chocolate in her hand.

  Words were just like chocolate, able to provide pleasure, but when used a certain way, they could provoke pain as well. Words could be weapons. That’s what the King’s enemies, as well as those seeking justice, were doing with their pamphlets and newsletters. Only the King and his government were conflating the two, making those who pointed out injustice into enemies. Yet they were not the same.