Rosamund firmly believed Matthew’s homecoming was imminent now spring was here. The Thames had begun its slow, sinuous flow again after being frozen for weeks, and her growing excitement manifested as impatience—something those around her were unaccustomed to seeing. The result was, as days went by with no sign of him, she became distracted and clumsy, even when preparing drinks for regular customers.
After she’d inadvertently added two pinches of valerian to John Evelyn’s chocolate instead of his usual one, rendering the poor man unable to write let alone think for a few hours, and tipped far too much rosewater into William Chiffinch’s bowl, and Robert Boyle’s was knocked over by her errant elbow before he could drink it, Filip suggested that Rosamund and her customers might be better served if she went home.
“You’ve been here since dawn and haven’t stopped looking at the doorway. I fear the time for his arrival—at least at the chocolate house—has passed. The tides have retreated and no more ships will drop anchor till the morrow. Go home, querida señora, and save . . .” He hesitated, biting his lip.
“The reputation of our chocolate?” finished Rosamund, looking in dismay as yet another customer coughed while he drank and then flapped a hand before his mouth.
“Chilli,” said Filip and Rosamund in unison. There was no need to add “too much.”
They both laughed.
“I was going to say, your enthusiasm for another day.” Filip chuckled.
“Aye, you’re right.” Rosamund sighed. Filip didn’t even need to say whose arrival. He knew. They all knew. Was she so transparent? Apparently. Last month she’d received a missive from Matthew informing her he’d failed in his personal quest and was heading home. Alternately delighted she would see him sooner than she hoped and despondent that his intentions had been thwarted and what that meant, she could scarcely sleep, let alone make chocolate, for thinking about him.
“I just thought . . .” She gazed wistfully toward the doorway. “. . . he might be back today.”
Or the day before, or the one before that . . .
“So did I,” said Filip and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps he’s yet making his way and will find you at Blithe Manor.”
Her face brightened. “Do you think so?”
“Think, sí. 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 toward 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 toward the kitchen. “I suggest you leave by the back door so the Unwise Men”—they both looked toward 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, patronizing 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 toward 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 fueled their ardor. 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 gray 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 with which she’d tended the chocolate house. Somehow Rosamund had sensed the woman’s abilities, even if she hadn’t realized 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 philters, 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 Covent 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, a 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 past 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 inward, 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.