It took all her willpower, all the little tricks she’d learned presiding over the Phoenix and feigning interest she didn’t always feel, not to stare. Here was Matthew, after all this time, safe and sound, returned to her chocolate house. His chocolate house.
Had she imagined the happiness she felt radiating from him when he’d stepped through the door? She knew she hadn’t invented the emotions sweeping through her when she caught sight of him. Lord knew, her feet took on a life of their own, running toward him before she had a chance to think.
She wanted to laugh, weep, hold him, stroke his cheek, bombard him with questions just as the boys were doing, order the patrons out and lock the doors so she might have him all to herself. Mostly, she wanted to hold his hand lest he vanish like the smoke floating about the ceiling. For so long she’d envisaged just this moment, yet it was even better than her wildest conjurings—well, almost. In her wildest, they hadn’t used words to welcome each other . . .
Stop that. Just as Matthew seemed reticent to show his pleasure at seeing her again, amid all her joy, she too felt an unpleasant tug, as if she’d repressed something that only he could liberate.
Then she realized. Of late two men had come back from their respective journeys and in doing so altered her circumstances. With the lease up for renewal soon, there was a chance Matthew might take over the running of the chocolate house himself; then where would she be? Never mind Aubrey bursting onto the scene and demanding his inheritance.
The peace of mind and autonomy her widowhood had brought were ending. As she stayed her impulse to run into his arms and held her emotions in check as a lady should, she remembered Aubrey Blithman and worked to keep the displeasure from her face. She had to tell Matthew he was back from the dead. They might have once been related through marriage, but there was no doubt in her mind Aubrey felt only enmity toward Matthew. The very idea stopped her in her tracks. Made the bile rise in her throat. Poor Matthew. She couldn’t bear to give him such tidings—not yet. Better to keep her distance and tell him after he had time to settle. When they were, please God, alone.
Their reunion lacked the warmth she felt and which she hoped and prayed he shared. Before she could whisper that she would talk properly to him later, he was whisked from her side.
Surreptitiously watching him from the bar as he was surrounded by welcoming faces, she ceded other patrons to Solomon and Thomas and prepared Matthew a bowl of chocolate. If she couldn’t express how she felt with words, she would do it with the drink.
She added everything she knew he enjoyed and carried the tray herself with a fine silver chocolate pot and a new porcelain bowl. The crowd around Matthew melted away as she approached.
Aware of his eyes upon her, she slowly poured the thick chocolate into the prepared bowl and passed it to him carefully.
Their eyes met through the steam and his hands enveloped hers as he took the vessel from her, sending a hot river of longing flowing down her arms, into her middle and infusing her every extremity with fire. All the words of welcome she’d been unable to say rushed out in a laugh of sheer happiness.
Much to her relief, his eyes widened and he too began to laugh, their initial discomfort forgotten. His eyes creased, his hands lingered over hers, and the noise of the room, the press of bodies and the chatter of those around them, faded away. All she knew was a pair of midnight eyes, warm hands, her heated body and their silent conversation.
When he finally took the bowl and blew across the surface, she slid into the booth and sat opposite him. From there she could see that beneath the weariness, the sheer exhaustion of traveling so far for so long, there was also great sadness. Was it because he had failed to deliver the letters? Or something else? Would he tell her? She prayed she was not the cause; while the prospect of his return had stirred a veritable storm of emotions within her, they were nothing compared to how she felt now he was really, truly there. Feelings that the chocolate and her laugh had, devil take them, revealed. It was as if someone had picked her up by the feet and shaken her so all her insides were in confusion.
Meanwhile Matthew recounted the final stages of his journey, how difficult it had been to leave The Hague given the suspicion surrounding English ships with the outbreak of war. It wasn’t until he was vouched for by an Englishman living there, the son of a regicide no less, that he was allowed to leave. (Matthew would later tell Rosamund that though the gentleman, William Scott, was meant to be one of Sir Henry Bennet’s spies, he believed he might be a double agent.)
“It took weeks to reassure them. I wrote I’d be here sooner—”
Rosamund rewarded him with a small smile.
“—but I hadn’t anticipated war being declared. I’m sorry,” he said. “Not for the war, you understand.” He flashed a grin. “That was inevitable. But being so misguided in my timing.”
“Don’t be,” said Rosamund. “All that matters is that you’re back now; you’re safe.”
With that, she left him and returned to her neglected customers. The new ones were curious about the rather disheveled man who had drawn their Rosamund from behind the bar and into a booth, and wished they possessed the power to do the same. The regulars acknowledged Matthew with a glum nod, understanding that he took precedence in Rosamund’s attentions.
It wasn’t until the last customers had departed and the doors had been shut, that Matthew and Rosamund were able to speak. From the kitchen the clatter of washing and cleaning issued, along with chuckles and shrieks as the drawers and Cara prepared for the morrow, supervised by Filip, Solomon and Thomas.
Over a glass of Rhenish, Rosamund was able to tell Matthew what had happened since she last wrote.
When she reached the part about Aubrey’s return, Matthew almost dropped his glass. “Aubrey Blithman? He’s here?” He swung toward Jacopo and Bianca, who were hovering nearby, polishing pots and spoons. They both nodded solemnly.
It was only much later that Rosamund would reflect that Matthew didn’t comment on the extraordinary fact of him being alive.
Matthew placed his hands on the table and stared at them. “Aubrey Blithman is here,” he repeated slowly, as if by saying the words once more he might believe them. “In London.”
“Aye, he is,” said Rosamund carefully. “He’s only been here a few days. He’s taken up residence in Blithe Manor. I can still scarce believe it—”
“Truth, Rosamund, I can scarce believe it myself.” Matthew’s face took on a faraway look, as if his mind had departed his body and was traveling through darker reaches.
When he didn’t speak, Rosamund continued. “He walked into the withdrawing room as if he’d never left.”
Matthew returned to the moment. “And saw you,” he said quietly.
Rosamund nodded.
Matthew began to drum his fingers against the table; a tic in his cheek worked frantically. Rosamund was uncertain what to say. She glanced toward Bianca, who found the chocolate pot she was shining very interesting.
Just when Rosamund thought she must break the silence between them, he began to chuckle. There was no humor in it. “Well, I’ll be Satan’s dalcop . . .” he said.
Rosamund picked up the tale. “He came with Sir Everard’s steward Wat Smithyman in tow. He now serves Aubrey. I believe he was the first to deliver news of his father’s death.”
“I see. Wat . . .” Matthew shook his head in disbelief. “I confess, I hadn’t expected this.” He made a fist and rested it on the table, clenching and unclenching it. “It’s not every day one returns from the dead.”
Rosamund couldn’t help but think how people had an uncanny way of reappearing in her life when she least expected it—look at Tilly and now Aubrey. Why, Matthew had been a revelation in more ways than one.
“I would like very much to see this miracle for myself,” said Matthew and, finishing his wine, slapped his thighs and rose to his feet.
Rosamund leaped to hers in a rush of disappointment that he would consider leaving so soon. “You’re going?”
“Only to my lodgings, my lady. I mean, you have everything under control and, frankly, I could do with a bath, perhaps even a brief rest. It’s been a long day . . . a long . . .” He didn’t finish.
“Of course,” said Rosamund swiftly, wringing her hands. “Forgive me. I just hoped we might . . .” She stopped, unable to meet his eyes. What did she hope?
He rescued her. “I thought I might call upon you at Blithe Manor later tonight, if that would be suitable? Not only will I get to extend my greetings and express my delight at his resurrection to Aubrey, but perhaps you and I can find some time to discuss the chocolate house.”
Rosamund, who’d been expanding inside with every word, almost deflated at the last two. As much as she loved the Phoenix and saw it as an extension of herself, surely they had more to talk about than that, even if it was the bridge that connected them. One bridge.
“That would be . . . most convenient,” said Rosamund, trying not to show the disappointment she felt. “I will tell Aubrey to expect you when I get back to the manor.”
Matthew began to say his farewells. Her spirits soared to think she would see him tonight and again the following day—and, God be praised, every day thereafter. Yet for all the pleasure he expressed at returning, she couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow Matthew was disenchanted.
It couldn’t be with the Phoenix, surely. Why, when he arrived it was filled to the brim and abuzz with men and conversation like bees in St. James’s Park. Something else was bothering him, leaving him downhearted and restless.
Until she mentioned Aubrey Blithman. Then his entire demeanor had undergone a shift, and an expression crossed his face that even now she found puzzling. What was it? A slight widening of his eyes, followed by a furrow of his brow. The bitter laugh. A thinning of his lips and a tic in those fine cheeks. It wasn’t disenchantment; it was resignation. As if he was about to face defeat at the hands of his enemy.
* * *
Upon her return to the manor that evening, Rosamund was met with a house in chaos. The hall was filled with chests, sacks of food from the larder and crates of wine. Maids and footmen ran to and fro throwing armfuls of clothes and linens into an open box here, pushing a wedge of cheese into a straw-filled crate there. In the midst of the mayhem Wat shouted orders to one poor wench, demanding a barrel of beer be brought from the cellar before swinging around to cuff a young footman and then bellowing for Widow Ashe. A slight girl appeared with a brace of stinking pigeons. Wat told her to take it straight out to the coach. Coach?
“What’s going on?” asked Rosamund finally.
“Madam, you’re back,” said Wat.
“I am indeed.” She peered about in amazement. Jacopo lifted a jug of cider from a crate and put it down. Bianca peered into an open chest.
“Leave those,” snapped Wat.
“Please, Wat. What’s all this about?”
“It’s Mr. Aubrey, madam—he’s ordered us to pack up the house. We’re leaving.”
“We? Leaving? But why? What has prompted this?” She swung toward Bianca and Jacopo and back again. “Where’s Ashe?”
Before Wat could answer, there was a cry from the top of the stairs. Much to her astonishment, it was Sam Pepys. “Rosamund! At last. You’re very late. Aubrey was about to send for you.”
“Send for me?”
Before Sam could descend the stairs, Rosamund began to climb them, throwing herself against the rail as two footmen hurtled down carrying what appeared to be some ledgers from Sir Everard’s—Aubrey’s—study.
At the top, she tolerated Sam’s usual kiss before sweeping him aside. “Where’s Aubrey?”
“In the study, sorting whatever bookwork he needs to take with him.”
“Take with him?” Dear God, she was like one of those colorful parrots in the market, repeating everything. For a brief moment, she wondered if Aubrey had decided to return to the New World and was astonished at the wave of relief that swept over her.
Sam stared. “You didn’t know?”
“Know what?”
With a sigh of exasperation, Sam beckoned for her to follow him into the withdrawing room. She’d have preferred to go to the study and confront Aubrey then and there, but nevertheless complied, gesturing for Bianca and Jacopo to follow.
Before Jacopo had even shut the door, Sam began. “I fear this is my fault.”
“What is?” asked Rosamund, moving to the window and glancing out, half expecting to see an exodus of people in the street below.
“Aubrey’s plans,” said Sam. “You see, I came here with the express intention to share with you my sadness at Lady Sandwich’s intended departure from the city. While I think she may be a bit precipitous, when I called at the coffee house on my way—”
Rosamund could have screamed. Sam took forever to get to the point, and asking him to hurry only made things worse. Surrendering to his tale, she threw herself into a chair, nodding toward Jacopo, who held a jug of wine and glasses aloft. She pulled off her hat and gloves and listened.
Sam continued without a pause as he sank into the seat opposite. “I found the place agog with news. Not only were the men prating on about the Dutch movements at sea, but about the plague and all the varying remedies being proposed. You should hear what some are suggesting, Rosamund.” He rolled his eyes. “Purges, balms, balsams, cordials, amulets—as if the blasted smoke from the Lord Mayor’s fires isn’t enough. There are those set to make a fortune from others’ misfortune, you mark my words.”
“I do, Sam, I do.” Rosamund tried hard to keep the exasperation out of her tone. “Which is why I need you to tell me what Aubrey is planning. He’s only just returned, after all. He has a manor to manage, staff to care for, his business . . .”
Sam’s big round eyes blinked. “But I am telling. You see, when I told the Lady Sandwich the latest figures from the Bills of Mortality, she made up her mind there and then to leave the city. When I told Aubrey of her intentions, along with what I overheard in the coffee house, well, he made the decision he would not remain in London a moment longer.”
“Surely he can’t expect everyone to up and leave without warning. Where is he going?”
At that moment, the door flung open. Aubrey appeared, red-faced, his eyes bleary and his entire body reeking of wine. “Anywhere there isn’t plague,” he announced. “Which, I am reliably informed”—he gestured in Sam’s direction and would have fallen had Jacopo not grabbed his arm—“is Oxford.”
“Oxford.” Rosamund started to stand. Had the plague suddenly swept down upon them while they were busy welcoming Matthew back? The Bills were published weekly and available for all who could to read. The last ones she’d seen hadn’t given cause for too much alarm.
“Yes. Oxford,” said Aubrey, snatching his arm from Jacopo. “I have it on good authority—not yours this time, Sam—that when the court defects, which will no doubt be any moment, it will be to Oxford. I want us outside the city gates before they shut.” He flapped his arms. “Hurry, hurry. Go and change and pack whatever you deem essential for a long stay. I’ll not set foot in London again until this dreaded visitation has well and truly passed.” He burped. “I didn’t survive the threat of assassins, numerous ocean voyages, the presence of New World savages, let alone reports of my demise, to be beaten by a disease.”
Rosamund stared at Aubrey and Sam in disbelief. “But . . . but . . . what about the house? The servants?”
Aubrey blinked. “What about them? One will care for the other. Now, go to. I am not a patient man.”
Rosamund gazed helplessly at Bianca and Jacopo. Dear God. This was madness. She couldn’t just up and leave. Aubrey had only recently acquired his father’s empire, but she had people who relied on her, a business to run, a household to oversee. What did he mean, one will care for the other? Could he be so indifferent in the face of something he so evidently feared? She wanted to protest, appeal to his better self, but the words became knotted. At last, something wriggled free.
“You cannot depart. Mr. Lovelace intends to call,” she sputtered. Even to her ears, that sounded lame.
Wat chose that moment to enter the room. “Ah, there you are, sir. I need—”
“Lovelace?” interrupted Aubrey, holding up his hand to prevent Wat from continuing. “Coming here?” He gripped the mantel. “Matthew Lovelace? I thought he’d left these shores for good.”
“Not for good. But for a purpose,” said Rosamund. “He’s back and intends to call upon you this evening.”
Aubrey shot a look at Wat, who arched a brow.
“Well then, all the more reason to go,” he said and pushed himself away from the mantel. “Immediately. I’ve no desire to see the man responsible for the death of my father.”
He began to pace, his voice growing more forceful with every step. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, Rosamund. First you work for the man and now you have the gall to invite him to my house. I might be forced to tolerate this chocolate house and your unhealthy obsession with the drink, but I’ll not tolerate his presence—certainly not under my roof.” He swung toward her, shouting, “Do you hear me?” Aubrey’s chest heaved; his eyes started from his head.
Sam gazed at him in astonishment.
Rosamund lowered her chin.
“Sir,” began Wat, “the coach is ready. The horses too.”
“Yes. Yes,” said Aubrey, panting. “I know.” He took a deep breath and held out a hand in a conciliatory gesture. “Come. We’ve wasted enough time. We must be going.”
Rosamund looked from his hand to his face. “I would not wish to affect your plans, sir. I am grateful for the offer to accompany you, but I decline. I will await Mr. Lovelace in your absence.”
“What?” roared Aubrey, slamming his fist upon the mantelpiece. “No. No. No. No. What do you think this is? An excursion to the country?” Wat tried to steady him, but Aubrey shook him off. “Who gives a damn about Lovelace? This is a matter of life and death.”
“I well understand that, sir. My life, my death and those I am responsible for.” She gestured to Bianca, Jacopo and Ashe.
Aubrey’s face turned a peculiar shade of vermillion and his eyes narrowed. He pointed at Bianca then Jacopo. “This isn’t about Lovelace at all, is it? You’ll not leave them.” Spittle flew. “Have you forgotten who you are? My father may have raised you out of the gutter, but you’re a Blithman now, Lady Blithman.” His voice rose an octave. “You’re still under my control and you’ll do as you’re damn well told. Go and gather your things. If you don’t, then you’ll just have to make do with what you’re wearing. I care not.”
Shrinking the distance between them, Rosamund stood before him. Uncertain where her courage came from, she didn’t question it but used it to fire her words.
“You’re mistaken, Aubrey. Your father didn’t raise me out of the gutter but lifted me off a road. A road I chose of my own volition, taking my own path.” He didn’t need to know the details, and Rosamund was certain Jacopo wasn’t about to enlighten him. Drawing herself up, her chocolate eyes flashed. “And yes, I am Lady Blithman and as such, I take my responsibilities to the name, and my staff and my friends, very seriously. You’re right. This is nothing to do with Mr. Lovelace, and everything to do with my duty to those who need me. You go if you wish, but I intend to remain.”
For just a fraction of a moment, a cat’s whisker of time, Rosamund thought Aubrey might strike her. Perhaps he intended to, but with Sam present, he wisely changed his mind. His features rearranged themselves from incandescent rage to iron control as her refusal sank in. The color left his cheeks; the fury in his eyes dimmed. He glanced at Jacopo and Bianca with resentment and disgust before his gaze returned to Rosamund. He appeared to vacillate.
“Sir,” said Wat, plucking at his sleeve. “If we don’t leave soon, the gates’ll be closing.” He shuffled closer. “There are four parishes within the walls affected now. Remember what Mr. Pepys told us: he saw some houses shut up on the way here—with his own peepers.”
“Only one or two,” added Sam meekly.
Disbelief at Rosamund’s decision transformed to fear. Self-preservation won. Rosamund didn’t move.
With a roar, Aubrey dashed his glass at the hearth, narrowly missing Sam. It shattered, a musical rain as it struck the metal grate. “Very well, you little fool. Have it your own way. Stay. Stay and risk being condemned by your own stubbornness.” He began to stamp out of the room, an overindulged child whose wishes had been thwarted. At the last moment he swung around and wagged a finger at her.
“Don’t you forget, when you’re ravaged by sickness, when you’re crying out for a friend, that I could have saved you. That I would have spared you . . .”
“I won’t,” said Rosamund.
“I will look to her, Aubrey,” said Sam gallantly.
His eyes flicked toward the naval clerk then fixed on Bianca and Jacopo.
“If the pestilence doesn’t kill you,” he said between clenched teeth, “I want you gone by the time I return, do you hear? I don’t care that you belong to her, I don’t care what she fills your barbarian heads with, she chose you above sense, above family. Therefore, you’re no longer welcome in this house, in my presence. Understood?”
With an elegance Aubrey and his fiery, cruel words didn’t deserve, Jacopo bowed and Bianca curtseyed. “Yes, my lord,” they said in unison, their accents flattened into the broad syllables of English.
“Look after the damn house, then,” he said to Rosamund.
Despite the heat of the moment, Rosamund felt a laugh mixed with tears start to build.
Aubrey stormed from the room and down the stairs, followed by Wat. The others stood in silence listening to Aubrey shouting orders as doors crashed, servants grunted as they hoisted the last of whatever he demanded into the conveyance he’d hired. Jacopo poured them each a wine, then carefully picked up the broken glass. Drifting to the window, Rosamund saw the moment the carriage took off down the street, its roof laden with boxes, the curtains and shutters drawn. Wat sat up beside the driver. Aubrey rode alongside it on a fine pale horse with a tidy mane and a high step. People moved out of its way and Aubrey used his crop to discourage their proximity, urging the beast to a speed that had no place on such a crowded street.
Soon he was out of sight.
Once again, the manor was hers, the manor and responsibility for all who dwelled beneath its roof. And who’d have thought Sam would be so principled? She felt a rush of warmth toward him. Not only had he stood by her but he had offered to watch over her in Aubrey’s absence. It was more than her stepson had been prepared to do. Not that she could really blame him. When plague threatened, no one in their right mind would remain if they had the option to flee.
Why, she must be quite mad, then. Mad enough to stay, mad enough to choose to align herself with those who’d done nothing but cleave to her side these past years. She could no more leave them than ask for her head to depart her shoulders.
When Ashe found them shortly after, they invited her to join them as they sat around the table, sharing shy, knowing looks. Moonlight pierced the curtains, mellowing the room. Outside, the evening bells tolled nine of the clock and a flock of pigeons settled in the eaves across the road, their cooing an adieu to the day.
“Well,” said Rosamund as the house slowly returned to normal, the scurrying of the maids and footmen ceasing. Doors shut without being slammed and windows were opened and curtains pulled back to allow the cool evening breezes (and the ever-present smoke) to enter. “If I’d known the lengths Aubrey would go to in order to avoid seeing Mr. Lovelace, I would never have invited him over.”
There was a beat, then first Bianca, then Jacopo and Rosamund burst out laughing. Ashe smiled and buried her head. Sam was not quite sure what was so funny, as Mr. Lovelace’s return was no cause for humor to him, but nevertheless he couldn’t help joining in, the laughter was so infectious.
That was how Matthew found them only minutes later, bent over in gales of helpless mirth, tears streaming down their cheeks as beams of silvery light struck them, making them appear both lunatic and slightly ephemeral at the same time. As if the Holy Spirit had already claimed them.