The bells were tolling ten of the clock when Filip asked Rosamund to take a hot drink down to Mr. Henderson.
“Once he tasted my chocolate, he ceased to object. Now I am making a point of ensuring he drinks a bowl or two each day,” he explained. “After all, we will want to keep a steady supply of the news sheets and pamphlets he sells flowing through the rooms once we open.” He finished agitating the molinillo and poured a thick, sweet bowl of chocolate. “It’s very handy having his business beneath us and, hopefully, the chocolate sweetens the arrangement.”
“How is it Mr. Henderson is able to print material as well as sell it?” asked Rosamund, thinking it was also wise to placate a man who thought Spaniards were all pleasure-seeking Papists.
“From what I understand, he’s been granted one of the few licenses available to printers in this city. You English have very strict laws around publishing. I’m not sure I grasp them myself—you must ask him.” He passed her a tray upon which she set the bowl and a jug of milk. “I also think it would do you good, as the señor’s lady wife, to get to know the man better. Offer him a pretty smile and a ready ear when you give him the chocolate. The man likes to talk.”
Mr. Henderson was serving a customer when she came downstairs, so she waited until the gentleman had left before she approached the counter and deposited the tray.
“Good morning, Mr. Henderson.” She curtseyed and dimpled. “Señor Filip asked me to bring you this.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Henderson, eyeing the bowl gratefully as he closed his tin of coins. “I confess . . . for all I resisted the chocolate at first, having tasted the muck being sold in the alley, Señor Filip’s drink doesn’t bear comparison. He certainly knows how to soften up an old bookseller, doesn’t he?” The way he looked at her signaled he meant more than the drink.
Rosamund simply laughed. “I believe you’re more than a bookseller, sir. It’s my understanding you print material here as well.”
Taking a cautious sip then adding a little milk, Mr. Henderson nodded and wiped his mouth. “I do indeed. I have a printing press out the back. In the stables.”
Ah, that explained the shiny lock.
“I’d very much like to see it, if I may.”
Mr. Henderson stared at her in disbelief. “You would?”
“Of course, when it suits you. I understand you cannot simply leave your shop.”
“Well, if you come downstairs after closing one day, I would be happy to show you around.” Seeing the joy on her face, he drank some more chocolate and smiled warmly. “Sit down, sit down, lass—I mean, my lady. Unless you have cause to run back upstairs?”
“No. Not immediately,” she said. Jacopo had been sent on an errand for Sir Everard, Filip and the boys were cleaning equipment, Widow Ashe was endlessly sweeping. The noise of hammers and the gruff voices of the builders carried. She climbed on a stool, narrowly avoiding a shower of descending dust.
Mr. Henderson grimaced and wiped the counter with a cloth that left as great a smear as the one it tried to remove.
“Señor Filip tells me you have a license . . . I’m not sure what that means. Where I come from, while news sheets, pamphlets and books were eagerly read, the niceties of printing were unknown.”
Mr. Henderson drew up a stool and leaned his elbows on the counter. “Well, my lady, up until recently, there were numerous printers and publishers operating here in London, and down in Oxford, too. We would print the usual government-approved books, news sheets and newsletters, the latter two containing information about everything from trade embargoes to war, who’d been appointed to Parliament, marriages, thefts, what plays were being performed at the theaters and gossip about the actors and actresses and the goings-on at court. But lately it’s all changed. You see . . .” He paused and looked beyond her into the shadows of the shop. Rosamund followed his gaze. There was no one there. Rising briefly, he shut the door behind him. “I’m not sure if I should be saying this. There are eyes and ears everywhere these days, ready to take down good men to serve their own purpose.”
Rosamund sat up and drew in her breath. “I can assure you, Mr. Henderson, I’ve no such desire.”
He regarded her. “I’m sure you do not. I just wish I could be as certain about others.”
“I am not others, Mr. Henderson.” She waited until he looked her in the eyes. “I respectfully assure you, whatever you tell me will go no further.”
Mr. Henderson drained his chocolate and stared regretfully at the residue in the bottom of the bowl. “Goes without saying, if you’re involved in a chocolate house, you’ll need to be familiar with the rules around publishing—official and unofficial. After all, what’s the point of a chocolate house, or a coffee one for that matter, if not to exchange news?”
Rosamund started. “I thought it was to enjoy a drink.”
Mr. Henderson guffawed. “That’s what the people who own them like the authorities to think. Trust me on this, my lady,” he said, touching the wen on the side of his nose. “They’re all about talking: reading, learning and sharing information, discovering what’s going on and trying to be the first to benefit from any new knowledge. That’s why these places”—he pointed to the ceiling as another shower of dust fell—“are where you’ll find correspondents and government agents lurking. They’re everywhere these days—forget coin, news is the greatest currency. The more you’re in possession of, the wealthier you be.”
An image of Mr. Nessuno appeared before her.
“Reporters and spies hang about, ears waggling, quills at the ready to write down whatever they hear and then send it to their publisher, who decides what to use—and who to use it against.”
“If they merely overhear it, how do they know it’s true?”
“A fair and important question, my lady.” Mr. Henderson regarded her approvingly. “Good correspondents will check the veracity of what they learn. Many, however, are neither good nor particularly honest and do not. All they care about is whether they’re paid; all the publisher cares about is whether the public will pay for the information—information that appears in the news sheets and news books that the likes of me are licensed to print. Of course, I only print what’s recorded in the Stationer’s Company register. Everything I do bears my name and that of the author—as required by the Licensing Act.”
Rosamund nodded. “You said there used to be many printers?”
“There were. According to the authorities most of ’em were printing rubbish—lies, dissenting material, things that undermined the King’s authority and those he’d placed in power. While there are many who contest the notion it was lies and believe dissenting’s a good thing because it keeps the nobles and their lackeys on their toes, the government and the King did not. As a consequence, they clamped down on publishers and printers. Officially, there be only two publishers now and a new Act that insists the writer puts his name to his words. Easier to write inflammatory ones when they’re anonymous, isn’t it? Hence these laws.”
A frisson of fear lanced Rosamund, and she found her own eyes darting toward the darker corners of the shop.
“Rumor has it, one Roger L’Estrange, currently acting Surveyor of the Presses, is soon to be confirmed in his appointment. Once he is, he’ll ferret out anyone who writes, prints or distributes dissenting information, news that might have His Majesty’s subjects questioning royal decisions or indeed those made by Parliament.” He grunted. “God forbid that should happen.”
Rosamund looked askance at Mr. Henderson, uncertain whether he was being sarcastic.
“Anyhow, this L’Estrange has given authorization to twenty printers. Twenty! For an entire city. God was on my side the day he came here and gave one of those precious things to me. I’m licensed to print whatever L’Estrange and the other publisher on the scene, Henry Muddiman, give me. That is, once it’s approved by the Stationer’s Company and the court.”
Henry Muddiman. That was the man Mr. Nessuno worked for. Rosamund’s heart quickened. Then something occurred to her. “But, if you can only print what the King and government say, how do we know it’s true?”
Mr. Henderson cocked his head to one side. “We don’t. Much like what’s overheard, hey? There’s many believe that if L’Estrange and the court have their way, all we’ll ever read is bloody propaganda. Oh, forgive me, my lady.”
Rosamund bowed her head. Bloody propaganda indeed. Was that why Paul decried correspondents as “cunting”? Because they were reproducing information they were told to? Inventing “news” to make the King and Parliament appear in a good light? Writing what they thought people should read instead of what they needed to?
Dragging a sheet of paper off a pile near his elbow, Mr. Henderson slid it in front of her. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way. And while the law is starting to deal harshly with dissenters and those who print and distribute their words, there are those who have found a way to bypass it. See here?” His finger stabbed a word at the top of the sheet. Below it were lines of very neat handwritten script. They danced before Rosamund, and she prayed he wouldn’t ask her what they said.
“This is Muddiman’s answer to some of the tripe that appears in his news sheets, the Kingdomes Intelligencer, which he publishes each Monday, and the Mercurius Publicus, which appears on Thursdays. Both of which are licensed news—published with government approval. But . . . look—he produces this as well. This newsletter is different. For a start, it’s written by hand. And see here at the top? It says Whitehall—makes it look official. He sends these handwritten pieces out to his subscribers, who pay a monthly fee, from his office at the Seven Stars in the Strand—over by the New Exchange.”
“I see,” said Rosamund, even though she did not.
“That’s where he’s been so clever. He’s able to avoid the rules that apply to printers like me by keeping these little newsletters handwritten and keeping the numbers he produces to a minimum. Despite what’s sometimes in them, the government thinks it all a relatively harmless exercise. Muddiman employs a raft of scribes who, using whatever he’s gleaned from his army of correspondents—many anonymous—put this together and distribute it. He’s been doing this for over thirty years and makes a tidy profit, let me tell you. I never used to think too much about them, not until the government began treating the presses this way. Now I think Muddiman’s handwritten newsletter is all we have to sort the wheat from the chaff, if you understand my meaning, my lady.”
Uncertain she did, Rosamund simply nodded.
Mr. Henderson lowered his voice. “I hear tell Muddiman opens the mail delivered to the King’s secretaries and reports on the contents.”
Rosamund gasped. “But isn’t that asking for trouble?”
Mr. Henderson grinned. “It would be if he printed it. I think because this”—he tapped the newsletter—“is handwritten, he avoids the government’s scrutiny. But I’ve no doubt L’Estrange will take a good hard look at what Muddiman’s doing once his role’s made official next year. The time for caution is upon us. I’ve no desire to spend time in Newgate or the Tower. Or worse.”
In answer to the quizzical look Rosamund threw him, Mr. Henderson made a slicing gesture across his wrists followed by his neck. “A person caught printing information, let alone writing anything, that offends the King or government can lose not only his hands, but his head.”
Rosamund gulped and stared at Muddiman’s newsletter with respect and not a little fear.
“This writing and printing business, this sharing of news is dangerous, Mr. Henderson.”
Mr. Henderson nodded. “That it is, like any worthy enterprise. Take heed, my lady, for what your husband intends to create up there”—he raised his eyes to the ceiling—“a place where all and sundry will come to read the news—whether it’s Muddiman’s, L’Estrange’s or anyone else’s—and discuss it, could bring a world of trouble upon us all if he’s not careful.”
The chocolate house was far more naughty than Rosamund had first realized.
Gazing back at Muddiman’s newsletter, she had a thought. “Mr. Henderson, do you have any writings by Mr. Nessuno?”
“Ah, Nessuno? You’ve met him?”
She nodded.
“A fine gentleman,” said Mr. Henderson. “Why you’d want to read the rubbish he writes defeats me. Though I guess, being a woman, it would be more in line with your fragile sensibilities.”
Rosamund tried not to take umbrage but couldn’t help feeling peeved by this assumption. On the contrary, Mr. Henderson’s warnings excited her. They made her keener than ever to master reading. It wasn’t just the treatise on chocolate she wanted to read, but Muddiman’s handwritten newsletters, the official and unofficial news sheets, bills, pamphlets, letters and books. She wanted to be part of the daily conversations that happened in coffee houses (and, hopefully, their chocolate house) and on the streets, and the grand, eternal conversations that had been going on since Adam and Eve were in the Garden.
Mr. Henderson rummaged through a pile of old papers on the counter. “I’ve some here I can show you if you like.”
“I would . . . But why do you say his work is rubbish?” Associating that word with Mr. Nessuno seemed impossible.
“Here,” said Mr. Henderson, producing not one, but two newsletters with a flourish. “Read them for yourself, my lady, and you’ll see. Gossip about the King, whose horse won what race at Newmarket, which lord was found blathered from drink in Milk Lane and so on. Why a man with a mind like his wastes his time with such frivolities is beyond me. Look, don’t get me wrong. He has a lovely turn of phrase— No, take those, with my compliments. I’ll see if I can find some more if you’re interested.”
“I am, Mr. Henderson, and in any other material you can spare. I’m very interested in learning about these laws you mention, and about religious toleration, and what the Hollanders and Spaniards are up to. Anything . . . and everything.”
Mr. Henderson scratched his head and regarded her with astonishment. “You are? Forgive me, my lady, I thought Mr. Nessuno’s work would be far more to your taste. How wrong can an old man be?”
Rosamund’s laughter built at the incredulous expression on his face.
The shop bell tinkled and two men thick in conversation spilled through the door. Mr. Henderson slid off his stool.
“Speak of the devil. Mr. Nessuno,” he called out and waved. “We were just talking about you.”
Rosamund spun around and saw not only Mr. Nessuno but Jacopo. Her cheeks flooded with color.
Upon seeing her, Mr. Nessuno whipped off his hat and bowed. Jacopo followed suit, a peculiar expression on his face, like a child caught stealing an extra jellied fruit.
“My lady,” said Mr. Nessuno cheerily. “What a pleasant surprise.” He navigated his way among the tables to the counter. Jacopo remained near the foot of the stairs, watching. “And what is it you have there?”
Reeling that the very man she was discussing had suddenly appeared, and with Jacopo in tow, Rosamund took a moment to find her composure.
“Why,” she said, holding up the newsletters, “some of your work. It’s not every day you meet a correspondent, and I thought I should acquaint myself with your writing.” She flashed a pointed look at Jacopo.
Mr. Nessuno pulled a face.
“I did warn her.” Mr. Henderson chuckled.
“My lady,” said Mr. Nessuno, holding up his hands. “I pray you do not judge me by what is written there . . .”
Rosamund glanced down at the papers in her hands. “But if a man cannot be judged by his words, good sir, then pray, how does one judge him?”
Mr. Nessuno stepped closer, his cerulean eyes capturing hers. “By his deeds, my lady, by his deeds.”
The sincerity of the statement made her catch her breath. She laughed to cover how very disconcerting she found his nearness. The smell of him reminded her of the chocolate kitchen, the headiness and rich spice. She stepped back and struck him lightly with the pages.
“That is true, sir, unless, I assume, one is a correspondent. Then, surely, words—the weapon he wields—maketh the man?”
Before he could reply, she swept past him and Jacopo, keen all of a sudden to return to the kitchen. Mr. Henderson’s voice followed her.
“If you still want to see my printing press, my lady, just let me know.”
“I will, Mr. Henderson. Thank you,” she replied, and resisted the urge to run up the steps. It was a moment before Jacopo followed. Folding the newsletters, she shoved them in her placket. She might not be able to read them yet, her lessons with Jacopo being little more than a waste of time, but there were other ways of learning and other things to learn—and who better to teach her all about chocolate than Filip? After what Mr. Henderson had told her, she determined to master this new environment through actions and words.
“How do you know Mr. Nessuno, Jacopo?” asked Rosamund as they climbed the stairs.
Jacopo paused, gripping the railing. “We spoke briefly outside,” he replied, gesturing for her to continue.
She wondered why he avoided answering her question. With an internal shrug, she realized she’d been so keen to remove herself from Mr. Nessuno’s company she’d forgotten to bring the tray back up with her. Never mind, she could fetch it later. She’d wait until Mr. Nessuno, the man Mr. Henderson claimed wrote rubbish, had left.
Loitering by Filip’s elbow as he explained the art of additives, she allowed her mind to wander. If writing and publishing and now the chocolate house proved so perilous, she could hardly blame Mr. Nessuno for sticking to gossip. So why did she feel a wave of disappointment wash over her that the man who had come to her rescue, who showed such wit and kindness on the street, lacked the courage of the convictions she was certain he possessed?
As Filip passed her a bowl of anise seed and asked her what quantity the drink required, she wondered if she’d ever have the opportunity, or indeed the courage, to ask him.