Miraculously, Mr. Nick managed to find a carter happy to carry their goods to Blithe Manor in exchange for some cakes of chocolate. As they followed the cart, arms filled with sacks and linens, and more than a few books Rosamund rescued from the chocolate house and bookshop, they passed pale and tear-streaked men, women and children laden with their own belongings, all coming from the direction of the river. Some were covered in soot and ash, their eyes betraying what they’d lost.
The sky was a furious tempest, as if demons writhed in an eternal struggle, raining glowing embers and ash upon the city, indifferent to the frightened mortals below. The world had been turned upside down, and hell was now above—where heaven existed, God only knew.
Among the evacuees were messengers and couriers running between the authorities in London and Whitehall. Rumor had it the King was upon the river, and sure enough, when they managed to waylay a messenger they discovered not only that the King was, indeed, abroad and taking matters into his own hands, but that the fire was moving swiftly west along Thames Street. It had destroyed nine churches, and the warehouses lining the river were all but blackened powder. Their escape from the chocolate house was timely as the fire surged toward the Royal Exchange and Cornhill, threatening even St. Paul’s and the Inns of Court.
Releasing the messenger, who was wild-eyed with exhaustion, Matthew urged them on. They needed no prompting.
At Blithe Manor, the goods tumbled from their arms as footmen and maids ran out to help unload the cart. Ashe brought them water. Barely waiting for them to quench their thirst, she begged news and added her own.
There was a call for workmen to help the Duke of York, who’d been placed in charge. The footmen longed to be excused so they might offer their services. Before Rosamund could release them, Sam arrived.
“Come, come,” he said. “You can’t stay here. You’re in the path of the flames. You must come to my place. Bury what you can and then let’s get you to Seething Lane. We’ve a fine view of the fire, and what’s more, a command post has been set up nearby, so we can keep abreast of the news.”
He sounded invigorated.
Instead of burying the equipment, at Rosamund’s suggestion they lowered everything into the well in a corner of the courtyard. Ashe included some of the household silver as well as other valuables.
Rosamund sent the maids to fetch anything they might have need of, then stood outside, reluctant to go to her room and retrieve any of her own belongings. It seemed pointless when what she most feared to lose was about to face the fierceness of the fire.
Matthew called the footmen to him, along with Filip, Mr. Nick, Thomas and Solomon, who swore their services as well. Then he turned to Sam. “I’m placing her in your care, Sam—look to her.”
“You’ve no need for concern, Matthew. Rosamund is family and I always take care of my own.”
Thinking how he barely had time for his wife, Elizabeth, Rosamund nevertheless forgave him the hyperbole and was grateful for his confident presence and his offer of safety. With a bow, Sam went to supervise the carter, who was prepared to carry whatever Rosamund deemed worthy of saving to his house. Co-opting a couple of the maids, with whom he flirted outrageously, together Sam and Ashe began supervising the loading of the cart.
Content all was under control, Matthew paused only to take Rosamund in his arms and hold her tight. Shocked and painfully aware of the eyes upon them, at first she froze before melting into his embrace. He smelled worse than burned coffee, like the fires that crackled on the streets during the plague.
Filip cleared his throat. Thomas and Solomon nudged each other and Grace gave her a knowing look, while Mr. Nick grinned. Pulling away from Matthew, she rested her hands upon his chest. Beneath her palm, she could feel his heart pulsing—for her. All for her.
“Look to yourself, Matthew, please. I’ll not forgive you if you don’t return this time.”
“You admit you’ll miss me, then?” Even as death drew closer, he could make a joke.
“Just a little,” she conceded.
With a laugh that was half cry, she pulled his face toward her and pressed her soft lips into his firm ones. All at once, the slow roar of the fire that had underpinned their entire journey dulled. The faces of those nearby disappeared as she stared at the man whose mouth captured hers. Leaning into him, she felt a heat that had nothing to do with the approaching conflagration rise, and she melded her body to his, found the crevices and planes into which her own flesh fitted so perfectly.
With a deep, urgent moan, it was Matthew who pushed her away this time, his eyes molten with desire. “Do that again and I may burn where we stand,” he said hoarsely.
“I’d rather that than risk you in the fire,” said Rosamund, nodding toward where a spire of orange rose above the rooftops. It was the first actual flame she’d seen, and it filled her with dread.
Matthew took her face in his hands and kissed her three times in quick succession before finally pushing her away so hard, she stumbled and would have fallen if Bianca hadn’t caught her.
“Go,” he cried, waving first at the young men waiting for him, then, running backward, gave the same direction to Rosamund. “Go, and God be with you.”
“And with you—” whispered Rosamund. “Look after one another,” she said, throwing her arms around first Mr. Nick, then Filip, and kissing him soundly as well.
She stood a moment longer, watching Matthew and Filip lead the group of nine lads and men through the gate before they disappeared, their cries mingling with those on the streets.
“Come,” said Bianca. “Let’s quickly retrieve some clothes and leave.”
Reluctantly, Rosamund did as she was bidden, aware of Bianca’s droll gaze as they all but ran through the corridors.
“What?” she asked, panting.
“And you refused to marry him?” She shook her head. “Are you mad?”
Rosamund paused on the stairs, staring past the open door toward the street. “Aye, I think I might be . . .”
* * *
Rosamund didn’t have much time to appreciate either Sam’s house or the warm welcome Elizabeth extended. Before dawn the following morning, the household was on the move. The fire had surged closer, and only the direction of the wind marked the difference between safety and threat. It was too great a risk.
Bundling Elizabeth, Jane and his other servants into a cart he’d borrowed from Lady Elizabeth Batten, Sam, still dressed in his nightgown, rode them to safety at Bethnal Green, while Rosamund and Bianca stayed behind with Ashe and Grace, supervising the packing of the other belongings he wanted transported, which he intended to return and collect as soon as he could. Sam rode into the shadows, constantly looking over his shoulder and gauging the distance between holocaust and home. Feeling no such attachment to Blithe Manor, Rosamund pitied Elizabeth, who’d been in tears at the thought of losing her much-loved house. For years the Pepyses had been renovating, adding new flooring, reupholstering furniture, hanging paintings and tapestries they’d acquired, making it theirs. As she observed the two remaining servants unhook a particularly grand arras and roll it ready for transport, Rosamund wondered if she’d ever feel the wrench Elizabeth and Sam evidently did.
Before midday, Sam returned and joined Rosamund, Bianca, Ashe and little Grace for a quick dinner. Bursting with news, he told them how outside the walls the roads were filled with farmers, porters and coachmen from outlying villages and towns, eager to make coin transporting people’s goods.
“Their rates are exorbitant,” he grumbled.
“I’m sure the wealthy can afford it,” said Rosamund. She’d seen the poor struggling with their meager belongings, and being all but trampled by those with the money and carriages to leave swiftly. She could hardly feel sorry if a few porters exploited those with the wherewithal to hire them.
“What of those fighting the fire?” asked Rosamund, thinking only of one. “How do they fare?”
Sam drained his coffee. “There are firefighters at every command station across the city. Even so, the fire destroyed the waterwheel on the Bridge, which was a blow from which I doubt the city can recover.” He sighed. “The Duke of York has a band, the Dean of Westminster and many others are leading men and boys to fight the flames. There’s been a concerted effort to prevent it reaching the Tower.” Drifting to the window, he looked out upon the city. Screeds of blue sky could be seen in the distance, where the smoke was thinner, but closer than any of them liked were undulating banks of fierce orange.
“Overall,” he said, his usual optimism fading, “it doesn’t seem to matter what’s done—the fire spreads. Even houses far away are being torched as burning ash lands on rooftops and dry eaves. The flames leap from one building to another like Bedlam inmates. The post office has been consumed, so any chance of news has now given way to alarm. People are blaming arsonists. There’s talk that Dutchmen and Frenchmen are being set upon, accused and felled where they stand.”
“Mio Dio,” said Bianca.
Rosamund thought of Filip. Englishmen often couldn’t distinguish between a Spaniard, a Frenchman or a Dutchman. They were all foreigners and worthy of suspicion.
Bianca continued. “This is no act of war or vengeance—none except God’s. We heard that it started at a bakery in Pudding Lane.”
Sam nodded. “That’s what I heard, and from many sources. I’ve no doubt it’s true. I was upon the river many times yesterday and it’s evident where it commenced. But when people are afraid, they look to blame those who are different from them.” His eyes alighted upon Bianca. “I would advise you not to wander alone in the streets, my dear. Stay close to Rosamund.”
“But you will be with us, won’t you, Sam?” asked Rosamund.
“Shortly. I still have to see to the removal of my household items. I also have to maintain contact with Whitehall—the King, you see. It was I who alerted him to the seriousness of the blaze. He’s relying on me.” His chest expanded. He slapped his hands against his breeches. “You’re welcome to come with me or remain here. At least here you can see how the city is faring. I’ve also asked Captain William Lark from the local command station to notify you at once should the fire change direction. I will return this evening and we can assess whether we remain or flee.”
Happy to stay at Seething Lane in case news arrived of Matthew and Filip, Rosamund and Bianca went with Ashe and Grace to the rooftop to watch the city burn.
* * *
It wasn’t until Sam returned at seven that evening, his clothes streaked with ash, carrying the scars of falling cinders, and his face gray, that Rosamund realized more than exhaustion dragged his feet and made him unable to meet her eyes. He had come straight up to the roof, where he found her transfixed by the sight of the conflagration.
Her heart went into her mouth.
“What is it, Sam?” she asked, tearing her gaze away from the golden arcs of fire. “Is it Matthew?”
Sam blinked, resembling a confused owl. “Matthew? No. No. I do not know what has become of him. I am sure he is fine. Señor de la Faya and that giant, Mr. Nick, as well.”
Relief made Rosamund turn away lest the tears banking behind her eyes fall. She sat back on the stool she’d brought to the rooftop. Bianca found her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Ashe drew closer.
“What is it, then?” she asked, trying to make her voice heard above the fury of the flames.
“I’m afraid I do bear grave tidings, Rosamund.” He came and kneeled by her side.
Bewildered, Rosamund beckoned Grace, who’d ceased to arrange the flowers she’d managed to pick from Sam’s garden, and the young girl leaned against her.
“Dear Lord,” said Rosamund, sitting upright, her arm creeping around Grace’s waist. “Please, tell me it’s not Solomon or Thomas?” Sam shook his head. “Adam, Hugh, Kit, Art or Timothy?”
“No, no, no, no. As far as I’m aware they’re still fighting that.” He waved a tired arm toward the west. “No, Rosamund, this is about Birchin Lane.”
Rosamund’s throat grew dry. “What?”
“I’m afraid the fire jumped the breaks and consumed most of Lombard Street before traveling through all those little alleys and snickets that wend their way toward the Royal Exchange . . .” Sam paused. There was such sympathy in his round eyes. The glow of the city was reflected in them and made his chubby cheeks into shiny planes. “Pasqua Rosée’s Turk’s Head is no more. Rosamund . . .”
Her hand flew to her mouth. For all she declared no affinity with those who saw their houses as more than just buildings, a wave of nausea rose within; nausea and despair.
“The Phoenix—” She gasped.
Bianca made a strangled noise.
“The Phoenix?” Her eyes swam. She felt suddenly cold. Grace touched her hair.
Sam shook his head sorrowfully. “It and the bookshop. They’re ashes, my dear. There will be no rising from them—not this time. I’m sorry to tell you, they’re nothing but a charred ruin.”
Rosamund felt the world spin. “Poor Matthew . . .” she said, as if her losses were not as great—greater. They were all she had.
A lead weight settled on her shoulders, dropped to her middle and welded her legs to the ground. She sat immobile, a solid lump of aching sadness. The chocolate house—gone. The bookshop—gone. Why, the very idea was preposterous. How could something that contained so much hope, so much joy, so much of herself and her ambitions, vanish like this? She glanced up at the molten border limning the horizon. It marked the great golden crack in her world.
How could the hopes and livelihoods of those dependent upon her be wiped out so unthinkingly? Were they not good boys and lasses who worked there? Good men? Hadn’t they struggled to survive so much already? And what of those who had died? No longer would her success be a monument to their memories—to Robin, Harry, Cara, Owen, Wolstan, dear Mr. Henderson . . . Jacopo . . .
How, having failed to understand the misery of others, could she feel this way about a place? Yet the Phoenix was so much more than just a place. It was her business; it was her investment. It was, like the bookshop, a great gift that gave her life purpose and through which she gave to others. It was what united her and Matthew when nothing else did.
Without it, what was she? What did she have?
Nothing.
Not even Matthew.
What did any of them have?
Like the blackened ruins she saw around her, the smoking hulls of buildings, homes, churches, businesses, she too was reduced to nothing. She might be Lady Blithman, but she was nobody. She was nessuno.
Ever so slowly, aware of Bianca’s hand rubbing her back, of Sam’s resting gently on her knee, Ashe’s fingers upon her shoulder and Grace tucking one of her flowers behind her ear, she buried her face in her hands and wept.