The Chocolate Maker’s Wife

by Karen Brooks

  Running her finger along the mantle, she found a small ruby and cerulean brooch she’d kept that had belonged to Lady Margery. She thought of the Blithmans. Against all odds, they’d endured — not only Aubrey, but she too carried their name, even if Bianca could not. As she put the brooch down, it rolled behind a pile of books. She pushed them aside to reach for the brooch only to strike a box.

  How peculiar. Just as she was thinking of Lady Margery, what should she find but the box she’d discovered years ago. Good Lord, she’d forgotten all about it. She retrieved the brooch and set it carefully aside, then picked up the box and blew the dust from the top, coughing as it struck her in the face. It took a while for her coughs to subside, a legacy the fire had left them all.

  Sinking back into her seat, the box on the table in front of her, she first wiped her eyes, took sips of chocolate and then, with a strangely beating heart, lifted the lid.

  When she’d last opened it, she’d found a collection of pretty beads and a sheaf of tightly folded papers beneath them. Covered in neat handwriting, they appeared to be torn from a book. She’d always intended to examine the contents but had never done so. Now she could read, she no longer had to rely on anyone else to tell her what they said.

  Carefully she pulled out the pages, and as she did so, she recognised the beads for what they were — the remnants of many broken rosaries. Had Lady Margery been a secret Catholic? She wouldn’t be the first to hide her faith. But why destroy the rosaries?

  Rosamund unfolded the pages and smoothed them out. The writing was untidy, blots stained the paper. On the final page was a signature: Margery Blithman. Dear God… these must be from one of Lady Margery’s diaries, the diaries Sir Everard had been so keen to destroy. Above her name, in a shaky hand, were the words, May God forgive me.

  Forgive her what?

  Though the room wasn’t dark, Rosamund found a candle and lit it. She brought her chair closer to the table and began to read.

  FIFTY

  In which Lady Margery speaks

  2nd February, 1660

  Dear God, I can barely hold the quill for the shaking in my hands, but I must needs set down what I’ve just witnessed; the moments that led to my discovery.

  Lord, give me strength…

  I had come from Everard’s study. There, he revealed to me that Aubrey’s so-called friend, Matthew Lovelace, was investigating our son because he was suspected of transporting weapons to England’s enemies. He’d been asked by the government to look into these base accusations. Everard has bought Lovelace’s silence by promising him Helene’s hand — the man is besotted with her — and bringing him into the family fold. One can hardly accuse a person of treason when their name is aligned with yours, not without grave injury to your reputation.

  In return for the betrothal, Lovelace has promised to cease delving and report to his superiors that Aubrey is innocent.

  Knowing Helene would be disconsolate at such a match, having oft expressed no desire to be courted, let alone wed, and to a poet’s son with few prospects, I thought to comfort her and explain the real reason for her father’s acceptance of Lovelace’s unwelcome suit.

  I’d no doubt Aubrey would console his sister, so I made haste to Helene’s bedroom to add my sympathy to her brother’s and to defend Everard’s decision. It’s our only choice if we’re to protect our name and Aubrey’s. Once Helene understands this, she will comply. She is a Blithman, after all, and knows that necessity must govern our choices.

  As I approached her room, noises came from behind the door; strange noises. At first, I thought the siblings were arguing, so grotesque were the sounds. Opening the door silently, I peered in the gap…

  The ground beneath me opened and all the fires of hell and its screaming demons rose up to pull me into their depths.

  Helene was lying on her bed, naked, groaning like a trull, her legs wrapped around Aubrey’s back while he groped her breasts and thrust into her again and again. Aye, my children, my son and daughter fornicated like a pair of dogs in heat.

  Rosamund stopped reading. Tiny blades of ice sank into her flesh. A terrible metallic taste filled her mouth. She peered out the window. Aye, the world was still there. She took a deep breath, then returned to the page trembling in her hand. She re-read words that could not possibly be true.

  But there they were, in all their stark, awful ugliness: Aubrey was his sister’s lover.

  It was Aubrey whom Matthew chased across the globe to return his correspondence; Aubrey with whom Matthew sought to find an end.

  Aubrey and Helene.

  This was not love; this was sickness. Afraid what else she might discover, nevertheless Rosamund had to continue reading.

  I wanted to pluck out my eyes, rend my hair, reach into my breast and tear my heart from my body, only I felt it had already been taken and crushed.

  I covered my mouth with my hand; capturing both my disgust and the bile that followed. The air grew close, tight, the world spun. And still I could not move. How could this be? The love between my two children be perverted into this incestuous coupling? Was it the loss of Gregory that prompted such unnatural closeness? Was it Everard’s announcement of Helene’s betrothal that drove them to… to this? Or had this been happening for years?

  In my secret soul, I knew the truth.

  The fondness Aubrey and Helene bore each other ever since they were small and which had grown as they matured was cast in the most unpalatable and ungodly of lights.

  I forced myself to watch.

  Was not their sin also mine?

  Sated, Aubrey lay beside his sister, stroking her face and, adopting a tone I’d never heard him use before, made a vow to love her for eternity, no matter whom she wed. With devotion in her eyes, Helene took his hand and brought it to her stomach, covering it with her own. She reminded him that the babe growing in her womb would be their promise to each other made flesh, no matter what.

  3rd February, 1660

  Incest. Incest beneath my roof, Everard’s roof. My children are going to hell. We are all going to hell. And it’s my fault. I’d refused to see what was before my eyes. I should have insisted Aubrey go to Oxford as his father wished instead of allowing him to remain in London with me and Helene; I should have hardened my heart when he refused to accompany his father on his journeys; forced his compliance. But how could I? Dear Lord. I’d nurtured this, just as I had the babes who even now were suckling each other’s breasts.

  Whether or not Lovelace was right and Aubrey betrayed his country is a moot point. What he and his sister are doing is betraying us all — under God’s laws and those of the kingdom. If a whisper of this should ever escape… We would be ruined. We would be better off dead.

  I have to tell Everard. But I cannot. This burden, this shame, this terrible sin is mine to harbour alone, but it must end now. Getting Helene and Lovelace married has taken on a fresh urgency.

  A babe. A babe is to be born.

  13th February, 1660

  I can scarce look at my children, yet I have to keep up the pretence. I fear what Everard will do if he ever finds out. I pray he will not see the changes in his daughter that are so obvious to me — the swollen breasts, the radiance in her face, the dark confidence in her eyes. Not to mention Aubrey’s solicitous attention to her; their stolen looks.

  I, who once disapproved of Lovelace, am now his greatest champion. Today I asked Everard that the marriage be brought forward; after all, what’s the point of waiting?

  Everard has refused. Having lost one child, he will not surrender Helene to another man so soon.

  Dear God in Heaven. What do I do? I fear I’ve no choice but to confess to Everard all I know…

  14th February, 1660

  The deed is done. I have told him. Waiting until he was alone, I begged his attention. After I completed my sordid tale he did not speak. When he finally did, he was crude and vulgar and asked me to clarify what he could scarce believe: are Helene and Aubrey fucking?

>   God help me, I tried to defend them, to turn it into something other than the immoral, perverted act it is.

  He proceeded to blame me for everything: Aubrey’s unnatural desires, his sister’s. This was all my fault and God would punish me evermore for what I’d done.

  Not once did he raise his voice. ‘All I worked so hard for is at risk. My name. My reputation.’

  ‘What of mine?’ I wailed, but he closed his ears.

  He sank into himself. To my horror, he began to weep. ‘If word of this should escape, if anyone finds out, we are destroyed. We would be pariahs — on earth and in heaven. We are damned.’

  His weakness gave me strength. ‘Then we must ensure we are not.’ I reiterated my plan for Lovelace and Helene to marry immediately so the truth of the baby’s conception might be hidden.

  Much to my surprise, Everard was outraged I could contemplate deceiving Lovelace in such a manner, making him party to this mortal sin.

  I spat rage at his hypocrisy. I reminded him he’d been prepared to use our daughter to buy his silence when he believed Aubrey guilty of treason. How was this different?

  I thought Everard would strike me then — for my defiance, for the truth I insisted he see. He claimed they were very different things. He allowed Lovelace a choice — I did not. The fool said he refused to be involved in such a deception. But I was relentless. I am doing this for the children, for his children, for us. What is the honour of one man if it means saving us all? Saving Helene…

  God in His mercy understands…

  Knowing how to force his surrender, I kept referring to what would be best for our daughter. After all, was she not the sun on his horizon, the fragrant flower in his garden? It worked. Everard agreed to a date. Without another word — only an expression I pray never to see again — he left the room, leaving me alone with my hollow triumph.

  17th February, 1660

  Everard spoke to Helene and Aubrey today. Helene is to be married within the fortnight. Aubrey will leave for the colonies forthwith. They’ve both been threatened with disinheritance should they fail to comply with their father’s wishes.

  Aubrey left the house; I know not where he has gone. Helene is in her bedroom. I can hear her wails from my closet — whether she cries because her secret is now family knowledge, for the shame of her deeds or because Aubrey is soon to depart, I know not. I cannot comfort her. I cannot care. We do this to protect the Blithman name, to protect her and Aubrey as well as the babe.

  24th February, 1660

  Aubrey has left for Virginia and Lovelace and Helene are wed.

  Do I feel guilty about using Lovelace in such an ill manner? I do not. Lovelace is a virtuous vizard that my daughter and the rest of us don to conceal our transgressions.

  God knows, I feel such relief. It is visceral, a lightening that enables me to look my daughter in the face once more. Lovelace’s evident joy in his wife goes some way to assuaging my guilt. The child no doubt will do the same. May he never learn the manner of its conception.

  20th March, 1660

  Aubrey must die.

  Today I told Everard that if he wants the marriage between his daughter and Matthew to survive, then Aubrey must cease to exist. His death will free Helene from her unnatural longings, her refusal to embrace Lovelace as a wife should and force her to cleave to the man she calls husband.

  At first Everard refused to countenance such a notion. Death is not to be trifled with, he said, no matter the reason. He scarce spoke to me but brooded.

  21st March, 1660

  Everard announced today that he is taking Matthew to Spain to research a venture they are to embark upon together. I believe the trip is to escape me and the thoughts I put into my husband’s head.

  19th June, 1660

  I do not know what occurred while he was away, but upon his return, Everard wasted no time but conceded to my desires. He wrote at once to Aubrey outlining what he wished him to do — how he wanted him to die.

  There was no more on that page. Flicking to the next one, Rosamund’s heart was a stone in her chest. The diary continued weeks later.

  3rd August, 1660

  Today we told Helene her brother was dead. I thought she would lose the babe, she was so distraught. I have never seen the like. Blaming her father for Aubrey’s death, for sending him away, and me for encouraging his departure, she ordered us out of her house and declared she never wanted to see us again. For now she is hurting. She does not understand we do this to ensure her future; the child’s. She will welcome us back in time… please God.

  15th August, 1660

  The babe is born. A son whom Helene has named Everard. I was wrong to assume forgiveness on our daughter’s part. We learned of the child’s birth from my cousin, Sam Pepys, who blurted it without realising we knew nothing of his entry into the world. As Sam left, a note arrived from Matthew informing us of the boy’s arrival. Full of apologies, he explains Helene still doesn’t wish to see us. He assures us he will do all in his power to alter her mind but asks for our patience.

  Little does he know.

  Denying us access to baby Everard is her way of punishing of us. What a cruel blow — to name her son after her father while keeping him away — punishing Everard in particular, whom she believes the architect of her separation from her brother, his death and her false marriage, in one fell swoop.

  I am heartsick and soul-sore. I pray to God that He will see fit to forgive me; forgive Helene and Aubrey. I do pray night and day. I cannot eat; I can scarce drink. My rosary is worn, my knees chafed. My clothes hang loose upon me. I care not. I remain in my rooms — in my closet, writing, or in bed. Only Bianca tends me. Even Everard ignores me. Sleep eludes me. Every time I close my eyes I see nothing but my children fucking…

  5th September, 1660

  This will be my final entry. I must record these last hours and my encounter with Helene and, at long last, my grandson.

  Upon learning I was abed and very ill, Lovelace insisted Helene bring the babe to me. Propped against pillows, I did not wish to see this evidence of my children’s sins. His innocence could never compensate for their guilt or my complicity in it. Yet, I must look upon him and face my part.

  Lord in Heaven up above. I can still see his tiny features as if they were seared upon my soul. To an inexperienced eye, he was merely an ill-formed newborn who might outgrow a poor start. To me, his too-large skull, swollen, misshapen mouth and his pale gold hair, the finest down that crept from his scalp to envelop his limbs, indicated something corrupt. In this poor little babe, God has seen fit to announce Aubrey and Helene’s sin.

  My mind was in havoc. Helene, mistaking my expression, shot me a look of pride filled with resentment and daring.

  ‘Oh, Helene,’ I drew the babe’s swaddling tighter; I lifted him to my breast, inhaled his sweet scent and kissed his furry brow. ‘What have you done?’ I asked quietly. My tears soaked his blanket.

  ‘What all mothers do,’ was her ice-cold reply as she snatched her child from me and departed without another word. With a sorry bow, Lovelace followed. What else could he do?

  I was not blaming her, but myself. What have I done but allowed this tiny being to be birthed? Aye, she’s done what all mothers do, and what I’d demanded: married an unsuitable, blameless man in order to give the child a name and a family — and to hide her shame. Our shame.

  Seeing the baby today, I wonder if it was worth it.

  My son and daughter, as wrong and grossly sinful as their actions have been, are still mine and, God help me, I love them even as the very sight of them disgusts me. I pray now Aubrey is ‘dead’ that Everard will continue to do whatever it takes to protect the family. All too soon, I will be unable to do so. As for the babe born of such an unholy union, I can only pray for his salvation.

  God may have abandoned me, but I hope He has not yet seen fit to turn His back upon the rest of my family.

  Earlier, I called for Bianca and Jacopo and commanded them to look
to my husband, their father, though they know not why. May he find comfort in the dark seeds he has sown. God knows, those we’ve sprouted have brought none. Ignorant until such time as I revealed his children’s sin, Everard, for all his faults, had no choice but to aid me in my plans to spare Aubrey and Helene punishment, deceive Lovelace and bestow a legitimate name upon Helene’s child, one that disguises the worst of sins. Everard was never a willing accomplice, but a suborned one.

  I would do anything to secure my children’s future and preserve their good name. Ours. Anything. I do not regret one thing. Not even what I am about to do.

  May God forgive me.

  Margery Blithman.

  With a long sigh, Rosamund put the letter down. Her hands shook. She was sweating. Uncertain what she expected when she began to read, it was not this… this… unholy confession.

  No wonder Sir Everard had consigned what he could find of his wife’s diaries to the flames. No wonder he feared Rosamund learning to read lest she discover the awful truth. No wonder he’d acceded to Matthew’s demands — the threat of those love letters between Aubrey and Helene being exposed was so great he’d do anything to keep them secret. Even kill.