As it turned out, the only good to come of the plotters being uncovered—apart from a deadly plan being foiled—was that the surveillance of the Phoenix and the bookshop ceased. Either whoever had hired them was also seeking proof of the Rathbone plot (as it came to be called), or, Rosamund thought, the men they’d sent learned to avoid detection. Whatever the reason, Rosamund’s days continued much as they had before, until one hot day in early September.
Standing in the yard at the chocolate house picking flowers, Rosamund paused and sniffed the air. “Can you smell that?” she asked Grace. After church that morning, Rosamund and Bianca, along with Grace, had walked to Birchin Lane carrying a basket of food so they could share a meal with Filip, Mr. Nick and the boys. It was also a convenient excuse to see Matthew, who was busy stocktaking in the bookshop. Looking for something to decorate the luncheon table, she and Grace had snuck downstairs.
Grace swept her hair off her face—the sultry wind took braids as a challenge and sought to untangle carefully styled plaits—tilted her little chin and inhaled. “Aye, my lady. I can. Strong like, too.”
Summer had struck the city with blazing vengeance. The rains had ceased to fall, the river receded until its muddy banks were nothing but cracked earth displaying the rotting carcasses of stranded fish and eels. Boats couldn’t pass the locks. Mighty thunderstorms continued to growl above the city, and lightning punctuated the sky, all without the relief of rain. Though the heat and the hot, desiccated air had grown uncomfortably familiar, this was different.
Rosamund handed the last of the little bell-shaped flowers to Grace. “Take a few for your neckline and put the rest in water, will you? Tell Bianca I’ll be there shortly. I might go and have a word with Mr. Lovelace. Thank you, Grace.”
Rosamund navigated the maze of corridors at the back of the bookshop and found Matthew staring out the front window, hands folded behind his back. Pausing to drink in the sight he presented in his Sunday best blue jacket and crisp white shirt, Rosamund noted how his hair shone where the sun struck it. Grateful to be out of the heat, she quickly tidied herself, then came around the counter to join him.
There was no sign of smoke on the street, just the cloudless heavens, but she could see people pointing in the direction of the river. Some looked skyward, but at what she couldn’t tell. There were frowns, hurried words and then people turned and scurried away as if pursued by bandits. All the while, their skirts and jackets blew around their bodies. Hats flew off and carriage blinds bellied in and out like devil’s bellows.
“There’s a fire,” said Matthew, turning toward her. “It was all they could talk about at St. Michael’s this morning. It started in the wee hours in Pudding Lane. Baker Farriner’s place.”
“Aye, well, if that’s the case, it’s not been contained there,” said Rosamund. “You can smell it on the wind.”
Matthew looked at her. “Hmmm. I noticed it when I arrived as well.”
“Should we be worried?” asked Rosamund. “The reverend at St. Helen’s made no mention, nor any in our congregation.”
Matthew gave a slight shrug. “I’m not certain. I think I might go and see what I can find out. Prop the door to the chocolate house open. Our regulars will see and, if they’re passing, pop in.” He glanced at the ceiling. “They’ll keep you informed.”
Rosamund nodded. “True. Your best source is Sam—if anyone knows what’s going on, it will be him.”
“I’ll go to the Navy Office immediately. Promise me you won’t do anything rash. Remain here until I get back. I can’t imagine the flames traveling this far.”
“To Birchin Lane?” Rosamund scoffed. “If it started down in Pudding, we’d be very unlucky if it came anywhere near.”
“I don’t believe in luck—not in the way most mean it,” said Matthew. “Good or bad. We make our own.”
“Or God makes it for us,” said Rosamund softly. “That’s what the reverend said this morning.” She gazed at a woman outside who grabbed her young child with one hand and held on to her hat with the other and raced by the shop, turning into Exchange Alley and narrowly avoiding a courier on horseback. “He’d be a cruel God to inflict fire upon us so soon after pestilence, would he not?”
Matthew rocked back on his heels. “In my experience, God is cruel.”
Rosamund reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Mine too.” They exchanged a long look.
“Find out what you can. I will do the same. I will return as soon as possible.”
Even with the door open, hardly anyone came by the chocolate house that day, and those who did spoke of nothing but the fire raging down by the river. Their tales added to the growing tally of disaster and the sense the blaze was creeping closer, street by street, lane by lane, house by house. It had already consumed the Fishmongers’ Hall and the old church of St. Magnus the Martyr. By midday, it had skipped a few streets and started to burn northwest. Whoever came in sat by the windows while Filip, Solomon, Thomas and Grace found excuses to linger beside them and peer outside.
It wasn’t long before any pretense of eating luncheon was abandoned and they all stood, shoulder to shoulder, gazing out upon a sky roiling with thick black plumes. People flocked onto the rooftops opposite, pointing and crying out in alarm.
While she tried to remain calm, Rosamund nonetheless felt a sense of urgency, and concern for Matthew. The few patrons who stumbled in after the bells chimed noon were dismissive, saying it would be out by nightfall, while others merely stopped by to gossip. Some entered to down a drink before going home to consider whether it was worth gathering their belongings and hiring a coach or wherry to take them out of the city. Then there were those determined to find a Frenchman or Dutchman to hold accountable. As the afternoon wore on, it was evident that, despite all the reassurances, London was burning.
Rosamund could see Lombard Street was already thick with vehicles and people heading north, out of the city.
Dear God, it was like the plague all over again.
By midafternoon, there were no more visitors and the light was dimmed by choking clouds of Stygian smoke. Scintillas of ash and molten sparks pirouetted in the hot wind, landing on eaves, cobbles, people’s clothing, threatening to spark. Birds had long taken wing, dogs ran barking up the street, chasing those fleeing, while cats slinked into dark voids.
Instead of rushing to help put out the flames raging by the river, people were intent on looking to their own well-being—and, Rosamund noted wryly as cart after cart bumped down the road, their material goods as well.
When three of the clock sounded and there was still no sign of Matthew and it was evident the fire was worsening, Rosamund quickly helped clear away their uneaten meals and, along with Bianca, Filip, Thomas, Grace, Solomon and Mr. Nick, sat vigil by the window.
The sky grew unnaturally dark. What had been an opaque dome lowered to become a thick, suffocating curtain. Filip ordered Thomas and Solomon to douse the fires in the kitchen by pouring the great pots of water on them, while he began to clean and pack as much of their equipment as he could. Rosamund and Mr. Nick worked silently beside him. Unable to say what drove her to do such a thing, Rosamund knew Filip’s instincts were right and they had to do all they could to preserve their equipment. If there was one thing the plague had taught her, it was that people needed the familiar in times of crisis. To cling to hope, they needed to know all was not lost—“all” being even the simplest things. And what was chocolate if not the most complex of simple things? If God preserved them, she would offer solace in whatever way she could. Serve chocolate from Bishopsgate Street if that was required—if God saw fit to leave the manor standing.
When Matthew staggered through the door just before four of the clock, his face and clothes blackened with soot, his hair damp with sweat, he was met by a room piled with crates of bowls, pots, molinillos, metates, sacks of chocolate cakes, spices, cacao beans, coffee beans, piles of ledgers and whatever else they’d managed to pack.
Pails of water and milk stood at the ready in case an errant spark or flame should kindle a conflagration.
“I see you’ve been busy,” he said, flashing a look of approval even as he reached for the water Rosamund gave him, drinking greedily. Some he splashed over his face and hands, staring at the streaks of brownish gray in disgust as he wiped them on a cloth. He slapped Filip’s shoulder in greeting.
“Well?” asked Rosamund.
“Listen,” he said, collapsing on a bench. They gathered around. “I found Sam. I also went to the offices of the London Gazette. I figured between them, Sam and the staff there would know what was going on.” He swallowed more water. “Almost a quarter of the city within the walls has burned.”
Rosamund gasped. Bianca sat down heavily. Filip’s eyes flicked from Matthew to Rosamund. Matthew had knocked away the last bit of hope to which she’d been clinging. She sank down beside Bianca and stared at him. This was worse than she’d anticipated.
Matthew nodded toward the windows. There was no sky anymore, just tumbling clouds of catastrophe. “The mayor is all but useless, and rumor has it the King or his brother will take over and try to put this conflagration out.”
“Are we safe here?” asked Filip.
Matthew lifted heavy eyes to him. “If the wind keeps blowing in this direction, I fear not. It’s time to do what so many others have already done and prepare for the worst. I see you’ve packed the equipment. I suggest we take it to Bishopsgate Street.” He glanced at Rosamund.
“Of course. We can decide what to do once there,” she said.
“You’re not remaining with us, are you?” asked Filip of Matthew.
Matthew shook his head. “I’ll help you get this to Blithe Manor, then I must do my duty by my sovereign and my city.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Filip. Mr. Nick swiftly volunteered as well. Matthew gave them a flicker of a smile.
A lump formed in Rosamund’s throat. It was hard to push the words through, but she managed. “You intend to fight the fire.” Her eyes were locked on Matthew.
He flexed his fingers in his gloves. “I do, my lady. I do.”
Rosamund didn’t know when she’d been prouder of him—or more afraid.