Despite being away so long, Matthew’s first impressions were that nothing appeared to have changed in the river city. Better than anyone, he knew how looks could be deceiving, and even if London seemed to be operating under the principle of business as usual, it had changed—the last two hours he’d spent at Whitehall delivering his report on the situation in Holland to His Majesty and Sir Henry Bennet and his sidekick, Joseph Williamson, were enough to alert him to that. But it was what he saw and heard for himself as he strode the halls of the palace, the taut anxiety beneath the whispers, the false bravado—not about the worsening hostilities as he’d anticipated, but about the pestilence—that gave him cause for alarm.
Pushing aside thoughts of sickness, grateful to have executed his duty to King and country, Matthew gazed around, drinking in the sights from his vantage point upon a wherry. The sky was a cloudless blue, the church spires, which looked more like scaffolding designed to keep the heavens aloft, shone in the sun’s glorious rays. The mud-brown river was filled with craft determined to make the best of the weather, though, according to the boatman, ever since spring took hold the sun had been a regular companion.
“So,” Matthew said to his one-eyed boatman, an old sailor by the look of the many scars that bit into the flesh of his arms and neck, “what have you heard of this pestilence?”
The boatman gave him a grim look. “I hear it has taken some forty lives thus far, sir. All but one being outside London’s walls, in St. Giles in the Field, St. Clement Danes and the like. No one credits ’em much, neither the dead nor their parishes, and by no one, I mean them rich coves what you be talking to back at Whitehall. The likes of them never does ’less they be afflicted, does they?”
In the main, the boatman had the right of it, Matthew thought. Providing the plague stayed among the poor, it was unlikely too much would be done. There were even those among the Council who regarded the pestilence as a way of controlling the underclass. He’d heard them with his own ears. He might yet write about such a cruel and ungodly notion.
“What’s the cause of all the smoke?” asked Matthew, nodding toward great gray pillars rising around the city and soaring into the heavens.
The boatman followed the direction of his gaze. “Bonfires. Lit by order of the Lord Mayor. He insisted they be struck and the streets kept clean. Until the King moves court, we don’t ’ave much to worry about. Once His Majesty goes, I’ll reconsider my view. If there’s one thing we all know, it’s that fuckin’ royalty are like rats—they’ll desert a sinkin’ ship.”
Maneuvering the wherry as close to the riverbank as he could, the boatman rested the prow on the moss-covered stairs with his oar. “Still, doesn’t hurt to be cautious, does it? Go with God, sir, and avoid crowds, that’s my advice.” He held up a jar with a few inches of grubby-looking liquid in it and indicated Matthew was to put his payment inside. As he dropped in the coins, the tang of vinegar was evident. Already such precautions were deemed necessary.
Matthew knew he should go to his lodgings and wash, erase some of the travels from his clothes and body, but he had only one thought, and that was the Phoenix. Convincing himself it was because he’d been too long away from his business and that he needed to be there in case the precious cargoes he’d sent back from Jamaica and Spain were delivered, he refused to contemplate that a pair of brown eyes and sweet dimples also called to him.
It was midday before Matthew entered the familiar stones of Birchin Lane. Rather than increasing his pace now his goal was near, he slowed and thought about his ship, the Odyssey, anchored midriver near Gravesend as officialdom dealt with crew and cargo. He hoped the sailors would soon be allowed ashore and that the younger of the men heeded Captain Browning’s warning about press-gangs. That was a subject upon which he intended to write again—the misery of impressment. He’d encountered too many broken boys and men on his ventures, snatched from their lives and forced onto ships and into battle before they’d time to catch their breath.
The bell over the door of the bookshop rang prettily as he entered, and he was grateful for the respite from the heat. He could hear Will talking with some customers. Matthew climbed the stairs, then hesitated on the threshold of the chocolate house and took a deep breath.
The bowl of coins was in its usual position. The room was a cacophony of voices and song. A recitation was occurring to his right. Near the window to his left, a game of cards was in progress. Laughter rang out and then a shout as a candle auction finished. God, he’d not seen one of those in an age. Cheers erupted and men stood, clapping one another soundly on the back. There was a call for drinks.
A few at the nearest booth looked up and saw him. “What news?” cried one, ever quick to be the first.
Before he could respond, another voice rose above the others.
“Matthew?” Pure, sweet and with a joyous inflection that rang with disbelief and hope all at once, it floated above all other sounds.
His eyes slid from the men waiting to hear his news to search for the lips bearing his name.
In all his imaginings, he hadn’t pictured her like this. A lush, pearly-haired goddess with rosy cheeks, vibrant, flashing eyes and laughing mouth made her way toward him, acknowledging those who would detain her, including some young rakes who reached out in yearning. She smiled them aside and with a mere touch of her slender fingers parted shoulders the way God did oceans. Her forest-green dress made her look like a sylvan goddess come to play among the mortals.
Speechless, he watched her draw closer, seeming to float toward him, her skirts flowing, her smile radiant. All that lay between them was a few feet of wooden floor. Smoke swirled and teased.
His voice was trapped in his throat. The remnants of his broken heart rode a tide of such longing, they stole his welcome. Instead, he held out his arms and, with a cry of wonder and delight, Rosamund Blithman, once the wife of his mortal enemy, flew into them.
At least, that was how their reunion played out in his imagination. The reality was, she stopped a few feet short of him, the expression on her face altering from joy to remembrance to distaste. The arms he’d started to raise dropped to his sides.
Curtseying before him, she said, “May God give you good day, sir,” as if he were a stranger.
He bowed, remembering at the last moment to sweep off his hat, a lance of hurt slicing his chest. “And you too, my lady.”
They stared at each other awkwardly. Her mouth moved. His too, but neither spoke.
“Welcome back,” she said finally, looking uncertain.
Before he could reply, Filip came and slapped him on the back, embracing him as he wished other arms had, and planting kisses on both his cheeks and firing questions at him. Jacopo appeared, as did Harry. Hodge and the other boys hung off his arms, all talking at once and bumping his wretched satchel. Desperate to ask Rosamund what was wrong, he did not have the chance as he was swiftly escorted through the chocolate house and hailed by familiar faces.
All too soon he was sat in his favorite booth, surrounded by those eager to hear his stories.
Oh, he was back all right, he thought, as he nodded to all and sundry. But, as he began to tell of his adventures, his eyes strayed toward Rosamund behind the bar, her anxious face appraising him. Was he really welcome?