by Karen Brooks
‘I cannot ask anyone else to do it on my behalf, Matthew,’ she argued, pushing a stray lock of hair back under her cap.
‘You don’t have to. I intend to make the delivery.’
‘You? But…’
‘Pack what you think they might need,’ he said before she could protest further, ‘and I will deliver it. He lives in the parish of St Stephen Coleman Street, does he not?’ There was not a spark of fear in those jewelled eyes, no indication the thought of entering one of the most afflicted parishes in London chilled him.
Standing straighter, she decided she would not show fear either, however much it gnawed away at her insides. ‘Aye, not too far from the church — next door to the sign of the bull and hen.’
‘I will go with you,’ said Jacopo, glancing at Bianca, who nodded her approval.
‘Me too,’ said Mr Henderson. ‘Why not?’ he replied to Rosamund’s unasked question. ‘Even books are considered carriers these days. No-one enters my shop any more. I may as well make myself useful. Anyway, he’s a good lad. Beat me at Primo often enough.’
With Cara’s and Bianca’s help, Rosamund quickly packed a basket with bread, cheese, eggs and some cold eel pie. Alongside the already wrapped cakes of chocolate she also ensured there was nutmeg, mugwort, and other herbs she prayed would be efficacious. ‘Here,’ she said, passing it to Matthew. ‘Make sure you tell him, or his mother, to put a pinch of all the herbs into the drinks.’
‘I will.’
‘Oh, and tell them to burn juniper and whatever else they have at hand. Smoke is meant to repel the disease.’
‘I will tell them that and more,’ reassured Matthew, bestowing a smile filled with kindness, patience and something that made her think of fresh blooms opening even as death knocked at the door.
Though they all walked abroad every day to and from the chocolate house, the fact Matthew was willing to enter an infected area to offer succour filled her with a mixture of trepidation and pride.
‘Go with God,’ she said, her words including Jacopo and Mr Henderson as well. ‘And hurry back as if the devil is snapping at your heels.’
Much to her astonishment, Matthew drew nearer and tilted forward. One moment there was three feet between them, the next, his mouth rushed towards her. A delicious wave of heat rolled over her, banishing her unease and stirring parts of her body as if the molinillo was twisting them one way then the other. Caught unawares, she braced herself. But he never did reach her lips, only whispered against her ear, ‘You be careful too, my lady. Now more than ever.’ And moved away.
Bereft, pink-cheeked and grateful that Matthew, for all his fine qualities, was not a mind-reader, she cleared her throat and, not trusting herself to speak, flapped her apron to send him on his way. The expression in his eyes as he drew back confused her, as did her own response to what she had thought — prayed, in her secret heart — was about to happen, and the wave of disappointment when it did not.
For the rest of the afternoon, though her mind was focussed on Wolstan, Matthew, Jacopo and Mr Henderson, she continued to prepare chocolate, occasionally revisiting the sensations a mere gesture had ignited. How was it possible to feel such… such pleasure? As if someone had poured chocolate into her bloodstream, filling her with such delicious anticipation. How was this possible when calamity was all about her? Matthew had never intended to kiss her. It would have been foolish in the extreme when contagion raged around them. And yet, what if he never did? She froze. What if the opportunity never arrived? The very idea left her more disconsolate than she had a right to be.
Puzzled at her reaction and forcing herself to send prayers that Wolstan would survive, she was utterly distracted. Not even the customers with whom she politely discoursed, or the clumsy lines two of the remaining Unwise Men left, were enough to break her reverie.
A few hours later, there was still no word. The chocolate house had been empty a while. The workers sat about reading old news sheets, flipping through books, whispering together. The cards Wolstan had dealt the day before sat in a neglected pile. Restless, Rosamund went to the windows.
Immediately she spied Matthew and Jacopo, running as if the devil was indeed snapping at their heels.
‘They’re coming,’ she said, a foul taste flooding her mouth.
It was only as she heard the chime of the doorbell below that it occurred to her there’d been no sign of Mr Henderson. Before she could ponder what that meant, there were boots on the stairs.
Matthew burst through the door, his face shiny and red, his hair stuck to his forehead. Rivulets of sweat ran down Jacopo’s face as he bent over and clutched his knees, breathing heavily.
Rosamund slowed then stopped as Matthew held out a warning hand. ‘No further, please.’
Cold gripped Rosamund followed by a rush of virulent heat. She peered over his shoulder at the empty doorway. ‘Where’s Mr Henderson?’
The others waited a safe distance away.
Matthew shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I bear more bad tidings, my lady.’
Rosamund swallowed. Her face was warm, her heart was beating a tattoo. ‘Go on.’ Her voice was unrecognisable.
‘Wolstan is dead.’ There were gasps. Rosamund’s hand flew to her mouth. Cara wailed and sat down heavily on a bench, her face in her hands as her shoulders began to shake. Matthew shot her a look of sorrow. ‘I’m so sorry. We were too late. He died before we could get there. The nurse had already been and gone. The house… is secured. But, there’s worse.’ Jacopo found a seat, staring blankly at the floor, ignoring the sweat dripping from his face to fall between his boots.
‘Where’s Mr Henderson?’ repeated Rosamund quietly.
Matthew grimaced. ‘That’s what I am loath to tell you. As we returned from Wolstan’s, he took ill. One moment, he seemed fine, then he became dizzy, unable to walk. We, that is, Jacopo and I, delivered him to his house, saw him to bed, gave him what comforts we could and notified the authorities —’
Bianca gasped and reached for Rosamund. Jacopo raised his head and stared at his sister before his eyes slid to Filip. There was a low moan. Filip stepped forward; Bianca stopped him.
‘We left the basket with him, Rosamund. Wolstan’s family —’ Despair cast a shadow across his face. ‘They were beyond help.’
Rosamund and Matthew gazed at each other in a silence that spoke volumes. Rosamund drew a long, shuddering breath. Mr Henderson. So suddenly… just like the coach driver Sam had encountered.
‘What do we do?’ she asked finally.
‘We?’ Matthew gave a dry laugh. ‘We do nothing. What I want you to do is take Bianca, Filip, Thomas and Solomon —’ he pointed to them in turn, ‘and leave. Cara, Harry, Owen, Kit and Art, you’re to take what you need along with enough wages to last a few weeks and get away from here as fast as you can.’
They all stared at each other in wide-eyed shock.
‘I’ve no choice. We —’ He gave that half-laugh once more. ‘That is, Jacopo and I, we held Mr Henderson, assisted him. We entered his dwelling; breathed the very same air. Do you know what that means?’
They did. ‘But, Matthew,’ protested Rosamund, her heart sinking. ‘We’re all at risk. Wolstan, Mr Henderson — they worked beside us; they were among us.’
Cara cried harder. Rosamund returned the pressure of Bianca’s hand. They were both hurting each other in their desperation to remain upright, to not fall and fail now.
Matthew nodded gravely. ‘They were. But Wolstan looks to have caught the disease at home. Mr Henderson, well, apart from playing cards with Wolstan yesterday —’ he didn’t mention Art, ‘had the bar or a table between himself and the rest of you. Jacopo and I discussed this all the way from his house. We can do one of two things: alert the authorities and be shut in here even though no-one has sickened at the Phoenix, or go to our homes and wait to see if the disease manifests. If you go, then maybe, God willing, you have a chance. If we keep away from you, maybe we all do.’
Rosamund
shook her head.
‘I won’t risk you.’ His eyes locked on Rosamund. ‘Any of you,’ he said, looking at each in turn. ‘Not if I can help it. I won’t risk any one any more. Lest this place be responsible, I’m closing the chocolate house. I think you’ll agree, Rosamund, I — that is, we — have no choice.’
Once more, he sought to include her — Jacopo too — in his decision-making. It was right that he should not bear the weight of this alone.
Her mind was afire. She looked about the room and took in the wisps of smoke and steam curling around each other in an unhealthy courante, like doomed lovers. The empty tables seemed desolate; the well-thumbed news sheets and the curling edges of the Bills of Mortality glared at her accusingly.
‘We have no choice,’ she said.
Matthew flashed her a sad smile.
‘What about you?’ she asked finally. ‘You… and Jacopo?’ Bianca inhaled sharply. ‘What will you do?’
Matthew and Jacopo looked grim. ‘We will stay here.’ Upending the jar of coin, uncaring as vinegar pooled across the table and dribbled onto the floor, he cast it to one side. What did anything matter now? ‘Take what you need from here,’ he gestured to the drawers and Cara. ‘Rosamund, can you see they do not go short?’
Shaking herself out of the heaviness that weighted her limbs to the spot, and slowly releasing Bianca, she went to gather foodstuffs, herbs and chocolate cakes to wrap in cloths for everyone. Bianca and Filip helped. Bianca pressed her lips together, her eyes suspiciously moist, as she worked. Filip looked broken. Leaving them to finish, Rosamund sourced additional coins.
Cara wiped away tears as Bianca gave her a wrapped cake and Rosamund passed over extra money. ‘Oh, my lady, Bianca, sir.’ She bit back a sob and swung towards Matthew. ‘How… How will we know when it’s all right to come back?’
Matthew thought for a moment. ‘When the door downstairs is open again. While it remains shut, you’re to keep your distance — all of you. Look to your own. Do you understand? What’s important now is you keep clear of anyone you suspect might be infected.’ He paused. ‘I pray you will be safe. With all my heart I do.’
Glances were exchanged. Harry brushed his forearm across his face. Rosamund wanted nothing more than to ruffle his hair, yet dared not.
Fearful and sad all at once, the boys and Cara took the coin from the table and, with plaintive farewells and anguished looks towards Rosamund, Filip, Solomon, Thomas, Bianca, Jacopo and Matthew, clattered down the stairs. She could hear their subdued farewells to each other and the tinkle of the doorbell as they left.
Rosamund knew she must take the others to safety, yet also wished she could remain. If her final days were near, she wanted to be here. But she was Lady Blithman and had to do what was best for everyone.
If it was best.
‘Come along then,’ she said with forced brightness, clapping her hands and fooling no-one. ‘Let’s be moving too.’
Matthew flashed her a look of gratitude.
As she turned to collect her hat from Bianca, she was astonished to see Jacopo and Filip silently weeping as they faced each other. The look of yearning upon their faces, and the way Solomon and Thomas turned aside, told her something she had been blind to for years.
‘May God be with you,’ whispered Filip, his words an endearment that squeezed the breath from her body. He raised his hands before letting them fall, empty, to his side.
Jacopo bit back a sob. ‘And you too, bello.’ He tried to smile and failed. ‘Solomon.’ He cleared his throat. His voice was stronger this time. ‘Promise me you’ll look after your father for me.’
Solomon raised his head and nodded. ‘I will, Jacopo, you can count on me.’
‘And you can count on me, Filip,’ replied Matthew to his unanswered question, moving closer to Jacopo. ‘You too, Bianca.’
Bianca said something in her native tongue to which Jacopo replied in kind, their words lingering. With one last, desperate look at her brother, Bianca gathered Solomon and Thomas and shepherded them out. With red, blinking eyes, Filip followed.
Jacopo faced Rosamund. ‘I know you’ll watch over her, signora.’
Rosamund was afraid her voice would betray her. Eventually she found the words. ‘I’ll look to them both, Jacopo. I promise.’ She turned to Matthew.
She dared to take a step towards him but kept a table between them. ‘Matthew,’ she began.
He waited.
‘I thought… I hoped…’ She stopped, swallowing sorrow. ‘I wanted to —’ She placed one quivering hand on the table. Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them away furiously.
‘And I,’ he said, putting out his hand so it was mere inches from hers. They looked at their hands, reaching but not touching, so close and yet… ‘I will pray for that with all my heart.’
Their eyes met. In his, Rosamund saw the stars writ large. Her heart expanded and her soul filled with blazing light that swiftly dimmed.
‘And I.’
THIRTY-SIX
In which death enters unbidden
Rosamund was relieved to find the hall of Blithe Manor empty and called for Ashe. She’d already determined that Filip and Solomon could have her husband’s old room, the one Aubrey had claimed but had no present use for. Thomas could have Helene’s. She would ask Ashe to see to it the beds were made, the rooms aired — though, at present, that term took on a whole new meaning.
‘Ashe?’ she called again, before remembering her manners and welcoming Filip, Solomon and Thomas. The two boys stared at their surroundings, reminders that for all her hard work and lack of formality, Rosamund was a bona fide lady.
‘Wait here,’ she said to them and signalled to Bianca. Where was everyone? The corridor to the kitchen was dark and cool. At any time of day there were usually the sounds of chopping, bubbling pots, and the voices of the maids, footmen and certainly the cook could be heard. All was quiet. As Rosamund peered into the kitchen she could see the fire was lit, a pot sat over the hearth and evidence of activity was scattered all over the table — flour, half-peeled turnips, chopped carrots, a skinned coney as well as half-drunk bowls of chocolate and coffee and empty glasses. Rosamund picked one up and smelled it. Who would drink the cellared wine at this time of day down here? What was going on? Rosamund’s stomach fluttered. She liked this not.
Calling again, there was still no answer. She looked at Bianca who shrugged. ‘Shall we try upstairs?’
Filip insisted on ascending first. The boys waited at the base of the stairs, their faces anxious. Certain they could all hear her heart beating, Rosamund used the bannister to propel herself forward as all her instincts shouted at her to retreat. A trickle of sweat slithered between her shoulder blades.
‘Ashe?’ she called again. Oh, thank the Lord! There was a response. It came from the withdrawing room.
With more confidence than she felt, Rosamund smiled at the others as Filip reached past her and opened the door.
With a cry, Bianca and Filip staggered backwards. Rosamund pushed into the room, not quite believing what she saw.
Food was scattered across the floor. A jug of wine had been spilled on the rug. Empty glasses rolled nearby. But that wasn’t the worst. Slumped in the chairs by the window, eyes shut, mouths fallen open, were Fear-God and Glory.
Within three steps, she struck a wall of stench. She pressed her nose and mouth into the crook of her elbow. Wine, piss, vomit — a veritable soup lay spread across Glory’s lap — sweat and the unmistakable odour of sickness permeated the room the further she went in. Unable to help herself, she gagged and drew closer. Livid purple tokens were scattered across their cheeks and cascaded down their necks like a hell-spawned rash. Their half-undone shirts revealed it sprayed across their midriffs. Their legs were wide apart, as if some force didn’t allow them to close any more. They were filthy.
They were infected.
She began to cough, the reek making her eyes water.
Fear-God jerked and opened his eyes. Rosa
mund let out a small scream. They were the colour of claret.
‘Rosie,’ he croaked, trying to sit upright. ‘Ah, wondered where ye were. Sorry ’bout the mess. Said we’d be back. Only, before we could take shore leave, we were left to guard those bloody Quakers who’d been sat in the hull for weeks — fuckin’ bastards. Half the Godforsaken wretches were infected.’ He spat. There was blood and a thick mucus.
Rosamund recoiled.
‘Once we realised, we ran. Been hiding a few days. Be damned if we were getting back on board, ’specially since the cap’n’s been arrested. They have to find us ’fore they can hang us, innit that right?’ He took a jagged breath. ‘Never find us here, in Lady Blithman’s fancy digs.’ He struggled to sit up, close his legs. ‘Help us, Rosie, won’t ya?’ he asked plaintively, hauling himself up, swaying a few times before stumbling towards her, arms outstretched. ‘Don’t feel so good. Not even yer wine helped…’
With a whimper, Rosamund turned and ran. She felt Fear-God grab hold of her collar; his strength hadn’t failed him. She swiftly undid the lace and it came off in his hand. She fell forward, Filip caught her and swung her off her feet through the door. Bianca slammed it shut and they leaned against it as she locked it with shaking hands.
‘Rosie,’ Fear-God’s muted voice was cracked, hoarse. ‘Rosie!’ His hands pummelled the wood. ‘Help us.’
Rosamund fell to her knees and stared at Filip and Bianca.
Bianca slid down beside her. ‘What do we do now?’
Unable to trust the lock, Filip held the door; his eyes were wide with fear, his usually sallow cheeks leeched of colour.
Rosamund leaned her head against the wood as bitter tears stung her eyes and her heart deflated. The dull thud of Fear-God’s fists tolled in her brain.
‘Do?’ She wanted to scream. Why did she have to be the one to decide? But she must. Matthew would expect it of her. Dear God, she expected it of herself.
She took a deep breath and said, ‘What we must.’ She peeled herself away from the door. ‘We cannot leave and risk others. Anyway, the servants will have notified the authorities.’