The Chocolate Maker’s Wife

by Karen Brooks

  Before she could prevent it, Art emerged in his uniform, reached over and boxed his ears. ‘That be Lady Rosamund to you, you nizzie.’

  About to strike back, Harry became aware of Sir Everard approaching. ‘Yeah, right. Sorry missus — I mean, my lady.’

  ‘That’s quite all right, Harry.’

  ‘And I be no nizzie —’ He swung to Art. ‘I be a drawer. A chocolate drawer, no less.’ He struck his thin chest.

  ‘Who might this be?’ asked Sir Everard, jabbing his cane towards Harry, looking him up and down.

  ‘Harry Cooper, milord,’ said the lad, bending from the waist. His elegant bow also drew attention to the fact he had only one hand.

  Sir Everard’s eyes widened and his cheeks began to redden. ‘Surely you don’t expect this cripple to serve chocolate?’ His voice grew louder with each word.

  Flashing an uncertain look at Rosamund, Harry waved his stump up and down. ‘It… it b-b-be no h-hin… hindrance, milord,’ he stammered.

  Rosamund gave him a warning shake of her head. The boy pressed his mouth shut.

  Now Sir Everard was closer, Rosamund could smell the wine on his breath that her chocolate had failed to disguise and see the tremor in his hands. Not wanting to aggravate him further, she indicated the boys should retire to the kitchen. Once they had shuffled out of sight, she faced Sir Everard.

  ‘I can assure you, my lord,’ she said carefully, ‘many cripples function as well if not better than those with all limbs working.’ She tried very hard not to glance at his leg or his shaking hands.

  Sir Everard gave her a long, studied look. ‘If he spills a drop, breaks anything, he’s gone from here.’ He jabbed the floor with his cane.

  Rosamund curtsied, making up her mind there and then that if Harry should suffer a misfortune, she could obey her husband by limiting him to kitchen duties. Thus, she was able to counter Sir Everard’s suspicious glance with a beaming smile. It seemed to work. With a huff, he began to roam, his interest in the chocolate house rekindled.

  Pleased he was taking a positive interest, Rosamund untied her apron and smoothed her skirts. Well, he might be interested in the premises, but still not his wife. Considering what had happened the last time he noticed her, she was relieved but also piqued that, unlike Harry, he’d made no reference to her attire. Gone were Lady Margery’s hand-me-downs, replaced by the most resplendent dress she’d ever seen. The Wellses had outdone themselves. Bianca, too, having spent close to an hour before dawn first dressing her in the stiff canvas corset, helping her step into her skirts, lacing the bodice and, as she fixed the lower part of the dress to the tabs, ensuring the pointed waist sat flat at the front and centre and exposed the elaborate underskirt — all without a word. In fact, Bianca had been unusually reticent and refused to meet her eyes, even when dressing her hair. Overall, she’d been swift in her ministrations, moving her fingers as if the fabric burned them. Made of cloth of gold with black velvet and lace trim, the gown shimmered whenever she moved. It caught the eye and, unfortunately, as Rosamund discovered when she entered the chocolate house, most surfaces in the kitchen.

  Disappointed that Bianca had not offered her any reassurances about her appearance, Rosamund prayed she did the fine dress justice. Her fears were quashed by the reaction of the chocolate house staff. Upon her arrival just after dawn, the boys’ mouths had fallen open and their eyes goggled. Ashe and Cara had curtseyed deeply, showing a respect her other clothes had never earned. Filip had stared and shook his head. ‘Eres la criatura más hermosa que he visto.’ He sighed and there were tears in his eyes. ‘And to think the chocolate is in such hands.’

  Who would have thought the grubby slattern from Gravesend Sir Everard had scooped off the road all those months ago would ever be wearing silk, damask and cloth of gold, let alone smelling of roses, musk and chocolate? If only Grandmother could see her now — though a chocolate house might not be the setting her grandmother would wish.

  Regardless, as the bells began to sound midday, it was time for all their hard work to be put to the test. It was also time for the new Lady Blithman to step out in public.

  Heart pounding, she stood next to Sir Everard and her eyes swept the room. It really looked very good. While fifty men might be a bit of a crush, the boys were resplendent in their new uniforms of brown, gold and umber and the smells wafting on clouds of steam from the kitchen were irresistible.

  Before the bells ceased to toll, voices and heavy footsteps carried up the stairs. Taking a deep breath, Rosamund flashed a nervous smile at Jacopo and Bianca, who stood on the opposite side of the room behind the bar; she responded to Harry’s cheeky wink with one of her own.

  The voices drew nearer; the footsteps louder. What if Sam Pepys was right and a chocolate house was not the place for a lady to be introduced to society? Would the patrons misconstrue her role? Sir Everard had dismissed Sam’s concerns with a careless, ‘Women tread the boards in the theatre, why not those in a chocolate house?’ The matter had not been raised again.

  It was too late to be concerned about that now, she thought, as the first customer entered the room. Pausing on the threshold, he drank in the surroundings before catching sight of Rosamund. With a wide, eager smile, he all but ran between the tables and stopped before her.

  ‘Ah,’ he began with a swirl of his arm, doffing his feathered hat. ‘You must be the chocolate maker’s wife. Allow me to introduce myself…’

  TWENTY-TWO

  In which the present is clothed as the past

  It was four in the afternoon before Sam Pepys discovered the handbill announcing the opening of the chocolate house that very day. Why hadn’t his cousin mentioned this auspicious event to him? Where was his invitation as a family member? And what on earth was Everard thinking, calling it Helene’s? Oh, Rosamund, how are you faring?

  Arriving in Birchin Lane minutes later, Sam found the usually busy street mostly deserted. Assuming the crowds must be enjoying themselves upstairs in the chocolate house and concerned that he, a relative no less, was missing out, he paid his fare to the coach driver and all but ran down the cobbles. Wrenching open the door to the bookshop, he ignored Mr Henderson’s greeting and the customer loitering by the counter and took the stairs two at a time. The roar of voices from upstairs was so thick, it was like a barrier.

  He paused in the doorway, panting and sweating. The combination of smoke and steam swirling about the tables created the illusion of a fog-bound street in winter. Nonetheless, it wasn’t so dense he couldn’t see the dozens of bodies crammed on benches, elbows on tables, bowls and pots before them. They were squeezed into the booths down one side, all of which, apart from some spilled chocolate and sprinklings of ash, looked mighty fine. Chandeliers blazed from the ceiling. The mirror above the bar was a large gilded affair that served the purpose of not only throwing light back into the room but doubling its size. The windows facing the street gleamed and filled the room with grey light, piercing the smoke and steam roiling above patrons’ heads.

  Wondering whether or not he had to deposit a coin given his familial connections, he saw, much to his astonishment, a one-handed boy navigating his way towards him, an empty tray held above his periwigged head.

  ‘That be four pence there, my good sir,’ said the boy in a much deeper voice than his height would have suggested.

  Instead of arguing, Sam fished about in his purse and dropped his coins onto the growing cairn. Around him, conversation and laughter flowed. There was the pleasant chink of bowls meeting tables, the slurp of chocolate being drunk and the hum of appreciation as the taste was savoured:… beyond delicious and nothing like the chalky, sooty rubbish others serve.

  Sam craned his neck and tried to search the crowd. Where was Sir Everard? He expected him to be strutting about like a cock in a henhouse. Was not this his day of triumph? His return to society? And where was Rosamund? Chocolate aside, was she not the star attraction? This room was her stage.

  ‘Are you right there, sir
? Wanna seat and a bowl of our finest?’ asked the one-handed lad loudly as he peered up at Sam. He wore a smart brown waistcoat and breeches, trimmed with gold, and an umber shirt and hose. ‘I would guess you’re a sweet-tooth so, sugar with maybe a hint of ninamon?’

  ‘Ninamon?’ Sam stared at him and blinked. ‘What are you prattling about? Oh, I see, cinnamon. Yes. Yes. I am partial. But, forget that. Where is your master? Where is your mistress?’

  The boy turned aside and blew his nose onto the floor. Sam stepped back and swallowed. ‘They be out the back. The master, I don’t think he be very well and the mistress insisted he sit a while — out of the ruckus and smoke.’

  ‘I see,’ said Sam. ‘Take me to them. I’ll not stand for an argument. I am their cousin.’

  With a shrug that said the boy cared neither about his relationship to the Blithmans nor whether there was to be an argument, he beckoned him forward, collecting empty bowls as he went and placing them on the tray with an adeptness that surprised Sam. The seated men barely looked up, too busy drinking and debating. Only one face was familiar, Mr Wright, formerly a publisher until L’Estrange shut him down. He nodded gravely in Sam’s direction.

  ‘My lady,’ called the lad when they were closer to the bar. ‘Be a gent to see you. Claims he be a cousin.’

  Bristling at ‘claims’, Sam pressed his lips into a thin line and removed his hat and fanned his face. Dear God, it was warm. The bar was cluttered with dirty bowls, chocolate pots galore and a tray of little dishes filled with colourful spices and other additives. Rosamund would be in her element here… But how did the men feel being served, not so much by a woman, something they’d be accustomed to from the many ale houses, taverns, inns and ordinaries, but by a lady? A Blithman? A name that once bore the blemish of traitor. Still, Sir Everard had greased many palms and been generous with loans and gifts to ensure he was at least accorded the semblance of respect. But what of his young second wife? Sam leaned on his elbow and turned to survey the room. Certainly the place was popular. But these were early days and all it took was a hint of scandal and, depending on the type, the place would either be bursting with bodies or emptier than a pauper’s purse…

  ‘Cousin?’ said a voice that sent shivers down Sam’s spine. He spun round quickly.

  Ready to exclaim what a vision she was, even though she appeared quite downhearted, Sam dropped the arms he had raised in greeting as Rosamund stepped out from behind the bar.

  ‘What is it?’ She quickly scanned her skirts, patted her hair and brushed her cheeks. ‘What’s wrong, Sam?’

  ‘Why are you wearing Helene’s wedding gown?’

  ‘Helene’s?’ Rosamund gasped in horror. ‘What do you mean?’ She became very still. ‘Her wedding gown?’

  Clutching at the nearest object, which happened to be Sam, Rosamund managed to steady herself.

  ‘Helene’s wedding gown?’ she gasped again as her light-headedness passed. She considered the dress in dismay. Only hours earlier she’d thought it the most beautiful garment she’d ever seen, even though, of all the clothes made for her, she couldn’t recall being fitted for it. Nor could she remember it arriving or being stowed in the armoire. Bianca had been so quiet when she brought it to her room that morning and dressed her. Now she knew why.

  ‘This —’ She held the skirt away from her as if it was contaminated. ‘This was Helene’s?’

  ‘Maybe not the one she wore,’ said Sam, releasing her. ‘But it’s identical in every way. I know, I was at the wedding.’

  Immediately she wished she could rip it from her body. How could Sir Everard do this to her? To what end? Why hadn’t Bianca warned her? Over Sam’s shoulder, she spied Hodge ushering in a group of gentlemen. Sam continued talking to her, his words evaporating into the thickening smoke as she willed him gone so she might collect her thoughts, her very wits. She was grateful when Harry appeared and tugged Sam’s sleeve.

  ‘Master’s this way, sir.’ For once Sam didn’t protest as he was led away. He did however make many disapproving clicking noises and shook his head.

  Rosamund inhaled sharply, smoothed the skirts and looked around. Fortunately, very few of their patrons would know the significance of the dress. Dear God. Why dress her in his dead daughter’s wedding gown? Why name the chocolate house after her? Was it a macabre obsession or something more?

  If only she could make some chocolate, she’d be able to push aside the terrible presentiments these questions aroused. Alas, that comfort was denied to her as Hodge ran past flashing her an apologetic look and went into the kitchen to fetch Filip. Once more the newcomers, while happy to set eyes upon her, thus giving them the authority to confirm or deny rumours, didn’t want her to serve them. She tried to persuade herself it was their loss.

  Hoping to convince the next lot of customers that her chocolate-making skills were at least equal to Filip’s, she was about to return to her position by the door with a smile fixed to her face when another figure entered.

  The day may have been overcast, but sunshine expanded her ribs, filled her heart. Thoughts of the dress were swept aside as she watched Mr Nessuno add his coin and slowly take in the room. He’d come. He was no longer angry with her.

  Even so, there was a strange expression on his face, as if he was seeing the chocolate house for the first time, though she knew that wasn’t the case: he’d admitted to climbing the stairs with Mr Henderson on more than one occasion to see how the work was progressing. He looked earnest, and also — what was it? Triumphant? Atrabilious? Like a soldier returned from battle. Or, perhaps, seeking one. Did he think to continue their discussion? His satchel was draped across his chest.

  Filled with an emotion she refused to identify, she was about to go and greet him and ask forgiveness for words she didn’t regret but wished she’d chosen more carefully, when a voice halted her.

  ‘Rosamund.’ It was Sir Everard. Flushed and sweaty, he wore a too-broad smile as he held out a shaky hand in the manner of an apology. Sam had evidently wasted no time in raising the matter of the wedding dress. She hesitated, but nevertheless wanted to hear Sir Everard’s rationale for outfitting her like Helene. She was not his daughter. God help her, she was barely his wife.

  Ready to demand answers, the expression upon her husband’s face as he gazed over her shoulder stopped her.

  ‘What is it, my lord?’ she asked, her stomacher suddenly tighter.

  Sir Everard let out a long, hissing sigh of satisfaction, as if he’d held it within for years.

  ‘It’s none other than Matthew Lovelace,’ he purred with a predatory smile. ‘At long last.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  In which Nobody is actually Somebody

  Lovelace? Fear travelled her spine and gripped the back of Rosamund’s neck as she searched among the men. Her ears rang. ‘Where, milord?’ she asked, her gaze alighting on the group who’d entered earlier, trying to match a face to the one she’d oft pictured.

  Sir Everard pulled her closer and whispered. ‘Quick, quick, find Filip and fetch the tray I prepared for our special guest. Bring it to —’ he surveyed the room, ‘that booth over there.’ He pointed to one in the centre. Filled with patrons enveloped in smoke and engaged in raucous conversation, she wondered how he could possibly squeeze anyone else into the booth. ‘I want you to mix a drink at the table, for him.’

  ‘For Matthew Lovelace? At the booth? Are you certain, milord?’

  Gripping her arm, he shook her. ‘I said, prepare it before me and my guest. I want him to see you make it with your own hands. Is that clear?’

  Speechless, Rosamund looked from the booth to her husband and back again. Matthew Lovelace is his guest?

  ‘Are you deaf?’ he said firmly, one hand upon the small of her back. ‘Do as I bid.’ He tightened his hold on her arm, squeezing so hard her breath caught. ‘I will brook no questions, no resistance. You would do well to remember what you promised — loyalty and obedience. Now is the time to exercise both. Go, do as I h
ave instructed.’ He shoved her towards the kitchen.

  Without waiting to see if she complied, he gestured to a man who carried documents under one arm lurking near the windows. The man raised a hand in acknowledgement and began to approach. She then heard Sir Everard call out ‘Lovelace’ in a bright, jovial tone. What was going on?

  There were too many men in the way to see who responded to his hail. She would find out soon enough. Curious and yet also fearful, Rosamund disappeared into the kitchen. Best do what she’d been told. Loyalty and obedience.

  ‘Señora. Are you well?’ asked Filip, the molinillo temporarily still in his hand. Hodge loitered impatiently, waiting to put the steaming chocolate pot Filip was working onto his tray. Filip had been so busy making chocolate, the plan to have him and Rosamund prepare drinks at the bar so patrons might enjoy the ritual of the process had been abandoned. Rosamund remained behind the bar, smiling, nodding, her skills barely employed. She was treated as something to be admired, as one might a fine painting. Filip had thus retreated to the kitchen, where the ingredients could be swiftly assembled, and how the mixing was done was not important.

  Rosamund gave Filip a sad smile. Even when he was so busy, he cared about her wellbeing. ‘I am, I think.’ She tried not to dwell on what she was wearing or Sir Everard’s tone and his cruel grip as he issued his orders, or what they portended. She refused to think about Matthew Lovelace being among the men in the main room and the fact Sir Everard went to greet an avowed enemy like a long-lost friend. And who was the straight-backed man with the moustache he hailed — and what were those documents? How would Lovelace react when he saw her in his dead wife’s wedding gown?

  Her temples began to pound. Her mouth grew dry.

  ‘Apparently there’s a tray I’m to retrieve?’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘Sir Everard said he prepared it himself.’ This very personal service had been thrust upon her, a surprise. Rosamund had learned over the years at the Maiden Voyage Inn to distrust surprises.