The Chocolate Maker’s Wife

by Karen Brooks

  Her face brightened. ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Think, si. Know, no. Now, go. We will manage. You work far too hard, señora. Go and enjoy the snow while it still lasts.’

  They both glanced wryly towards the windows. Despite spring’s arrival, snowflakes twirled and kissed the glass, dropping to form a white blanket upon the ground. It had been a long, cold winter replete with dangerous black frosts that brought with them a number of terrible accidents and deaths. There were many who complained they couldn’t recall such a bitter freeze.

  No-one in their right mind enjoyed the snow, not when it was so relentless, the cold so piercing. Where were the spring rains? It hadn’t rained since last October when the new Lord Mayor, Sir John Lawrence, was installed and he and Their Majesties were drenched.

  ‘Art has gone to fetch a carriage for you,’ said Filip. ‘Bianca is warming your coat by the fire.’ He nodded towards the kitchen. ‘I suggest you leave by the back door so the Unwise Men —’ they both looked towards the booth nearest the counter, ‘won’t be tempted to burden you with their feelings. Again.’

  Rosamund murmured her gratitude for the suggestion. There were three young men who had turned out to be among Rosamund’s most ardent admirers. Rarely a day went by without one, if not all of them, patronising the Phoenix. Once seated with a cup of chocolate, they would cast longing looks at Rosamund, brightening visibly when she deigned to notice them, adopting hangdog expressions when she did not. When they finally left the premises, doffing their hats, tugging their forelocks towards her, having exchanged nary a word, she would find little notes and poems left for her on the table. On the rare occasion she left before them, they would leap to their feet and press pieces of paper into her hand, averting their red faces, mumbling their apologies and begging her to take them. As if she could not.

  Obliged to at least cast a cursory look at what they’d composed, Rosamund felt sorry for them. Nowhere in Matthew’s league, their writing was execrable even if the sentiments were heartfelt. They were students at Middle Temple, and until she discovered they were all from wealthy families, Rosamund would oft wonder how they would ever pass their studies if they continued to haunt the Phoenix instead of attending classes.

  ‘They’ve decided you’re the only object worth studying, señora,’ said Filip one day. ‘They would be experts in all things Rosamund.’

  ‘Better they spend time on other projects,’ she muttered, stealing a glance in their direction. ‘Something laudable upon which to bestow their inheritances.’

  ‘They’re noblemen’s sons,’ Filip replied. ‘They’ve no need of those things ordinary people require to elevate or enlighten them. You’re the sun around which they orbit.’

  ‘Then they’d best beware lest they get burned.’

  In an effort to spare them future hurt, Rosamund had tried to warn them they were wasting their time. It only fuelled their ardour. To make matters worse, one day Charles Sedley and the Duke of Buckingham found their notes. After that, they composed mock replies to the men and satires to Rosamund, reading them aloud to anyone in the chocolate house who would listen — which was, of course, everyone. Rosamund was horrified and quickly put a stop to it.

  Instead of gaining her affection, the young men became objects of scorn and ridicule, earning the sobriquet ‘The Three Unwise Men’ or, more cruelly, ‘The Tomfool Trio’.

  Still they came… and wrote.

  With one last, lingering look at the doorway, careful to avoid glancing at the hapless threesome, Rosamund undid her apron and complied. Filip was right. She was too distracted to be of any use today. Fortunately, the customers were more than forgiving even if, along with the Tomfools, they cast long faces in her direction once they understood she was departing. Already, Hodge had lit some candles; the day was darkening as grey clouds lowered. Soon the patrons would seek their own hearths. Time she went to hers. Bidding the men adieu, smiling sweetly at their protests, she waited until Thomas replaced her at the bar, then found Bianca, donned her coat and said goodbyes to the workers. Leaving by the back stairs, they slipped out the gate and into the carriage.

  Less than twenty minutes later they arrived at Blithe Manor to find the withdrawing room fire crackling, the smoke all but dispersed, and the candles glowing. The newly painted walls gleamed as did the furniture, the scents of beeswax, lemon and honey filling the air. Rosamund passed her coat to one of the maids as Ashe took Bianca’s from her — a small gesture that still had the power to make Bianca stiffen with discomfort. Ignoring her reaction, Ashe smiled at Rosamund, who stood with her back to the fire, holding her bare hands behind her, as if to catch the heat.

  ‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering some warmed wine, madam, and some supper. Jacopo arrived home earlier — and no, he has no news.’

  Rosamund’s face fell. Under the pretext of checking inventory at the warehouse, she’d taken to sending him to the river daily to see which ships had arrived and to glean information from the sailors.

  ‘He said to let you know he’ll join you as soon as he’s finished his paperwork.’

  ‘Thank you, Ashe.’ She looked at the pile of correspondence awaiting her attention. Two invitations sat atop the few letters — bills from tradespeople by the look of them. ‘Anything else I should know about?’

  Ashe shook her head. With a curtsey and warm smile to Bianca which was returned, she left, the maid in her wake. Ashe was a changed woman. No longer prone to hiding in the shadows, she had taken to managing the manor with the same pragmatism and pride she’d tended the chocolate house. Somehow Rosamund had sensed the woman’s abilities, even if she hadn’t realised them herself.

  At that moment, Jacopo returned. Rosamund looked at him expectantly.

  ‘No news, signora — of Mr Lovelace or his ship. All talk was of the war between the Hollanders and Portugal and warnings about the Dutch plague. Despite precautions, it’s spreading faster than anyone believed.’

  ‘Do you think it will come here?’ asked Rosamund.

  ‘Let’s pray not,’ said Jacopo.

  ‘There are some believe the second comet, especially arriving so fast on the tail of the first, portends death,’ said Rosamund quietly. Pedlars of all descriptions had come out in force selling philtres, charms and amulets to protect against the disease, and depriving the superstitious (of which there were many) of their coin. One had even tried to enter the chocolate house, but Filip and a number of the gentlemen had sent him on his way. It was hard not to be concerned — not so much by the comet, but the reports of plague, despite being far away. Even one-eyed William Lilly had predicted in his Astrological Judgments for 1665 that the country would suffer a ‘Plague, or Pestilence… a World of Miserable People perishing therein’.

  According to Mr Lilly, it wouldn’t strike until June, so they had almost three months to make the best of it. Picking up the first of the invitations awaiting her decision, Rosamund tried to distract herself. It was from the Earl of Bedford to view his house in Convent Garden and his splendid grounds. Rosamund knew what that meant. The second was from John Wilmot, the Earl of Rochester, to visit the wild animals in the Tower. Funny, she was certain the earl was presently confined there.

  Throwing them aside, she stared at the window. What was wrong with her? She was giddy as a girl on May Day. Deciding the invitations could be declined later, she passed them to Bianca. The bills (from a wine merchant, cordwainer, and the candle maker) she gave to Jacopo with an apologetic smile. ‘More paperwork.’ The rest she bundled. She was not in the right frame of mind to deal with them. Pretend all she liked, but her mind was upon Matthew.

  A tray was delivered, along with some wine. Bianca and Jacopo happily ate while Rosamund picked at the pigeon, pulled apart a piece of bread and nibbled some cheese, a faraway look upon her face. The brother and sister smiled softly at each other. Aware she was providing entertainment, Rosamund cared not. Soon, Matthew would be home.

  The words they’d exchanged over the pa
st few months would be spoken to each other… in person.

  Just over an hour later, there was a rapping at the front door followed by the sound of hurried footsteps. Rosamund turned from the window where she’d been gazing out through the curtains. Outside, it was dark, the snow still falling through the thick, choking smoke belching from surrounding chimneys. But she was looking inwards, at her own thoughts and feelings — feelings she’d allowed to lie buried since Sir Everard died…

  These thoughts were tossed aside as the heavy tramp of boots came up the stairs. Jacopo was wrong; Filip too. He was here. He was come. She quickly checked her hair, wiped her face and looked to Bianca for reassurance. Bianca pushed an errant lock of golden hair back into its pin and smiled, cupping her cheek softly.

  ‘Bella,’ she whispered and resumed her seat.

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Enter,’ said Rosamund, pleased her voice didn’t reveal her excitement. She slowly stood, her shaking hands pressed against her hips, her eyes flashing, her lips quivering with impatience. She prayed she wouldn’t burst out laughing the moment he stepped into the room, such was her anticipated happiness at this reunion.

  Ashe appeared, holding the door open, a warning look upon her face. Before Rosamund could ask what was wrong, a stocky, handsome man strode into the room. Dressed in dark green velvet, with a cream and black jacquard coat and buff lace at his throat, he was quite the dandy. Ignoring her, he gazed about with a proprietorial air, hands on hips.

  Rosamund stared in disbelief.

  Matthew Lovelace hadn’t come back.

  Instead, standing in the withdrawing room, larger than life, was the man from the ruined portrait.

  Sir Everard’s younger son, Aubrey Blithman, had returned from the dead.

  PART THREE

  Spring 1665

  I having stayed in the city till above 7400 died in one week, and of them above 6000 of the plague, and little noise heard day nor night but tolling bells; till I could walk Lombard Street and not meet twenty persons from one end to the other, and not fifty upon the Exchange; till whole families (ten and twelve together) have been swept away; till my very physician, Dr Burnet, who undertook to secure me against any infection… died himself of the plague; till the nights (though much lengthened) are grown too short to conceal the burials of those that died the day before, people being thereby constrained to borrow daylight for that service. Lastly, till I could find neither meat nor drink safe, the butcheries being everywhere visited, my brewer’s house shut up, and my baker and his whole family dead of the plague. Yet (Madam), through God’s blessing and the good humours begot in my attendance upon our late Amours, your poor servant is in a perfect state of health…

  — Letter from Samuel Pepys to Lady Carteret, 4 September 1665

  THIRTY

  In which the past returns with a vengeance

  ‘Dear God,’ Aubrey Blithman exclaimed. ‘I’ve had a devil of a time getting here.’

  Finding the voice that deserted her the moment she realised he wasn’t Matthew Lovelace, praying the shock coursing through her body would rapidly subside, Rosamund stepped forward and gave a small curtsey, relieved she didn’t stumble. ‘You’re Aubrey?’ she asked, though she had no doubts.

  As he turned to meet her, the man swept her coldly from top to toe. She’d almost forgotten what it was like to be cheapened with a glance. Lifting her chin, she returned exactly the same regard, her heart drumming, her throat aching as she tried to swallow.

  Aubrey bloody Blithman.

  The man staggered. His eyes widened, his mouth formed an O.

  Before Rosamund could prevent it, he lunged and grasped her hand, pulling her towards him.

  Unyielding, she kept her fingers curled until he squeezed so hard she was forced to loosen them. ‘And you must be Lady Rosamund Blithman.’

  ‘Indeed.’ She bowed her head. Aubrey Blithman was dead. Sir Everard had said so. No-one had contradicted this — not even Jacopo and Bianca and, from the look on their faces, they were equally stunned. Yet, here he was, holding her hand, crushing it, a younger, slightly taller version of his father, the signs of dissipation upon his cheeks, around his nose and in his bloodshot eyes. He smelled of wine, smoke and sweat.

  Suddenly, the documents she had signed for Sir Everard made sense: she agreed to acknowledge his heirs above her own claims. It had seemed simply an oversight, something left over from when the poor man still had children to inherit. On the contrary, he’d known this son was alive. As he had in so many other ways, Sir Everard had duped her.

  Had Matthew known Aubrey lived? If so, what reason could he possibly have for keeping such information from her? No. No. It made no sense. He must also be ignorant.

  ‘Father wrote that the resemblance was uncanny,’ said Aubrey with a whistle, still appraising her. An expression of delight and wonder arched his brows. ‘Apart from a few minor differences, it really is extraordinary. It’s as if…’ His voice trailed off. ‘How odd he married you.’ His features quickly rearranged themselves into a frown. ‘He told me he had. Did he?’

  A fleeting doubt scratched at Rosamund. ‘Aye, sir. In Gravesend and before witnesses. Jacopo was one.’ She nodded towards him.

  ‘Jacopo.’ Scowling, Aubrey stared at Jacopo before his scrutiny found Bianca. ‘Bianca. You’re still about. What in God’s name are you two doing, sitting in here as if you’ve a right?’

  There was a sharp intake of breath. Rosamund’s repressed anger made her sharp. ‘They have every right, sir. One I bestowed.’

  Aubrey raised a brow. ‘You bestowed it, did you?’

  Widow Ashe remained by the door, her face a picture of confusion.

  ‘Fetch some more wine, please, Ashe,’ said Bianca softly.

  Rosamund smiled in gratitude.

  ‘You don’t give orders in my house,’ snapped Aubrey, releasing Rosamund as his finger became a weapon pointing at Bianca’s chest.

  ‘Your house?’ The words were out before Rosamund could prevent them.

  Bianca flapped at Ashe to make herself scarce. She didn’t need to be told twice.

  Aubrey lowered his arm and began to chuckle as he roamed the room, touching the curtains, stroking the walls, picking up the objects along the mantel and replacing them none too gently. Rosamund didn’t move. Neither did Jacopo nor Bianca, though their eyes were locked on his every gesture.

  ‘Yes, milady. Or, should that be Mother?’ He glanced at her over his shoulder. ‘Mother. Fancy. Aye, Mother, you heard aright. My house. From what I understand, but will confirm as soon as I speak to Bender, father left it to me.’ He muttered something inaudible. ‘A stepmother that looks like my sister.’ He sniffed a small porcelain statue and put it down.

  Rosamund thought of the comets, of all those who believed they were forerunners of doom. Had she tempted fate by laughing at them? It certainly felt that way now. Oh, please God, help me.

  ‘Did you know Father left the house to me? Is that why you’ve looked after it so well, like a wondrous caretaker? For certain, it has been transformed. I don’t recall it ever looking so… jolly.’ He paused beneath a small tapestry displaying the Blithman coat of arms. ‘Or did you think it was yours? I would have, had I been you; well, maybe. With the will not executed, everything was in limbo, like a lost Catholic soul. But you knew that, didn’t you? Bender would have explained.’

  ‘Mr Bender simply told me I have a jointure. That, until the will was settled, I could remain here —’ She gazed around helplessly, her stomach churning.

  Aubrey nursed his chin between two fingers. ‘I see. And, when I took so long to return, you began to think of it as yours.’

  ‘No sir. I did not. You see, I thought you were dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Yes, well, that was father’s idea. It wasn’t difficult. I assume you know the story — how Lovelace accused me of carrying arms for England’s enemies?’ When she didn’t respond, he waved a careless hand. ‘Arran
t nonsense, the lot of it. Still, declaring me dead was a way to ensure my safety — stop would-be assassins from hunting me down. It worked, for, as you observe, I’m very much alive. Once in the colonies, I simply styled myself as my father’s nephew (which accounted for the familial resemblance); even called myself Everard. No-one questioned the arrival of a wealthy relative keen to do business. Why should they, especially one so ready with coin?’ He moved to the window and pulled aside a curtain, taking stock of the view. Dropping the fabric, he spun on his heel.

  ‘Sorry for the inconvenience. No wonder you all look as if you’ve seen a ghost. No, I was only dead to my father.’ He laughed harder at his joke. ‘Now he’s shuffled off this mortal coil and my name has been cleared, I’m able to return and claim what’s rightfully mine.’ Pausing in his examination of the room, he gave Rosamund a pointed look. ‘It’s kind of amusing, don’t you think, to consider that you remaining here is now contingent on my goodwill.’ He slapped his chest. ‘Mine.’

  Rosamund laboured to remain calm. She wanted nothing more than to shut her eyes and unsee this man, pretend he didn’t exist. Only, he did. And if what he said was true, then the life she’d relished and worked so hard for since Sir Everard died was about to crumble before her eyes.

  Voices rose from the hall below. There were great thumps, followed by the bark of orders. Another familiar voice. Rosamund shot a look towards Jacopo. He looked grey; his mouth drawn; Bianca the same.

  Before she could ask Ashe to see what was happening, Aubrey sat in her chair, finished her glass of wine and poured himself another. They all watched him helping himself, putting his legs on the table, taking ownership.

  ‘That would be my man looking to the luggage. Brought a bit with me. You can imagine, I’ve accumulated a great deal over the years — how many is it? Four? Five? But,’ he said, raising his glass towards Rosamund. ‘Not as much baggage as my father.’ He tossed back the wine in two gulps. ‘Dear God,’ he regarded her strangely, shaking his head, ‘I’m not the only revenant in the room.’ He poured himself some more.