The Chocolate Maker’s Wife

by Karen Brooks

  ‘Ah.’ Passing the molinillo to Solomon, who resumed the action, Filip nodded. ‘Si. Si. Here, señora. Everything awaits you.’ He indicated a tray laden with a large silver chocolate pot with the obligatory molinillo sticking out of the hole in the lid, a drinking bowl, and six small dishes filled with spices and two small jugs — one containing milk, the other beaten eggs. ‘The señor arranged this himself. He wants you to add a little of everything.’ He frowned. ‘He has chosen the ingredients. He must know this man very well.’

  ‘I see,’ said Rosamund even though she did not. Since when did Sir Everard care what went into someone’s drink let alone Matthew Lovelace’s? Glancing at the dishes, at least they contained no revelations. There was cinnamon, annis-seed, some vanilla seeds, chilli, pepper and sugar. Standard additives.

  ‘Thomas, fetch some boiling water. Solomon, carry the tray for the señora,’ commanded Filip, already crumbling chocolate cakes into the bottom of empty pots.

  ‘Don’t bother, Thomas,’ said Rosamund quickly. She’d already wasted enough time. ‘If it is all right with you, Filip, I’ll take this pot, the one you’ve already worked on?’ She indicated the pot that Solomon was agitating.

  Filip shrugged. ‘Of course. At least you know the cake is dissolved.’

  Swapping the chocolate pots over, Solomon picked up the tray, nodding for Rosamund to lead the way.

  Sir Everard had managed to clear his chosen booth. As she wove her way past the crammed benches and tables, Rosamund could see the shoulders, back and hat of a tall, dark-haired man and another slightly shorter one beside him. As she moved through the crowded room, she was aware of many sets of eyes following her and the whispers of ‘common whore’, ‘lovely trull’, ‘lucky ruffin’, said so only she could hear them. Some men took liberties, stroking her hip, pinching her bottom, one even brushing against her breasts. She ignored their unwelcome attentions and kept her eyes fixed on her husband. He was listening intently to the dark-haired man opposite him. Standing next to the booth, at Sir Everard’s side, was Document Man.

  Wishing her heart would stop its ridiculous tumbling and that her stomach didn’t feel as if someone had reached inside and was squeezing it, Rosamund halted at the end of the table.

  ‘Ah, Rosamund,’ said Sir Everard, not bothering to stand. ‘May I introduce you to, firstly, my lawyer, Mr Stephen Bender.’ He waved towards the man standing at his shoulder. ‘And this is Mr Isaac Roberts.’ The shorter man further in the booth half-stood and doffed his cap. ‘He’s a lawyer and gentleman.’

  ‘Madam,’ said Mr Bender and Mr Roberts in unison.

  ‘And I know you’ve been eager to meet someone you’ve heard much about. This, Rosamund, is my son-in-law, Mr Matthew Lovelace. Lovelace, this is my wife, the Lady Rosamund Blithman.’

  One is never really aware of the world turning. Not until it suddenly stops. Then you forget to breathe, fall to the earth and grip for dear life else you careen right over the edge into a great void. That was what happened to Rosamund the moment Matthew Lovelace raised his twilight eyes to hers and ever so slowly rose to his feet.

  ‘My Lady Rosamund,’ he said in a deep, controlled voice, bowing slightly.

  Where the devil should have been standing was none other than Mr Nessuno. The man she called her friend.

  ‘You are Matthew Lovelace?’ she said. Around her the room contracted; the noise became a roaring that drowned out everything but the pounding of her heart. The swirling smoke became a veil between reality and this… this nightmare.

  Oh, dear God. No.

  Memories of their first meeting, their second, and all the rest flew into her mind and merged. The way he’d come to her rescue, allowed her to judge the fate of those rascals, Ben and Jed. How she’d invited him to call her Lady Harridan; how concerned he’d been for her wellbeing. She thought about his silly scribblings, the way she’d confronted him. He’d discussed politics, religion and so much more with her in Mr Henderson’s shop, happenstance bringing them there at the same time on too many occasions. Only, it wasn’t happenstance at all, was it? Their meetings had been contrived. She recalled the times she’d spoken of her husband, of the chocolate house. Oh, how Lovelace must have enjoyed that. Siphoning information from her the way an apple press did cider. And it had flowed from her without pause. Like the country lackwit she was, she’d believed (hoped!) it was because he was interested in her; that for the first time in her life, she was being treated as a thinking, feeling being, not a man’s plaything. Nor as a reminder of the past or a harbinger of vengeance.

  And what about Jacopo? He must have known who Mr Nessuno was and yet said nothing. And what of Bianca? Mr Henderson? Suddenly, the friends she thought she had were revealed to be something else entirely.

  How wrong she’d been. About Mr Nessuno most of all.

  Mr Nessuno — no, Lovelace — was just like all the others. No, he was worse for he pretended to be something he was not. At least, for all his faults, Sir Everard didn’t do that, did he?

  Her eyes slid to him and then back to Mr Nessuno… Mr Matthew Lovelace.

  Awareness of how poorly she’d been used transformed into smouldering embers in her very middle. Images crackled, words danced, conversations flamed, looks burned, all feeding the spark of her indignation, until they came together in one great conflagration. At its searing heart was the man standing before her. The man with eventide eyes who looked at her now with a mixture of pity, sorrow and, as he observed her costume, distaste. His lips thinned and he cast a guarded look of contempt at Sir Everard.

  Rosamund could forgive that — but not much else.

  The man who had fooled her into believing he was a correspondent for Henry Muddiman and her friend. Here he stood, taller than she remembered, his mien more diabolical, Sir Everard’s greatest enemy — the man her husband blamed for the death of his daughter and grandchild. The man upon whom he swore to have revenge.

  Sir Everard’s eyes narrowed. ‘I believe you two have met.’ He waggled a finger at Lovelace as if he were nothing but a naughty child.

  ‘Aye, milord,’ said Rosamund, finding the voice she believed had deserted her. ‘Only I know him as Mr Nessuno.’

  ‘Rosamund —’ began Matthew Lovelace. The lawyer, Mr Bender, a man of military bearing possessing a thin moustache, gave a warning cough.

  Lovelace sat down.

  Looking from Rosamund to Lovelace and back again, Sir Everard grinned. ‘You know, my dear, Lovelace here was having a great jest with you — with us all. You see, nessuno is Italian for “nobody”.’

  ‘Nobody?’ repeated Rosamund in a small voice. Hadn’t Sir Everard once told her he was determined to grind Matthew Lovelace into insignificance; make him a nothing, a nobody? ‘I did not know that.’ She kept her face averted. Another mark against Jacopo, Bianca.

  Unaware his wife was enduring her own epiphany, Sir Everard patted her hand in comfort. ‘Well, you do now.’ It was like being stung. ‘Imagine, here I was taking all sorts of measures to ensure you didn’t meet just anyone.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘And behind my back, you met nobody. There’s a strange justice in that, don’t you think?’ Sir Everard made space on the table and gestured for Solomon to set the tray down.

  Rosamund was left with the impression that her husband had known all along who Mr Nessuno really was and how she’d oft spoken with him. The look of triumph on his face confirmed it. Of course, Jacopo would have told him. A great jest indeed, and at her expense.

  Solomon slid the tray between the two men and sprinted back to the kitchen, where no doubt everyone would be told what was happening.

  Rosamund wondered how these men could sit and exchange pleasantries as if they were old acquaintances. In a peculiar fashion, that’s exactly what they were. Acquaintances who could barely stand to breathe the same air, let alone share an intimate booth.

  ‘Now, my dear.’ Sir Everard turned his attention back to her. ‘While Lovelace, Roberts, Bender and I attend to business, why do
n’t you mix my guest one of your magical chocolate drinks. I tell you, Lovelace, nobody —’ he chuckled at his little joke, ‘prepares the chocolate quite like my wife.’ He raised his voice slightly in rebuke to the men nearby who’d refused to have her serve them. Some turned back to their news sheets and debates. Most did not. ‘I thought it fitting she mix a drink especially for you.’ The few men Rosamund had served raised their bowls to Sir Everard in congratulations and called out that Lovelace wouldn’t be disappointed.

  ‘You’ll enjoy the ceremony,’ added Sir Everard, barely able to hide his smirk.

  Uneasy and aware of the many eyes upon her, Rosamund turned the porcelain bowl over ready to receive the spices and chocolate.

  ‘Be careful not to damage that dress, won’t you, dear?’ said Sir Everard. ‘It’s been kept as pristine as the last time it was worn. As it happens, for a different kind of ceremony. Do you remember, Lovelace?’

  Sam was wrong: it was the same dress Helene had worn.

  ‘I seem to recall you admiring it greatly one time. Admittedly, the woman wearing it is not the same, but you have to confess, they do share a striking resemblance. Who wore it better, do you think? My wife or yours?’

  There was a wave of chatter followed by a few guffaws. A white line appeared around Lovelace’s lips. Rosamund’s face burned. She wished to be anywhere but here as she threw a pinch of cinnamon into the bowl, followed by some annis-seed.

  Barely pausing, Sir Everard continued. ‘Rosamund has a real talent for making chocolate drinks.’ He smiled at the room. ‘They’re singing her praises here — at least, they will, once they overcome their reluctance to be served by a lady, a Blithman, no less. She will be a great loss to you, Lovelace. An establishment like this could do wonders with someone like Rosamund at the helm. What a pity, heh?’

  What did her husband mean? What business was it of Lovelace’s if or where she worked?

  As she scraped vanilla seeds into the bowl with the tip of her finger, she forced herself to focus on what she was doing. A touch of pepper, a fine dusting of chilli. Not since the first night she came to London had she heard her husband being quite so loquacious, so at ease. It utterly unnerved her. Her fingers trembled; the quantities were not quite right. She added a tiny bit more cinnamon. Why didn’t Mr Ness— Lovelace say something? She wished she could. Ask questions, express her fury at being hoodwinked, but also to apologise for her costume — for that’s what it was. The chocolate house was like a playhouse and she was an actor who’d failed to con her lines.

  What role was her husband playing? And Lovelace?

  ‘Do you have the deeds?’ asked Lovelace finally. He was not enjoying this performance any more than she was and certainly far less than her husband seemed to be.

  ‘My man here has brought them.’ Sir Everard nodded to Mr Bender who was watching what Rosamund was doing with great interest, as were a number of people in the neighbouring booths. Kneeling on their seats, they craned their necks.

  Mr Bender handed over a thick, folded document. Sir Everard rolled out a piece of parchment with a row of heavy wax seals along the bottom. They made dull thuds as they struck the table. He turned it around and slid it towards Lovelace. ‘Everything is in order. My signature is already appended and Bender here —’ he gestured to him, ‘has borne witness.’

  Matthew Lovelace and Mr Roberts bent to examine it.

  Rosamund finished adding the dry ingredients and began agitating the molinillo in preparation for pouring. Unable to resist, she glanced at the document. What she saw made her gasp.

  ‘Are those for the chocolate house?’

  Sir Everard’s eyes snapped to hers. ‘What makes you ask that?’

  ‘The address,’ admitted Rosamund. ‘And your name as well as his.’ She bobbed her head towards Lovelace. Realisation dawned. The molinillo fell from her fingers. ‘You’re signing the chocolate house over to him, aren’t you?’

  Everything began to fall into place. The sudden urgency to complete the building. The initial indifference followed by intense demands. The hasty alterations to the plans. The letters arriving at the house at odd times which would inflame Sir Everard’s temper. His whispered meetings with Wat. The anger, the moodiness. Jacopo’s beating. Even the manner of Filip’s recruitment, which he was reluctant to speak of. But why was Sir Everard signing the business he’d created over to the man who killed his kin? What bargain had he struck with this devil?

  ‘You can read.’ Sir Everard’s cheeks reddened as anger coursed its way through his body.

  She was beyond caring. ‘I’ve been diligent in my lessons, sir,’ she said.

  The pure fury lodging in her husband’s eyes told her the real reason Jacopo had been lax. He’d been ordered. Which just raised more questions. Why was she to remain ignorant? Because of this? Had her husband also threatened Jacopo and Bianca to keep silent over Lovelace? Over Mr Nessuno? The answer was clear.

  She prayed she’d have time to warn them both when this was all over — whatever ‘this’ was.

  There was a cry from the kitchen, raised voices, a muffled shout followed by a series of thuds. None of the patrons seated near the bar appeared perturbed. Mayhap it was nothing. Trying to concentrate on preparing the chocolate, she finished whisking, satisfied the scum would be light and foamy, especially since Filip had already worked it. She tipped some milk and eggs into the bowl and mixed them together with the spices.

  Lovelace completed reading the document and eased himself back into his seat with a sigh. ‘Everything appears to be in order, Blithman.’ He took the quill from his lawyer’s hand and dipped it in the inkhorn sat upon the table.

  ‘Ah,’ said Sir Everard, his hand coming between the quill and the parchment. ‘Before you sign, you must honour your side of the agreement. I want the letters.’ He held his hand out.

  Letters?

  Matthew Lovelace looked at Mr Roberts, who shrugged. ‘Very well,’ he said. Putting down the quill, Lovelace hefted the satchel onto his lap and opened the flap. From within, he pulled out dozens of letters, many blackened at the edges, and tied together with a yellow ribbon. He threw them down. ‘There. As promised.’

  ‘Is that all of them?’ asked Sir Everard. He weighed them in his hand.

  ‘In my possession, yes.’

  Sir Everard’s eyes narrowed. He nodded, placed the bundle back on the table and indicated for Rosamund to pour. ‘Let’s have a toast, shall we? To business concluded. I tell you, Lovelace, you won’t taste anything like my wife’s chocolate ever again.’

  Rosamund lifted the spout above the bowl, embarrassed there was only one and she could not offer a drink to Mr Bender or Mr Roberts. She tilted the pot and watched as the rich stream curled into the bowl and slowly, unctuously, ribboned its way to the brim.

  Fragrant steam rose as she gave the bowl a brief stir, then slid it over to Matthew Lovelace, doing her utmost not to look at him, though she was more than aware of his eyes upon her.

  ‘Drink, Lovelace, drink,’ urged Sir Everard, standing and grabbing a bowl from Hodge as he passed. He raised it. ‘Here’s to reconciling the past and to a bright new future; here’s to Helene’s chocolate house.’

  Reluctantly, Matthew Lovelace and Mr Roberts rose.

  ‘To the future,’ said Matthew Lovelace. As he brought the bowl to his lips, Sir Everard inclined towards him, as if he was trapped in Lovelace’s orbit. Just as he was about to take a sip, there was a scream, followed by a wail then a crash. Sam Pepys came hurtling out of the kitchen, waving his arms and shouting. ‘Stop! Don’t drink!’

  Matthew Lovelace put his bowl down, splashing the contents onto the table.

  With a grunt of fury, Sir Everard pushed his way out of the booth just as Mr Roberts and Mr Bender, who was forced to leap up, moved the documents, inkhorn and letters out of the way. ‘What’s the meaning of this? What’s going on?’ He waded past tables and people towards the kitchen.

  Sam staggered forward, shoving men aside, his
eyes bulging, his mouth trembling. Behind him were Jacopo and Thomas, their faces pale, their brows drawn in distress.

  Customers followed in Sam’s wild wake, desperate to hear what had happened.

  ‘It’s the boy,’ panted Sam, stopping in front of Sir Everard.

  Rosamund pushed through the men who’d gathered about Sam and Sir Everard. She was followed by Matthew Lovelace and Mr Bender.

  ‘Boy?’ Sir Everard’s voice was strangled with anger.

  ‘The young one with the hair,’ said Sam, as Sir Everard shrugged indifferently. ‘You know —’ His hand pumped on and off his crown.

  ‘Robin…’ said Rosamund. No-one heard. She looked towards the kitchen.

  ‘What about him?’ said Sir Everard.

  Sam gulped. ‘He drank some chocolate and now he’s dead.’

  There was a collective gasp followed by a wave of voices rising and falling as men staggered back trying to make room, as if Sam carried plague. Behind the bar, a small flame-haired boy limp in his arms, stood Filip. Tears flowed down his sallow cheeks. He caught Rosamund’s eyes and shook his head in sorrow.

  Rosamund’s heart was ripped from her chest. ‘Dear God, no,’ she whimpered.

  Sam spun to face the crowd, raising his arms above his head. ‘Don’t drink the chocolate!’ he cried.

  Bowls shattered upon the floor and spilled onto tables, transforming the wood into liquid mahogany as the chocolate oozed across it. Men spat the drink onto the floor, onto the furniture, onto each other. They used their shirts to wipe their mouths and trampled each other, the broken crockery, the news sheets and handbills as they fled, keen to wash out their mouths and purge their stomachs. Among them were also those eager to tell Muddiman and L’Estrange what had transpired. They could see the headlines now; feel the cool coins in their hot palms. Death in Blithman’s chocolate house. How deliciously terrible. They knew a lady serving would spell trouble; this was no place for a woman.