After four long days, the fire was quelled. As soon as she learned from Matthew that Blithe Manor was, against all odds, untouched, and that he would meet her there as soon as he was able, Rosamund could no longer presume upon Sam and Elizabeth’s hospitality. Thanking Sam for his generosity at such a time, she once more packed the cart belonging to Sam’s friend Lady Elizabeth and set off with Bianca, Ashe, Grace and the maids to return to Bishopsgate Street.
Refusing to admit to herself that Matthew was the real reason for her haste, she picked her way through the streets, feeling the heat of the cobbles through the soles of her shoes. Thin beams of sunlight penetrated the pall of gray, striking the smoking ruins through which, even now, scavengers picked. Passage was slow and difficult. The wind had dropped, but rubbish, flakes of burned paper, parchment and clothing whirled through the air in a macabre dance. They often had to stop to hoist crumbling beams or shattered pieces of stone out of the way, or simply to wade their way over hot hillocks of debris, the detritus of lives ground beneath their scalded feet.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Aye, this was a burial, their journey akin to a cortege; the city had died. But they lived. They lived and they would resurrect it too.
Rosamund couldn’t yet rejoice, but the hope that bloomed in her heart on Sam’s rooftop had not been crushed to cinders. On the contrary, she gathered it close so it could be rekindled when it was most needed.
Blithe Manor was a relief she could not have foreseen; as she entered, it overcame her. The rooms were awash with the odor of smoke, but it was fresh air compared to the streets. For the first time since she had come to this place, she felt a sense of ownership and pride. Aye, Blithe Manor was hers—for the time being—and never before had she relished its welcome embrace as she did now.
She supervised the unpacking of the cart and found coin to pay the grateful carter, who, after downing an ale, lumbered out the gate and back to Sam’s. He’d decided to head north and skirt the city, anything to avoid negotiating the wretched streets again.
Rosamund understood.
Ashe wasted no time getting things out of the well—including the precious chocolate-making equipment—and setting the house to rights. Seeing the crates of bowls, pots, molinillos and sacks of spices around them, relieved beyond measure they were unscathed, only then did Rosamund allow herself to relax.
Somehow, Ashe found water for her and Bianca to wash. Not wanting to see another naked flame, they both relished its coolness. Finding clean clothes was easy, but not ones free of the reek of smoke.
Once they were bathed, clothed and fed, Bianca begged leave to see how the Quakers fared. Careful not to reveal where she was going in front of Grace or Ashe, Rosamund agreed, realizing how selfish she’d been. Of course, Bianca was part of an entire community outside Blithe Manor. She prayed they managed better than they had during the plague. Remembering Sam’s warning to Bianca about the suspicion of foreigners on the streets, Rosamund urged her to be careful. Bianca flashed her a smile.
“I will be among Friends,” she said, using their informal title. “You’ve no need for concern, bella.” She kissed her on the cheek and left.
With Bianca gone and Grace put to bed, the poor child having hardly slept for the last four days, Ashe and some of the maids went out to find what victuals might be for sale. Rosamund found the tiredness she expected to overcome her swept aside in the joy of being back—of knowing all was not lost. Truth be told, she also didn’t wish to sleep lest she miss Matthew’s return.
Instead, she went to her closet. It had been a while since she’d spent time within her cave, reading, learning, allowing her imagination to be filled with the treasures she hoarded.
Bringing her bowl of chocolate with her, she sipped it slowly, sinking into the chair by the window. Outside, the alley looked much as she’d last seen it, except that it was empty. Beyond the line of houses to the west, smoke still billowed in great coughing plumes. North, past the walls, she could see rows and rows of tents, blankets, boxes, carts, drays, horses, sheep, dogs, chickens and people. So many people. The carter said there were thousands upon thousands of homeless people spread out across Moorfields, Parliament Hill, areas around Islington—wherever a clear patch of ground was available. Looting was rife, and there’d been more than a few scuffles, especially when rumors spread that the Hollanders and Frenchies were coming to attack and rape the women. People were starving, afraid, and so very, very despondent. Most had lost everything.
If there was room left at Blithe Manor once Matthew and the others returned, Rosamund was determined to offer shelter to whoever might need it—even Bianca’s Quakers. This was not a time to worry about difference but to cleave to what united them.
Losing an appetite for chocolate, guilty she could so indulge when there were people over there—just over there—who suffered, Rosamund turned away from the window and sought comfort from her books and papers. Humans were remarkable, really, she thought as she scanned some titles. Had not the Trojans continued after the Greeks and their armies all but wiped them out? Had not the Roman Empire survived in the Italian people, as diverse and complicated as they were with their city-states and dialects, producing great works of art and literature, wise philosophers and magnificent inventions? And look at Bianca’s Quakers (funny that she thought of them belonging to Bianca)—did they not continue despite the efforts of the King and Council? Well, London would as well.
Running her finger along the mantel, she found a small ruby and cerulean brooch she’d kept that had belonged to Lady Margery. She thought of the Blithmans. Against all odds, they’d endured—not only Aubrey, but she too carried their name, even if Bianca could not. As she put the brooch down, it rolled behind a pile of books. She pushed them aside to reach for the brooch only to strike a box.
How peculiar. Just as she was thinking of Lady Margery, what should she find but the box she’d discovered years ago. Good Lord, she’d forgotten all about it. She retrieved the brooch and set it carefully aside, then picked up the box and blew the dust from the top, coughing as it struck her in the face. It took a while for her coughs to subside, a legacy the fire had left them all.
Sinking back into her seat, the box on the table in front of her, she first wiped her eyes, took sips of chocolate and then, with a strangely beating heart, lifted the lid.
When she’d last opened it, she’d found a collection of pretty beads and a sheaf of tightly folded papers beneath them. Covered in neat handwriting, they appeared to be torn from a book. She’d always intended to examine the contents but had never done so. Now she could read, she no longer had to rely on anyone else to tell her what they said.
Carefully she pulled out the pages, and as she did so, she recognized the beads for what they were—the remnants of many broken rosaries. Had Lady Margery been a secret Catholic? She wouldn’t be the first to hide her faith. But why destroy the rosaries?
Rosamund unfolded the pages and smoothed them out. The writing was untidy, and blots stained the paper. On the final page was a signature: Margery Blithman. Dear God . . . these must be from one of Lady Margery’s diaries, the diaries Sir Everard had been so keen to destroy. Above her name, in a shaky hand, were the words, May God forgive me.
Forgive her what?
Though the room wasn’t dark, Rosamund found a candle and lit it. She brought her chair closer to the table and began to read.