Not a day passed without rumors reaching them of more deaths, more houses being marked and their inhabitants quarantined. Each Tuesday, when the Bills of Mortality were published, they’d scan them anxiously to find out where the pestilence had spread. Throughout July the number of dead grew and the bells, which rang for each one, never ceased their tolling. What had once marked the passage of time became a continuous dirge, matched only by the carters’ cries of “bring out your dead” as they moved through the streets. A pall of gloom and terror hunched over the city.
It didn’t matter how warm it was, Rosamund felt a chill run through her every time those words carried up to the chocolate house or penetrated the walls of Blithe Manor.
So far, God be praised, they’d been spared the illness. Still following the plague orders, she moved between the chocolate house and Bishopsgate Street with relative ease. The once-crowded streets had grown quiet apart from the rumble of the dead carts and the murmurs of watchmen. The familiar sounds of the barrow-boys and milkmaids crying their wares were gone. No dogs barked their greetings; cats no longer prowled. Hackney carriages, sedan chairs and other conveyances ceased to roll along the cobbles, which sprouted grass and weeds.
Each day Jacopo, Bianca and Rosamund rose before dawn and went to the Phoenix, only going home once night had fallen. Neither the dark of evening nor the muted light of predawn could disguise the stench of sickness, or the sight of the watery red crosses painted on so many doors.
The chains across quarantined houses glimmered warnings, as did the pikes of the guards securing them, who cast steely looks at those passing by. The wails of those trapped inside were heart-wrenching as they mourned their dead and anticipated their own likely fates. They would lean from upper windows and shout to God, or to the few passersby, begging for release, succor, even forgiveness. Some spat vitriol. Others just spat. Once divided by wealth and birth, the city was now cleft by whether a person was healthy or ill. Homes became tombs. It was almost more than Rosamund could bear, but she had to stay brave and true. She had to.
Oft times Matthew would accompany them home, trying to entertain them with tales from his voyages. Sticking to the middle of the road, they steered well clear of doorways, the thresholds any contamination might cross. Once at Blithe Manor, they would retreat to the withdrawing room with a decanter of sack (recommended as a preventative) and discuss the day, how many customers they’d had, who’d fled the city, who remained and who they feared might be struck down next. It was on these occasions that Rosamund gradually drew from Matthew the story of his childhood and his family.
Born a gentleman from a long line of knights, he had a stipend provided by an uncle, a resident of the colony of New York who had the favor of the royal family, and rents from lands he inherited in Kent. She already knew his father was a poet, but what she didn’t know was that Matthew had trained as a lawyer and had disappointed his family by not being called to the bar. Prior to meeting the Blithmans, he’d dabbled in trade via the East India Company, but mainly as a cover for the work he did spying for the King while he was in exile—a role that continued once His Majesty was restored. Initially, his job as a correspondent had served the same purpose, as he coded messages for the government into his reports. He was intending to reduce his spying work and write in earnest for Muddiman when, as a consequence of a commission he was given by the Lord Chancellor, he crossed paths with the Blithmans.
Matthew asked Rosamund about her life before London. While she was most forthcoming about her early life at Bearwoode with her grandmother, the steward Master Dunstan and the jolly if strict servants, she was reluctant to share much about her years at the Maiden Voyage Inn. Matthew didn’t press her, changing the subject when she grew quiet.
If there was one topic which obsessed everyone, it was the pestilence. People pored over the news sheets and Bills of Mortality to see if their parish was under threat; many resorted to what Filip called “quack” cures to protect them. Every day Rosamund heard conflicting advice: burning juniper, purging, drinking urine and eating excrement or rancid meat, taking regular doses of London Elixir, keeping a gold coin in the mouth—preferably from Elizabeth’s reign—or wearing a quill filled with quicksilver around the neck. Sam chewed tobacco; other men did all they could to contract the pox, also believed a preventative, bedding as many trulls as possible. While other businesses suffered, the oldest profession thrived.
Mr. Henderson wryly noted that while in the official news sheets L’Estrange downplayed the plague, he also sold advertising for curatives.
The practice of quarantining the healthy with the sick was widely condemned. One pamphlet, The Shutting Up of Infected Houses, as it is Practised in England, soberly debated, circulated in the chocolate house. It referred to “this dismal likeness of Hell, contrived by the College of Physicians” and railed against a barbarism that did more to increase the number of dead than protect the living. Matthew didn’t put his name to it, and though his words provoked great discussion and much sympathy, nothing changed.
Rosamund marveled at Matthew’s commitment, his need to challenge ineffectual authority that was more concerned with protecting those who could already protect themselves. Gone was the man who once noted all things trivial, replaced by someone determined to seek justice for those who could not do it for themselves. Knowing she was partly to blame for the risks he was taking, she did what she could to help him.
For all the chocolate house was a dreaded meeting place, it appeared to be one the men were prepared to tolerate, even if they did carry pomanders stuffed with aromatic herbs. Since the beginning of July, health certificates attesting one was not infected had been issued by the hundreds from the Lord Mayor’s office so folk might leave London; these now also became essential to gain entry to the Phoenix. Rosamund had expected objections, but instead the patrons were grateful for the care being exercised to safeguard them and showed their appreciation by bringing friends who had also obtained certificates.
That gave Rosamund food for thought. If the men were healthy now, perhaps there were other measures she could take to ensure they stayed that way.
Rereading Colmenero’s treatise on chocolate, and the work of Henry Stubbe, she extracted any information from them regarding both preventatives and restoratives. From one of the patrons, she heard of an apothecary named William Boghurst, who, despite going into houses and treating the suffering, survived to tell his tales. Located at the White Hart alehouse in Drury Lane, he swore by nutmeg, an additive Dr. Nathaniel Hodges also used to great effect. Rosamund ordered some from her apothecary immediately.
Along with extra sugar, vanilla and even some ground fennel, which gave strength, Rosamund put pinches of wood sorrel for joy, mugwort for happiness and celandine for joy to come, as well as the all-important nutmeg, in every single bowl of chocolate they served. No one noticed her little inclusions, so subtle were they—no one except Matthew and Filip. Yet after the patrons downed a drink, they certainly seemed less worried than when they arrived. Their friends wondered how they could be so calm in the face of the calamity all around them, especially as the bells rang and rang and the starving begged upon the streets. Customers would mention the chocolate they’d drunk at the Phoenix and how well it made them feel. Rumors began of an elixir made of chocolate prepared by a smiling angel that could not only chase away sorrow and fear, but possibly the plague as well.
For a time, they were inundated with new customers and orders for deliveries of chocolate cakes. They rose to meet the challenge, grateful for anything that could keep their own growing despair at bay, anything that could help ease distress.
* * *
August came, and with it the numbers of dead and dying became so great neither the bells nor the graveyards could keep up. Huge pits were dug outside the city walls and cartloads of corpses flung into them and sprinkled with lime.
The air was thick with the sickly sweet odor of necrosis; flies multiplied as did the worms crawling through the rotting corpses.
Sometimes when she walked home Rosamund would see the bodies of the afflicted collapsed in the street. The dead had a strange gray tinge to their flesh, broken by the huge, suppurating mulberry and onyx tokens on their necks. The stench of unwashed, decaying bodies attracted swarms of flies and crows. Some swelled and burst in the heat, their entrails spread about them like a putrid skirt. Some were still alive, too ill to move or call out for aid. Rosamund would mutter prayers for their swift release and divert her eyes and stopper up her tears. She’d already shed so many. There were even those who ran, shucking off their clothes as they passed, hollering and dancing. Shouting to God or whoever would listen, they were oddly joyous in their abandon but deadly in their potential to infect. Everyone gave these folk a wide berth.
As if despair over the pestilence itself wasn’t enough, rumors soon spread about the plague nurses and the searchers, many of them old women admitted to houses to confirm a diagnosis and, later, a death for parish records. Some not only stole from the dead, but on occasion ended a life so they might take something of value. There was a story of a young gentlewoman being smothered, another of a man having his nose and mouth held till he passed away. A few women were caught and whipped, but most were not. After all, they were doing a job no one else was prepared to do. Along with the animal catchers, mortuary cart drivers, gravediggers and watchmen, they prospered from the misery. Few begrudged them that—not then.
Believing the plague to be a manifestation of divine displeasure, people were encouraged, against all good sense and warnings against crowds, to continue going to church. But the greater the numbers in the churches, the more people contracted the sickness.
Rosamund had given up going to church and freed the household from any obligation to do so, promising to pay their fines when the outbreak passed—if it ever would. There were days where she felt as if she’d woken into an apocalyptic nightmare from which there was no escape. Yet within Blithe Manor it was easy to feel as if everything were normal. Apart from a scarcity of certain foods, there was an order to the mornings and evenings that was interrupted only by the hours she spent at the Phoenix. But even that became a matter of routine.
Sam, who would call by as often as his work allowed, treated the disease as an inconvenience to be tolerated. In his hard-heartedness he was reassuringly unaffected by events—happy even. He appeared oddly content, boasting of his new appointments—treasurer to the Tangier Committee and surveyor-general of the victualing of the Navy. When he was admitted to the Royal Society, he celebrated by purchasing a twelve-foot telescope. He even went to Moorfields to see the plague pits for himself, as one might attend the theater. His ghoulish descriptions allowed him to hold court at the Phoenix, and he relished the attention.
However, when he finally moved his household to Woolwich to keep them safe while remaining in the capital himself, Rosamund wondered at the wisdom of keeping the chocolate house open.
Every day she and Matthew reassessed their decision. The arguments were always the same: If they shut, what would happen to Wolstan, Harry, Owen, Art, Kit and Cara? They didn’t have the resources to look after themselves and their families without the wages they drew. The number of customers had gradually declined, but there were still those who made a point of attending once a day, drinking their chocolate, sharing news, including the brave (some said foolhardy) Dr. Nathaniel Hodges; the nonconformist rector Thomas Vincent; John Allin and two of the Three Unwise Men (the eldest, young Sir Roger Catesby, having fled in the first week—not even Rosamund was enough to keep him in London); a Highlander, Grant McSearle, who picked the wrong time to come to the city, adopted the Phoenix, along with the jovial clerk Peter Goddard. Kit’s and Owen’s fathers would also attend.
Thomas Bloodworth, who, it was rumored, would be the next mayor, oft made an appearance along with Sir Henry Bennet, who made the odd discreet trip from Oxford. After reassuring himself as to Rosamund’s well-being, he would find Matthew and disappear with him into a booth, where they would discourse in low tones. And then there was Mr. Henderson. And Sam. What Matthew and Rosamund silently conceded was that they needed the Phoenix to remain open as much as anyone else.
With anxiety gnawing their stomachs, they fiercely checked certificates of health, praying that the bearers were still pestilence-free and refusing to admit those in possession of obvious forgeries.
A slight cough, a complaint about a megrim or the heat, would give them all pause. A strange new etiquette developed where the drawers would leave the bowls and pots on the edge of the tables instead of placing them in front of customers, for fear they might breathe on them. The cost of admission was no longer thrown into a bowl, but a large jar of vinegar. No one objected.
Mid-August, Sam brought news that the Navy Office was moving to Greenwich. Along with the Treasury and other government organizations, they sought the safety of distance. The impact was felt directly by the Phoenix—some days they were lucky to have a dozen patrons come through the door. Not even Sir Henry visited anymore. Still they remained open and stubbornly adhered to routines, celebrated the small things and tried to make sure the plague didn’t cross their threshold.
So when Wolstan didn’t show up for work one day, they made excuses for his absence. When a scruffy young fellow gave Mr. Henderson a note to take upstairs for “the lady” midafternoon, claiming it was from Wolstan’s mother, the workers gathered around Rosamund as she read it.
She raised her eyes from the hastily scrawled note, the color fleeing from her face as she passed it to Matthew, who’d followed Mr. Henderson into the kitchen.
“I’m afraid Wolstan is sick,” she said.
Cara gasped and covered her mouth. Art, Kit, Harry, Owen and Thomas all moved apart and began surreptitious examinations of one another. Solomon looked at his father, who reached over and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
Rosamund quickly thought about the last time she had really paid attention to Wolstan. He’d seemed fine yesterday, perhaps a little distracted, but weren’t they all? He’d served the few who entered along with Kit, and she recalled he’d played a game of cards with Art and Mr. Henderson. She looked toward them—Art was staring at his hands, frowning. Mr. Henderson was shaking his head. She wondered who else among them had worked closely with him, if they’d shared a bowl, a cloth, anything other than cards. As she looked around, it was clear they were all doing the same thing, trying to recall their interactions.
“We must go to him,” said Rosamund, pushing away her misgivings. What’s done cannot be undone, wasn’t that what Lady Macbeth said to her husband? She’d been terrified this day would come, and now it had.
Gathering some cakes of chocolate, she searched desperately for a cloth to wrap them in and a basket, anything to keep her mind off what Wolstan’s illness signified.
“We’ll take him food, drinks, medick.” She whirled around helplessly. “He has a mother, siblings. His father is at sea, so he’ll be fine—”
“Rosamund,” said Matthew, forcing her to stop. She stared but didn’t really see him. Dear God, Wolstan.
Matthew spoke softly. “We will ensure he has whatever nourishment and potions he needs—he and his family—but you’ll not be delivering the necessities to him. I don’t want you going anywhere near his house.”
“I cannot ask anyone else to do it on my behalf, Matthew,” she argued, pushing a stray lock of hair back under her cap.
“You don’t have to. I intend to make the delivery.”
“You? But . . .”
“Pack what you think they might need,” he said before she could protest further, “and I will deliver it. He lives in the parish of St. Stephen Coleman Street, does he not?” There was not a spark of fear in those jeweled eyes, no indication the thought of entering one of the most afflicted parishes in London chilled him.
Standing straighter, she decided she would not show fear either, however much it gnawed away at her insides. “Aye, not too far from the church—next door to the sign of the bull and hen.”
“I will go with you,” said Jacopo, glancing at Bianca, who nodded her approval.
“Me too,” said Mr. Henderson. “Why not?” he replied to Rosamund’s unasked question. “Even books are considered carriers these days. No one enters my shop anymore. I may as well make myself useful. Anyway, he’s a good lad. Beat me at Primo often enough.”
With Cara’s and Bianca’s help, Rosamund quickly packed a basket with bread, cheese, eggs and some cold eel pie. Alongside the already wrapped cakes of chocolate she also ensured there was nutmeg, mugwort and other herbs she prayed would be efficacious. “Here,” she said, passing it to Matthew. “Make sure you tell him, or his mother, to put a pinch of all the herbs into the drinks.”
“I will.”
“Oh, and tell them to burn juniper and whatever else they have at hand. Smoke is meant to repel the disease.”
“I will tell them that and more,” reassured Matthew, bestowing a smile filled with kindness, patience and something that made her think of fresh blooms opening even as death knocked at the door.
Though they all walked abroad every day to and from the chocolate house, the fact Matthew was willing to enter an infected area to offer succor filled her with a mixture of trepidation and pride.
“Go with God,” she said, her words including Jacopo and Mr. Henderson as well. “And hurry back as if the devil is snapping at your heels.”
Much to her astonishment, Matthew drew nearer and tilted forward. One moment there was three feet between them, the next, his mouth rushed toward her. A delicious wave of heat rolled over her, banishing her unease and stirring parts of her body as if the molinillo were twisting them one way then the other. Caught unawares, she braced herself. But he never did reach her lips, only whispered against her ear, “You be careful too, my lady. Now more than ever.” And moved away.
Bereft, pink-cheeked and grateful that Matthew, for all his fine qualities, was not a mind reader, she cleared her throat and, not trusting herself to speak, flapped her apron to send him on his way. The expression in his eyes as he drew back confused her, as did her own response to what she had thought—prayed, in her secret heart—was about to happen, and the wave of disappointment when it did not.
For the rest of the afternoon, though her mind was focused on Wolstan, Matthew, Jacopo and Mr. Henderson, she continued to prepare chocolate, occasionally revisiting the sensations a mere gesture had ignited. How was it possible to feel such . . . such pleasure? As if someone had poured chocolate into her bloodstream, filling her with such delicious anticipation. How was this possible when calamity was all about her? Matthew had never intended to kiss her. It would have been foolish in the extreme when contagion raged around them. And yet, what if he never did? She froze. What if the opportunity never arrived? The very idea left her more disconsolate than she had a right to be.
Puzzled at her reaction and forcing herself to send prayers that Wolstan would survive, she was utterly distracted. Not even the customers with whom she politely discoursed, or the clumsy lines two of the remaining Unwise Men left, were enough to break her reverie.
A few hours later, there was still no word. The chocolate house had been empty awhile. The workers sat about reading old news sheets, flipping through books, whispering together. The cards Wolstan had dealt the day before sat in a neglected pile. Restless, Rosamund went to the windows.
Immediately, she spied Matthew and Jacopo, running as if the devil were indeed snapping at their heels.
“They’re coming,” she said, a foul taste flooding her mouth.
It was only as she heard the chime of the doorbell below that it occurred to her there’d been no sign of Mr. Henderson. Before she could ponder what that meant, there were boots on the stairs.
Matthew burst through the door, his face shiny and red, his hair stuck to his forehead. Rivulets of sweat ran down Jacopo’s face as he bent over and clutched his knees, breathing heavily.
Rosamund slowed then stopped as Matthew held out a warning hand. “No further, please.”
Cold gripped Rosamund followed by a rush of virulent heat. She peered over his shoulder at the empty doorway. “Where’s Mr. Henderson?”
The others waited a safe distance away.
Matthew shook his head. “I’m afraid I bear more bad tidings, my lady.”
Rosamund swallowed. Her face was warm, her heart was beating a tattoo. “Go on.” Her voice was unrecognizable.
“Wolstan is dead.” There were gasps. Rosamund’s hand flew to her mouth. Cara wailed and sat down heavily on a bench, her face in her hands as her shoulders began to shake. Matthew shot her a look of sorrow. “I’m so sorry. We were too late. He died before we could get there. The nurse had already been and gone. The house . . . is secured. But there’s worse.” Jacopo found a seat, staring blankly at the floor, ignoring the sweat dripping from his face to fall between his boots.
“Where’s Mr. Henderson?” repeated Rosamund quietly.
Matthew grimaced. “That’s what I am loath to tell you. As we returned from Wolstan’s, he took ill. One moment, he seemed fine, then he became dizzy, unable to walk. We, that is, Jacopo and I, delivered him to his house, saw him to bed, gave him what comforts we could and notified the authorities—”
Bianca gasped and reached for Rosamund. Jacopo raised his head and stared at his sister before his eyes slid to Filip. There was a low moan. Filip stepped forward; Bianca stopped him.
“We left the basket with him, Rosamund. Wolstan’s family—” Despair cast a shadow across his face. “They were beyond help.”
Rosamund and Matthew gazed at each other in a silence that spoke volumes. Rosamund drew a long, shuddering breath. Mr. Henderson. So suddenly . . . just like the coach driver Sam had encountered.
“What do we do?” she asked finally.
“We?” Matthew gave a dry laugh. “We do nothing. What I want you to do is take Bianca, Filip, Thomas and Solomon”—he pointed to them in turn—“and leave. Cara, Harry, Owen, Kit and Art, you’re to take what you need along with enough wages to last a few weeks and get away from here as fast as you can.”
They all stared at one another in wide-eyed shock.
“I’ve no choice. We . . .” He gave that half laugh once more. “That is, Jacopo and I, we held Mr. Henderson, assisted him. We entered his dwelling, breathed the very same air. Do you know what that means?”
They did. “But, Matthew,” protested Rosamund, her heart sinking. “We’re all at risk. Wolstan, Mr. Henderson—they worked beside us; they were among us.”
Cara cried harder. Rosamund returned the pressure of Bianca’s hand. They were hurting each other in their desperation to remain upright, to not fall and fail now.
Matthew nodded gravely. “They were. But Wolstan looks to have caught the disease at home. Mr. Henderson, well, apart from playing cards with Wolstan yesterday”—he didn’t mention Art—“had the bar or a table between himself and the rest of you. Jacopo and I discussed this all the way from his house. We can do one of two things: alert the authorities and be shut in here even though no one has sickened at the Phoenix, or go to our homes and wait to see if the disease manifests. If you go, then maybe, God willing, you have a chance. If we keep away from you, maybe we all do.”
Rosamund shook her head.
“I won’t risk you.” His eyes locked on Rosamund. “Any of you,” he said, looking at each in turn. “Not if I can help it. I won’t risk anyone anymore. Lest this place be responsible, I’m closing the chocolate house. I think you’ll agree, Rosamund, I—that is, we—have no choice.”
Once more, he sought to include her—Jacopo too—in his decision-making. It was right that he should not bear the weight of this alone.
Her mind was afire. She looked about the room and took in the wisps of smoke and steam curling around one another in an unhealthy courante, like doomed lovers. The empty tables seemed desolate; the well-thumbed news sheets and the curling edges of the Bills of Mortality glared at her accusingly.
“We have no choice,” she said.
Matthew flashed her a sad smile.
“What about you?” she asked finally. “You . . . and Jacopo?” Bianca inhaled sharply. “What will you do?”
Matthew and Jacopo looked grim. “We will stay here.” Upending the jar of coin, uncaring as vinegar pooled across the table and dribbled onto the floor, he cast it to one side. What did anything matter now? “Take what you need from here.” He gestured to the drawers and Cara. “Rosamund, can you see they do not go short?”
Shaking herself out of the heaviness that weighted her limbs to the spot, and slowly releasing Bianca, she went to gather foodstuffs, herbs and chocolate cakes to wrap in cloths for everyone. Bianca and Filip helped. Bianca pressed her lips together, her eyes suspiciously moist, as she worked. Filip looked broken. Leaving them to finish, Rosamund sourced additional coins.
Cara wiped away tears as Bianca gave her a wrapped cake and Rosamund passed over extra money. “Oh, my lady, Bianca, sir.” She bit back a sob and swung toward Matthew. “How . . . how will we know when it’s all right to come back?”
Matthew thought for a moment. “When the door downstairs is open again. While it remains shut, you’re to keep your distance—all of you. Look to your own. Do you understand? What’s important now is you keep clear of anyone you suspect might be infected.” He paused. “I pray you will be safe. With all my heart I do.”
Glances were exchanged. Harry brushed his forearm across his face. Rosamund wanted nothing more than to ruffle his hair, yet dared not.
Fearful and sad all at once, the boys and Cara took the coin from the table and, with plaintive farewells and anguished looks toward Rosamund, Filip, Solomon, Thomas, Bianca, Jacopo and Matthew, clattered down the stairs. She could hear their subdued farewells to one another and the tinkle of the doorbell as they left.
Rosamund knew she must take the others to safety, yet also wished she could remain. If her final days were near, she wanted to be here. But she was Lady Blithman and had to do what was best for everyone.
If it was best.
“Come along then,” she said with forced brightness, clapping her hands and fooling no one. “Let’s be moving too.”
Matthew flashed her a look of gratitude.
As she turned to collect her hat from Bianca, she was astonished to see Jacopo and Filip silently weeping as they faced each other. The look of yearning upon their faces, and the way Solomon and Thomas turned aside, told her something she had been blind to for years.
“May God be with you,” whispered Filip, his words an endearment that squeezed the breath from her body. He raised his hands before letting them fall, empty, to his side.
Jacopo bit back a sob. “And you too, bello.” He tried to smile and failed. “Solomon.” He cleared his throat. His voice was stronger this time. “Promise me you’ll look after your father for me.”
Solomon raised his head and nodded. “I will, Jacopo—you can count on me.”
“And you can count on me, Filip,” replied Matthew to his unasked question, moving closer to Jacopo. “You too, Bianca.”
Bianca said something in her native tongue to which Jacopo replied in kind, their words lingering. With one last desperate look at her brother, Bianca gathered Solomon and Thomas and shepherded them out. With red, blinking eyes, Filip followed.
Jacopo faced Rosamund. “I know you’ll watch over her, signora.”
Rosamund was afraid her voice would betray her. Eventually, she found the words. “I’ll look to them both, Jacopo. I promise.” She turned to Matthew.
She dared to take a step toward him but kept a table between them. “Matthew,” she began.
He waited.
“I thought . . . I hoped . . .” She stopped, swallowing sorrow. “I wanted to . . .” She placed one quivering hand on the table. Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them away furiously.
“And I,” he said, putting out his hand so it was mere inches from hers. They looked at their hands, reaching but not touching, so close and yet . . . “I will pray for that with all my heart.”
Their eyes met. In his, Rosamund saw the stars writ large. Her heart expanded, and her soul filled with blazing light that swiftly dimmed.
“And I.”