If the paintwork on the architraves wasn’t completely dry, nor some of the plaster, and a few of the candles were tallow instead of beeswax, no one except Rosamund noticed. If Sir Everard observed that Wolstan currently wore his own, albeit tidy, clothes, while Owen’s new ones were held together by pins as much as stitches, or that Cara was dressed in a shift that had once belonged to Bianca and was tied about her waist so she didn’t trip, he never mentioned it.
Though the impossible deadline he’d set was on the cusp of being met due to the extraordinary diligence and efforts of his servants, workers new and old, the Wellses and their team of seamstresses, the beneficence of the men at the nearby periwig shop, and his wife, they received no thanks nor praise. Sir Everard was in a right dudgeon and made a point of ignoring everyone—especially Rosamund.
He’d arrived midmorning and, after casting a critical eye over the chocolate house, demanded a bowl of the drink, which Rosamund alone had to prepare, and then retreated to one of the booths. While he drank and smoked his pipe, he checked the advertisement placed in the Kingdomes Intelligencer (another one was to appear in the Mercurius Publicus when it was published on Thursday) and in Muddiman’s handwritten newsletters. On Saturday, he’d even placed an order with Mr. Henderson to print a couple of hundred handbills advertising the place. That was how Rosamund discovered the name Sir Everard had bestowed upon the chocolate house. It hadn’t occurred to her it would require christening, but of course, it couldn’t simply be known as “The Chocolate House.” Being a creature of habit and wanting to thank Mr. Henderson again for his aid the day before, she’d hurried down to the bookshop on Saturday morning with a bowl of chocolate and seen the draft for the advertisement on the counter.
There it was, at the top of the handbill, bold as you like: “Helene’s Chocolate House.”
Alternately surprised and dismayed, she wished Sir Everard had prepared her. Prior to Friday, she might have thought it touching that her husband saw fit to call his chocolate house after his beloved daughter, a sort of living memorial to her name. In light of Jacopo’s beating and her husband’s preposterous demands upon Mr. Remney—and that he’d offered neither apology nor explanation for his behavior and had neglected to seek her out these last three days—she could only see the name as a riposte of the worst kind. Was not Helene also Matthew Lovelace’s wife? Was he not using the name of his dead child to provoke his nemesis? A kind of revenge from beyond the grave?
She prayed Lovelace, wherever he was, would never know.
Her gaze could not help returning to Sir Everard as he hunkered against the wall. He’d visibly aged since last Friday. Gone was the older gentleman, and in his place was a bitter-faced, pouch-eyed curmudgeon, bowed by time, bewildered by the youth about him and determined to assert his authority through his presence alone. God knew, it was enough.
Thankfully, late morning Jacopo arrived with two footmen bearing welcome packages. Though his bruises were still evident, Jacopo was walking without a limp. Only Rosamund and Bianca, who’d come to help with the opening, saw him grimace as his jacket pulled too tight across his shoulders when he bent over, or when Filip unthinkingly hugged him fiercely. Now he ordered the footmen who’d accompanied him to hand out the remainder of the uniforms; the boys took the parcels almost reverentially, disappearing into different parts of the kitchen to dress. Bianca followed, needle and thread in hand.
Jacopo and Filip had dedicated a couple of hours the past two afternoons to teaching the boys how to serve, take orders and pour the chocolate. They had to learn to navigate the tables and benches first with empty trays, then with trays filled with old bowls and pots of water to accustom them to the weight and balance required. Finally, they were each given responsibility for a certain section of the room. Estimating the chocolate house would comfortably accommodate fifty men, Mr. Henderson warned them they could expect many more to come to sate their curiosity in the first days after opening—if not about Blithman’s chocolate then—he shot an apologetic glance in Rosamund’s direction—about Blithman’s wife.
The boys took their work seriously and were instructed to report to either Jacopo or Filip if they were sent outside with a message. Only one bowl was broken, two trays and a chocolate pot dented. All in all, it was regarded as a successful training session.
“I wish we had more time,” said Jacopo quietly to Rosamund as the boys dressed hurriedly. He sank gratefully onto a seat, his gaze traveling to rest upon Sir Everard, who ignored him.
“Alas, we don’t,” said Rosamund just as Harry appeared, bowing before her with a grand flourish of his hand.
“We be right, milady,” said the lad and proceeded to parade before her, his chest puffed out, his wig making his head appear larger, his scarf sitting so high on his neck, it forced his chin back. “Once them coves set their glaziers on this”—his thumb indicated his clothes then encompassed the room—“or you”—he nodded appreciably toward her—“they’ll be right keen on the place.”
Before she could prevent it, Art emerged in his uniform, reached over and boxed his ears. “That be Lady Rosamund to you, you nizzie.”
About to strike back, Harry became aware of Sir Everard approaching. “Yeah, right. Sorry, missus—I mean, my lady.”
“That’s quite all right, Harry.”
“And I be no nizzie—” He swung to Art. “I be a drawer. A chocolate drawer, no less.” He struck his thin chest.
“Who might this be?” asked Sir Everard, jabbing his cane toward Harry, looking him up and down.
“Harry Cooper, milord,” said the lad, bending from the waist. His elegant bow also drew attention to the fact he had only one hand.
Sir Everard’s eyes widened and his cheeks began to redden. “Surely you don’t expect this cripple to serve chocolate?” His voice grew louder with each word.
Flashing an uncertain look at Rosamund, Harry waved his stump up and down. “It . . . it b-b-be no h-hin . . . hindrance, milord,” he stammered.
Rosamund gave him a warning shake of her head. The boy pressed his mouth shut.
Now Sir Everard was closer, Rosamund could smell the wine on his breath that her chocolate had failed to disguise and see the tremor in his hands. Not wanting to aggravate him further, she indicated the boys should retire to the kitchen. Once they had shuffled out of sight, she faced Sir Everard.
“I can assure you, my lord,” she said carefully, “many cripples function as well as if not better than those with all limbs working.” She tried very hard not to glance at his leg or his shaking hands.
Sir Everard gave her a long, studied look. “If he spills a drop, breaks anything, he’s gone from here.” He jabbed the floor with his cane.
Rosamund curtseyed, making up her mind there and then that if Harry should suffer a misfortune, she could obey her husband by limiting him to kitchen duties. Thus, she was able to counter Sir Everard’s suspicious glance with a beaming smile. It seemed to work. With a huff, he began to roam, his interest in the chocolate house rekindled.
Pleased he was taking a positive interest, Rosamund untied her apron and smoothed her skirts. Well, he might be interested in the premises, but still not his wife. Considering what had happened the last time he noticed her, she was relieved but also piqued that, unlike Harry, he’d made no reference to her attire. Gone were Lady Margery’s hand-me-downs, replaced by the most resplendent dress she’d ever seen. The Wellses had outdone themselves. Bianca, too, having spent close to an hour before dawn first dressing her in the stiff canvas corset, helping her step into her skirts, lacing the bodice and, as she fixed the lower part of the dress to the tabs, ensuring the pointed waist sat flat at the front and center and exposed the elaborate underskirt—all without a word. In fact, Bianca had been unusually reticent and refused to meet her eyes, even when dressing her hair. Overall, she’d been swift in her ministrations, moving her fingers as if the fabric burned them. Made of cloth of gold with black velvet and lace trim, the gown shimmered whenever she moved. It caught the eye and, unfortunately, as Rosamund discovered when she entered the chocolate house, most surfaces in the kitchen.
Disappointed that Bianca had not offered her any reassurances about her appearance, Rosamund prayed she did the fine dress justice. Her fears were quashed by the reaction of the chocolate house staff. Upon her arrival just after dawn, the boys’ mouths had fallen open and their eyes goggled. Ashe and Cara had curtseyed deeply, showing a respect her other clothes had never earned. Filip had stared and shook his head. “Eres la criatura más hermosa que he visto.” He sighed and there were tears in his eyes. “And to think the chocolate is in such hands.”
Who would have thought the grubby slattern from Gravesend Sir Everard had scooped off the road all those months ago would ever be wearing silk, damask and cloth of gold, let alone smelling of roses, musk and chocolate? If only Grandmother could see her now—though a chocolate house might not be the setting her grandmother would wish.
Regardless, as the bells began to sound midday, it was time for all their hard work to be put to the test. It was also time for the new Lady Blithman to step out in public.
Heart pounding, she stood next to Sir Everard and her eyes swept the room. It really looked very good. While fifty men might be a bit of a crush, the boys were resplendent in their new uniforms of brown, gold and umber and the smells wafting on clouds of steam from the kitchen were irresistible.
Before the bells ceased to toll, voices and heavy footsteps carried up the stairs. Taking a deep breath, Rosamund flashed a nervous smile at Jacopo and Bianca, who stood on the opposite side of the room behind the bar; she responded to Harry’s cheeky wink with one of her own.
The voices drew nearer; the footsteps louder. What if Sam Pepys was right and a chocolate house was not the place for a lady to be introduced to society? Would the patrons misconstrue her role? Sir Everard had dismissed Sam’s concerns with a careless “Women tread the boards in the theater, why not those in a chocolate house?” The matter had not been raised again.
It was too late to be concerned about that now, she thought, as the first customer entered the room. Pausing on the threshold, he drank in the surroundings before catching sight of Rosamund. With a wide, eager smile, he all but ran between the tables and stopped before her.
“Ah,” he began with a swirl of his arm, doffing his feathered hat. “You must be the chocolate maker’s wife. Allow me to introduce myself . . .”