As the bells tolled throughout January 1666, Rosamund couldn’t help but shudder. While they now rang for the reasons they had of old, to call people to service on Sundays, to chime the hour and to celebrate marriages and baptisms as well as deaths, for her they’d always carry the memory of pestilence and horror.
Carriages churned through the snow-covered streets, riders wove their way around the throng of conveyances and pedestrians. The new year had brought with it a dramatic drop in loss of life, and all manner of professions returned to the capital. A sense of renewal and fresh beginnings enveloped the city, despite the season. Shops reopened, vendors reappeared, markets thrived. The link-boys with their burning torches and lanthorns did their duty by folk at night, and the watchmen patrolled, shouting out the time and reports about the weather. It was a change from the cries that echoed in Rosamund’s nightmares. Dogs and cats sprouted like seasonal plants, bakers stoked their ovens, butchers honed their knives and, once more, all was well. The dreadful visitation had passed.
The chocolate house had reopened just before Christmas, but they were yet to welcome back many of their patrons, and supplies were still low. Matthew had heard from his captain that the quarantine embargoes placed upon his ship were soon to be lifted and they could soon expect fresh stocks (the war notwithstanding) of cacao, sugar, vanilla and spices. Each day, the trickle of men coming through their doors grew thicker and stayed longer. Familiar faces reappeared—Thomas Bloodworth, the new mayor; John Allin, John Evelyn, Sir Henry Bennet, the Duke of Buckingham, Charles Sedley and, of course, Sam. Sadly, the Three Unwise Men had been reduced to one—Sir Roger being the only one to survive the pestilence. As if to honor his friends, he tripled his efforts, penning even more poems and notes for Rosamund. Not even Charles Sedley had the heart to torment him.
Patrons returned to the bookshop as well. Unexpectedly, Mr. Henderson had left his house to Matthew and the bookshop jointly to Matthew and Rosamund, doubling their businesses.
Rosamund was overwhelmed by her friend’s generosity and found it hard to credit that she who’d been illiterate was now the owner of a bookstore. The very notion filled her with a combination of joy and great sorrow. It seemed wrong to prosper from a friend’s death, yet, as Matthew said, it had only come to her—to both of them—because it was what Mr. Henderson wished. When Mr. Bender explained the conditions of Mr. Henderson’s will, which included the printing license, Rosamund had wept for a great gift for which she could never thank him.
Between them they decided that Rosamund would continue to run the chocolate house with Filip’s help, while Matthew would take care of downstairs as well as manage stock and figures for the Phoenix. Rosamund noted that he seemed keen to put physical distance between them. As soon as the forty days of quarantine at Blithe Manor had ended, he’d moved into Mr. Henderson’s house around the corner from the bookshop in Lombard Street. She persuaded herself it was because he was keen to avail himself of the printing press in the stables and prayed he would be cautious. L’Estrange’s news sheets had ceased publication and Henry Muddiman’s new Oxford Gazette (another tissue of propaganda, according to Matthew) made him even more determined to offer alternative viewpoints to those endorsed by the crown.
Much was being written about how shutting up houses had not only increased the death toll in the city, but contributed to the spread of infection throughout the provinces, as those who were ill fled rather than be entombed in their homes. The war against the Dutch still continued and with the French entering as their allies just last week, there was much to report. Illegal presses were being rooted out and their operators severely punished lest they publish news counter to what was officially sanctioned. The names of Giles Calvert, Simon Dover, Thomas Brewster and the unfortunate printer John Twyn, who was hanged, drawn and quartered, were on everyone’s lips—a warning to those who dared dissent. Not that it stopped Calvert’s and Brewster’s brave widows from continuing their husbands’ work. Quakers too refused to be cowed, risking prison and death. Matthew’s newly inherited press might not be illegal—Mr. Henderson’s will and a word in Sir Henry Bennet’s ear had seen to that—but much of the material he intended to print was. Perhaps he maintained his distance to protect her should he be discovered. Whatever his reasons, she wished he would not be so aloof, but was uncertain how to raise something that could simply be the product of her imagination.
Throughout January the apparatus of government slowly returned. The Exchequer came back to Whitehall; the Navy Board, much to Sam’s relief, to Seething Lane. Having ordered the city cleaned and fumigated, the Lord Mayor hoped the last of London’s citizens (and by that he meant the gentry and nobles) would hasten back. Whitehall and Covent Garden remained all but empty, though rumor had it the King and the Duke, as well as a goodly portion of the court, would leave Oxford and arrive at Hampton Court by the end of the month before proceeding to Whitehall. Everyone was returning to the city.
And so, it seemed, would Aubrey.
* * *
Rosamund received a hastily scrawled note from Aubrey announcing his return—a note with a shocking addendum.
She knew she’d have to raise his imminent return with Matthew, and soon. The question was how to do this without him mistaking it as a request for his intervention. Especially when what she really wanted was more of his company. At odd moments she found herself recalling Matthew’s arms about her the night Jacopo died, the comfort and strength he had shared. And then there was the way he would sometimes, even now, catch her eye and earnestly discuss an issue, whether it was cacao, books, customers or additives. The thoughts snagged her heart and made her soul ache. Pushing them aside, her priority must be how to deal with Aubrey and his unexpected proposal.
When she’d broken the news of his return to the servants at Blithe Manor last night, there’d been a mixed reaction. The new staff didn’t know him and so simply accepted that a different master would soon arrive, failing to understand the impact it would have on them. The older staff—those who’d survived—mumbled dourly and set about their tasks halfheartedly. Rosamund could scarce blame them.
Retiring with Bianca to the closet, she’d pondered a solution to the dilemma Aubrey posed.
The thought of him coming back filled her with foreboding, though she was in a better position this time than on his first appearance. She knew not only that he was coming, but who her friends were. She had resources to draw upon which she’d lacked previously. Naturally, the news of Aubrey’s imminent return had reached the chocolate house, and some of the regulars, knowing the type of man he was, or feeling the need to shepherd her, once again offered Rosamund rooms, houses—even an estate outside London. Most came with a now-familiar caveat and had little appeal, especially as she had the means to rent premises herself. Nevertheless, she knew there were those she could rely upon to help her find accommodation for her household if needed.
She hoped she would not have to take that option. Blithe Manor might not be hers in name, but she’d come to think of it that way. Filled with bittersweet memories, it was also the place where Jacopo had died, and to cede it to Aubrey without a whimper didn’t seem right.
Studying Bianca, she wondered if Aubrey would tolerate her beneath his roof now her brother was dead. He’d made it clear he wanted both siblings gone before he returned, but didn’t Jacopo’s death change things? Bianca was his half sister, after all. A Blithman. The knowledge hadn’t spared Bianca and Jacopo pain; on the contrary—their father subjected them to outbursts of cruelty, his other children harbored deep-seated resentment of them and, according to Bianca, Lady Margery had been much the same.
“She knew you were Sir Everard’s children?” Rosamund asked one day.
“Sì. And it made not a whit of difference to her. To the Blithmans we were slaves—human possessions—no more, no less. Our parentage did not affect their attitudes—except to sharpen them.” Bianca’s eyes filled with torment and betrayal.
Rosamund made her decision then: if Aubrey did not accept Bianca, neither of them would remain a moment longer in his presence.
* * *
The sound of coins clattering into the bowl and cries of “what news?” broke Rosamund’s reverie. Fixing a smile to her face, she moved from the window and greeted the gentlemen, allocating drawers to take their orders while she slipped behind the bar. The new boys, Timothy, Adam and Hugh, circulated about the room; their uniforms—sewn by the Wellses—were still a little stiff, but she was pleased to see how well the boys had adapted.
It was hard to suppress the pain in her chest as the ghostly shadows of Wolstan, Harry and Owen (who died a week before they reopened) seemed to follow them. Filip, devastated by the loss of Jacopo, nonetheless determined to continue and to help Rosamund in whatever way he could. Having recently rediscovered his smile, she could nonetheless see the toll it took to use it. His determination not to let grief affect his workmanship defined the jut of his chin. Solomon was extra solicitous of his father, and Thomas too helped Filip and his friend. Between the four of them, they managed very well. They’d also hired a new girl, Grace, to help Bianca in the kitchen. With an unflappable disposition that not even the plague had quashed, she was a much-needed boon. Art and Kit came back, as irrepressible as ever.
Mr. Remney had found them a rather large gentleman, a former soldier with only one eye, named Mr. Nick, whom they hired to wander around the tables and make his presence known. Matthew was concerned about leaving Rosamund upstairs without a male chaperone other than Filip. Mr. Nick had only to fold his burly arms or cock a brow to curb any poor behavior.
Not that it was a problem. That the chocolate house had remained open through most of the plague and only finally closed to prevent becoming a source of contagion had done much to endear the widow, as they still called Rosamund, to the gentlemen of London. Matthew as well. Their names were mentioned in the same breath as others who’d earned the gratitude of the city, such as Lord Craven, General Monck, the former Lord Mayor, Matron Margaret Blague and the few physicians who’d braved the pestilence. Rosamund, Matthew and the Phoenix were much admired.
Sir Everard would have hated the names of Blithman and Lovelace being linked in such a manner. How would Aubrey feel?
On the first day of February 1666, the court and Aubrey returned to their respective abodes: King Charles to Whitehall and Aubrey to Blithe Manor. Bonfires and bells greeted the King’s return, but Aubrey, looking about the capital as he and Wat rode through the cheering crowds that had braved the snow and cold, liked to think they were for him.
He paused briefly at his warehouses and was perturbed by the low quantities of stock. Like many merchants, his ships had been quarantined in the ports of Venice, Calais, Amsterdam and the Black Sea, unable to either deliver or receive goods, and he’d suffered heavy losses. Reassured by the lifting of restrictions—at least with countries not affected by the war—so trade could resume again, he signed various purchase orders and said he’d send further instructions the following day.
It wasn’t until he arrived at Blithe Manor and saw the new faces awaiting him in the courtyard, the gauntness of the familiar servants and the lack of supplies in the cellars, that the alterations the plague had effected literally came home. Riding through London earlier, it had been hard to credit the stories of death and misery that had entertained him and those he’d kept company with in Oxford for so many months. All about, the streets were jammed with vendors, carriages and folk burdened with shopping baskets. Thick smoke chugged into the sky and the tang of tanneries and coal fires burned his nostrils, just as he remembered. Nothing seemed to have changed.
Only, it had.
When he first sighted Rosamund that evening, he was appalled. It was as if a paler, thinner imitation of a cherished memory had entered the withdrawing room and dropped a curtsey. The blasted blackamoor, who also looked worse for wear, followed close on her heels. Rosamund politely inquired after his health and asked him to describe his time away. Happy to oblige as his mind worked to reconcile reality and dream, he was barely able to recall what he said. Transfixed by the large-eyed, hollow-cheeked woman before him, he marveled that he ever likened this . . . this drab to his beloved Helene. Her skin was dry, her hair no longer shone and sadness was a perfume in which she liberally doused herself. The blackamoor was not much better, standing behind her mistress’s shoulder, offering her profile. He’d heard her brother had died and good riddance. According to gossip, so had most of the drawers at the chocolate house. Maybe now Rosamund would come to her senses and abandon her designs on the place; maybe now she wasn’t quite the beauty she’d been, she would see the sense in the proposal he’d added to his note. He’d demand a response from her shortly.
As he answered her query about the plague in Oxford (as far as he knew, there had only been a couple of deaths and those among the poor—though there was mention of one of the King’s servants dying), he felt there was something almost ethereal about her, the way she listened so earnestly to his responses. There was a fragility that awoke a protective streak in him he’d thought long extinguished. Dressed in pale pink that captured the faint color in her cheeks, she made an effort to flash that lovely smile, even if it didn’t reach her eyes. On second thought, though she looked different, there was a sense in which she was even more beautiful. Weak. Vulnerable.
Sitting up straighter, he cast aside the blasé tone he’d picked up from the other courtiers and described the journey back to London in a manner more becoming someone who’d survived.
Just as Rosamund had.
He supposed he’d have to ask her about that—and console her over the losses she’d endured, only he detested the thought of Lovelace’s name upon her lips. It had been hard enough tolerating it from Helene, yet he supposed he must. Damn the fellow. He was a blight in every regard. In his mind, the plague and Lovelace arrived simultaneously—if only others would see it that way then he’d be rid of the man for good. How could he avoid him now he was here in London, working at the same premises where Rosamund dirtied her hands? He looked at her hands now, so reddened, so worn. Like a servant’s. Indignation and anger flared. How could she do that to him? How could she do that to the family name, sully it in such a manner? Not only serving in a chocolate house, of all places, but by working with his father’s mortal enemy.
His mortal enemy, too.
His heart began to thunder. He put a hand against his shirt and could feel its vibrations. It seemed so loud he wondered if anyone else could hear it. Damn his father for failing to rid them of the Lovelace curse once and for all. For leaving it to him. He’d no stomach for such matters. As far as he was concerned, the best revenge he could have upon Lovelace was to win Rosamund to his side; win her heart. He’d half expected to come home and find that she and Lovelace had made a promise to each other. Maybe Lovelace wasn’t interested? He found it hard to believe, considering he’d been so infatuated with Helene. But maybe that was the point; the thought of a woman who would remind him of his dead wife was too much. For Aubrey, the resemblance only added to her attraction. Even if Rosamund no longer looked quite how he remembered, once she was fed and had slept well, it would be an altogether different prospect.
She dimpled at a memory, before her great eyes filled. Dear God, he wanted nothing more than to reach out and take her in his arms, sop up her misery with his lips. Damnation if his gospel pipe wasn’t vibrating in his trousers. He shifted in his seat, becoming aware as he did so of the blackamoor watching him. He stared back, his eyes narrowing. She looked away, her full lips curved. He’d wipe that sneer off her face with the back of his hand given half a chance. Only, that wasn’t the way to Rosamund’s heart—or, if not her heart, her capitulation. He could be stubborn and persistent, and if he didn’t have Lovelace to contend with in this race, he could well be the victor.
In fact, regarding Rosamund objectively, now was the time to strike. Maybe she wouldn’t be so cocky having borne witness to death; maybe she’d view him and his suit favorably. Maybe, now Rosamund knew what awaited a woman alone in the world, she would be eager to marry again. She might be damaged goods, but she was still his—moreso than ever. This plague had done him a mighty favor.
He leaned forward eagerly and begged her to tell him what had happened while he was away: all that had been talked about in Oxford was the Bills of Mortality and they were impossible to give credence to—over two thousand deaths in a single week! He’d seen the mass burial pits outside the city, but they were covered in charming hillocks of snow and surely could not be evidence of such a calamity. And he was keen to discover what had happened at the manor while he was gone.
Rosamund looked at him in a manner he wasn’t accustomed to: almost as if he were a stain upon a rug. Though perhaps he’d imagined it, for the expression disappeared, replaced by a flicker of something—her old self? She flashed him what he thought was a smile.
Knocking back a glass of sack like one of her patrons and ordering another to be poured, she quietly told him about the losses that had occurred—not only of beloved servants, but all her acquaintances. He was on the cusp of telling her that he didn’t care about her drawers or the owner of the blasted bookshop when he recalled his new tactics: listen, be sympathetic, pander to her. At least give the appearance of concern. Absorbed in these reflections he only caught the end of her saying the white cross upon their door was harder to remove than the red. White cross? Red? Was not one the marker of infection within and the other a sign it had passed? Who had marked the door of Blithe Manor? Why?
Looking about, his skin began to goose, and not because he was cold. The fire in the hearth threw out a goodly heat and thick curtains were drawn across the windows to keep the frosty night at bay. He found his ears were pricked just as his stomach began to sink.
“Did I hear you aright, my lady? This very house was afflicted?”
Rosamund steadily told him how her brothers, the twins, not only had the audacity to intrude and bring infection into his home but Bianca had fallen victim as well.
The blackamoor? He recoiled as she outlined all that followed.
Opening and closing his fists, swallowing thickly, Aubrey longed to jump to his feet and run from the house. Why had no one told him of this? Why had that widow—what was her name? Ashe. Why had she not mentioned that the plague had invaded his home? Why had none of his friends?
Because you chose not to correspond lest you catch the pestilence, and all your so-called friends were in Oxford with you.
Unable to remain still as Rosamund described how, after her brothers died, among them she, Bianca and that Papist Filip had wrapped their bodies and dragged them down the stairs, he stood abruptly. How could he enjoy the comfort of his seat knowing some low-born cove had perished suppurating among its cushions? He signaled for the footman to fill his glass. Where was Wat? He should be here by now.
He began to pace up and down the room. As he paused by the window and pulled aside the curtains, Rosamund calmly told him how Jacopo had met his end.
“He died here?” choked Aubrey, dropping the curtains and spinning around. “In this house?”
“What choice did he have, sir?” asked Rosamund. Was she mocking him?
He repressed a shudder and brought the glass to his lips, but did not drink—what if an infected person had drunk from the very same vessel? Aubrey studied her anew.
“And you? Did you fall foul of the pestilence, madam?”
Rosamund considered his words and as she did, his heart dropped into his boots. “Aye, I fell foul of it,” she said quietly, her head bowed.
“But you recovered?” Aubrey put down his glass and stepped away.
“Recovered?” Rosamund glanced up at Bianca, who met her eyes then looked away. “No, sir, I’m afraid I am not recovered.”
Aubrey stared at her, his eyes growing wide, his cheeks pale. Suddenly, the dry hair, the pale skin, the merest hint of roses in the cheeks took on a whole new and sinister meaning. He bolted to the door and flung it open, shouting for Wat.
Aubrey turned back to face her. “Forgive me, madam, but I recall I have some very important business to attend to in town.”
Rising, Rosamund brushed her skirts carefully. “I am sorry to hear that, sir. Shall I ask Ashe to see that your bed is prepared? It hasn’t been used since . . . Who was it last slept in Aubrey’s bed, Bianca?”
Bianca tilted her head and frowned. “I cannot remember, madam. It might have been Jacopo, or perhaps someone else . . .”
Horrified, Aubrey yelled for Wat again and, with a barely polite bow, rushed from the room.
Once they heard him stomping about in the hall, ordering his bags and chest to be loaded onto a conveyance, Bianca nodded for the footman to shut the door.
Sinking into the seat he’d so recently vacated, Bianca grinned. “You’re a wicked woman, Rosamund Blithman.”
“I didn’t say I had the plague,” said Rosamund, a whisper of a smile on her lips, “that would have been a lie. But did I recover from it? In answering him, I only told the truth. None of us have.” A parade of bloated, swollen faces dying in agony tramped through her mind. “Anyhow”—she sighed as they heard Wat’s voice—“he won’t stay away long. I’ve merely bought us a few weeks, if we’re lucky.”
“A few weeks for what, may I ask?”
“To prepare for my future.”
“Future?” asked Bianca, pouring herself a drink and refilling Rosamund’s glass as she held it out to her. “But, bella, you have a future, don’t you?”
“Didn’t I tell you? I’ve been offered another. When Aubrey wrote to announce his return, he also formally asked for my hand in marriage.”
Bianca almost dropped the jug. “I would remember if you made mention of that.”
“Oh, how forgetful of me.”
“But he cannot—in the eyes of God, surely, he cannot marry his father’s wife.”
Rosamund released a long sigh. “Apparently, if the marriage was never consummated, he can. And, as you know, Bianca—and it turns out Aubrey knew as well—his father, while a capable man in many areas, was not in that regard.”
“Allora. He has thought of everything.”
“His father did. Aubrey wrote he has proof of his father’s . . . incapacity. A doctor’s note, no less. Keeps it with him at all times. Sir Everard wrote it as a precaution: to be used if ever I thought to contest the will or, I imagine, those papers I signed.”
Bianca waited. When Rosamund said nothing, she cleared her throat. “You’re not seriously considering marrying him, are you?”
Rosamund stared into her glass. “Considering, aye. Seriously? No . . . not yet. But there may come a time when I have to . . . seriously consider it, I mean. If my marriage to Sir Everard is to be annulled, as Aubrey suggests, then I lose my widow status, my title, this . . .” She looked about the room. “I become nothing but a single woman with, how did Aubrey put it? Ah, no prospects.”
“Flatterer,” said Bianca wryly.
“And I know what else you would say, Bianca, and it isn’t anything I haven’t already considered. I will do all I can to keep Aubrey, and his demands for an answer, at arm’s length and have him believe his cause is not lost. I will play on his fears of contagion and suggest he fumigate the house, repaint each and every room and replace all the linens before he moves home. I will persuade him it is the safest thing to do and that I am the best person to oversee this. I will ensure it takes time. A great deal of time . . .”
“I see. And once he’s back here and realizes his cause is lost?”
Rosamund made a bitter sound. “I think Aubrey thwarted will be much more dangerous than Aubrey courting. I need to be prepared.”
Nodding solemnly, Bianca raised her glass. “To the future.”
“To my widowhood, long may we enjoy it.”