Rosamund’s sense of victory was short-lived.
It turned out that they had entered the house from the rear. Led along a dingy corridor, she caught glimpses of a large kitchen from which interesting smells emanated, passed what might have been the main entrance and went up a narrow staircase. She heard the murmur of male voices behind a closed door on the first floor and assumed that must be where Sir Everard, Wat and Jacopo were closeted. It was dark inside the house, the few candles in sconces casting faint light. She had an impression of many rooms, threadbare tapestries and a couple of portraits, though Rosamund couldn’t discern the subjects. Her boots clanked on the wooden floors in contrast to the silent steps of Bianca, making her feel both clumsy and an intruder. The house was clearly old; the wainscoting had seen better days, the bannister was scratched and the steps worn with the tread of many feet. Lemon and beeswax almost disguised the musty odor that grew as they climbed another cramped staircase. It wasn’t anything a few flowers, a fresh coat of paint and some brighter wall-hangings wouldn’t improve.
Bianca showed her into a room on the second floor, and before she could even remove her gloves, there was a knock and two drudges entered, one rolling a large tub, the other carrying two steaming buckets. They poured the water into the tub and made sure they took a good long look at Rosamund. Barely able to withhold their whispers until they’d left the room, they swiftly returned with more hot water, drying sheets and soap. Herbs and petals were scattered across the bath and a sweet perfume arose. Once the tub was filled, Bianca ordered more water on standby and then dismissed the women. They filed out, dropping curtseys and murmuring “madam” with barely concealed sneers. It took Rosamund a moment to understand the sneers weren’t only directed at her.
She glanced at Bianca, who, busy opening the window and admitting some air, appeared not to notice. This was not a happy household. Rosamund’s heart beat a little faster.
Uncertain what to do, Rosamund waited as Bianca lit more candles. Once that was accomplished and the room glowed, Bianca strode toward her and began unlacing Rosamund’s bodice. Startled by the woman’s temerity, Rosamund stepped back, gathering her clothes to her.
“Wait. What are you doing?”
With a thin smile, Bianca folded her arms. “Master’s orders; he said you were to be bathed immediately and your clothes changed. He said you smelled like the Fleet . . .”
Rosamund gasped.
“In summer.”
Heat rushed to Rosamund’s face as shame filled her body. Even she knew about the Fleet River, how it was little more than a sewer, often choked with the corpses of dead dogs, shit and offal. How could he? How could Sir Everard say such a thing? And to someone who would have to take orders from her, the mistress? A mistress who smelled like the filthiest of waterways. It was too much. Horrified and embarrassed in equal measure, tears welled. But her humiliation was not yet complete.
Knocking Rosamund’s fingers aside, Bianca quickly undid her laces and wrenched the bodice away, screwing up her nose in disgust. She pulled down Rosamund’s skirts and then dragged the shift over her head, tossing the linen to one side as if it were fit only for the rag woman. Rosamund’s cheeks flamed, but what could she say?
It simply wouldn’t do. She had to assert her authority, claw back the ground she’d so recently gained.
About to protest her treatment, Rosamund glanced at her bodice and sleeves lying on the floor and saw the state of the cuffs, the ingrained dirt in the laces, the encrusted mud on the hem of her skirt—her Sunday best. Then, she caught the odor rising from her body. Dear God. Sir Everard was right. She stank. Even though she’d washed, it was only the parts of her the public saw. While she’d good reason not to attend to her ablutions, that was between her and God and no one else. It had served its purpose.
No more.
Naked now except for her boots, she saw herself through others’ eyes. The runnels of filth sitting inside her elbows, the smudges between her full breasts and around her knees; the muck around her navel, the dirt she knew rested between her toes. Why, she was no lady, and certainly no fit mistress for this house or this majestic tawneymoor, who not only smelled of violets and wild roses but who wore clothes so clean a saint could have donned them. No wonder she turned up her nose, looked at her with such disdain and spoke with musical contempt.
How could Sir Everard have borne to share a carriage with her, let alone wed her? He’d slept to avoid not conversation but her scent.
Bianca gathered Rosamund’s clothes into a bundle and tossed them toward the hearth. Rosamund was sure had a fire been lit, they would have been cast upon the flames. In an effort to wrest back some dignity, she took off her boots herself.
Without giving away what she thought of the scuffed and worn footwear, Bianca pushed them aside with a sweep of her ankle.
“Come,” she said. “Let’s sweeten you up.”
Bianca held Rosamund’s arm as she stepped over the rim of the tub, her thumb compressing a fresh bruise. Rosamund sucked in her breath and tried to extract herself from the firm hold. Bianca gripped tighter. Tears spilled and she stared in abjection at Bianca’s dark fingers against her pale skin. Following the direction of her gaze, Bianca seemed to see not just Rosamund’s arm, but her flesh for the first time. Eyes of a startling turquoise widened. Her grip loosened, and she slowly extended Rosamund’s arm toward the light. Without saying a word, she lifted it higher, turning it slightly and studying the inside slowly. Standing in the tub, the water reaching her knees, Rosamund could hardly object as Bianca wordlessly circled her. With fingers as gentle as the first snowfall, she coolly touched each and every mark upon Rosamund’s body. Some were old and faded, others newly wrought. Rosamund felt her skin begin to goose, her nipples firm.
She didn’t say a word, but by the time Bianca had finished her examination, her features were cast more softly.
“My lady?” she whispered, gazing up at Rosamund with huge, all-knowing eyes. Why, her lashes were longer than Mabel the cow’s and curled like Jacopo’s. “Who would do such a thing to you?”
“The grazes upon my arms, the gash upon my forehead”—her fingers danced over it—“are the result of my carelessness.”
“They are not what I am referring to, signora.” Bianca frowned. “These”—she elevated Rosamund’s arm higher, exposing bruises, a series of raw lines made by a switch, a bite mark upon her breast—“are no accident.”
Rosamund’s throat constricted. She swallowed and breathed slowly, forcing herself to calm as Bianca lowered her arm.
“It’s all right, Bianca,” said Rosamund quietly. “He . . . he can hurt me no more. My . . . my husband has seen to that.”
“The signore does a good deed, then?” Bianca’s slight inflection suggested surprise.
Their eyes met and for a second, something inside Rosamund unfurled and reached out. Bianca’s lips parted and an odd look crossed her face before it just as swiftly vanished, replaced by a brittle, hard expression. Disappointment drowned the tentative connection, and Rosamund’s eyes began to sting.
Before she could rub the feeling away, or even dare to try to recapture the moment, Bianca pushed Rosamund down into the water, dousing her thoroughly from a nearby pail. Spluttering as hair and water streamed into her eyes, Rosamund pushed the soaking strands from her face as Bianca attacked her with soap. Forgetting the bruises and scrapes she’d touched with such tenderness only moments before, she washed her mistress as if she were a piece of laundry, eliciting shrieks and objections. The louder Rosamund cried, the more vigorously Bianca scrubbed. Old wounds reopened and blood streamed into the water, staining it. Her bruised hind found no respite against the solid bottom of the tub.
Rosamund knew the woman took no pleasure from her ministrations yet could no more prevent her cries than she could the sadness and anxiety rising inside her as pain flared and her modesty and dignity were trampled.
Understanding her objections were falling on deaf ears, Rosamund forced her mouth shut lest she add to the rumors she’d no doubt were already flying about the house, or swallow more soapy water. As Bianca tended her, she began to forget the aches and enjoy the sensation of being clean; the sting of the cloth on her scrubbed flesh, the rawness of grazes exposed, the water lapping them, the aroma of roses and lavender. With each swipe of the cloth, every lathery cloud washed away, it was as if she was cleansed of the last nine years. She imagined every day at the Maiden Voyage Inn, nay, every moment spent with her stepfather and his brutal attentions being purged from her flesh. If only she could do this to her mind, she would achieve peace.
As the second lot was poured over her head, making Rosamund gasp and her eyes fly open, Bianca propped herself on the edge of the tub and began to carefully comb the lice out of her hair.
When she was finally dried, dressed in what Bianca called a “house-gown” (a flimsy, apricot gauze procured from God knew where), the housekeeper departed before Rosamund could thank her.
“The signore will join you in due course,” she said in her lyrical accent and, without a curtsey or fare-thee-well, shut the door.
A knock followed shortly after and one of the maids entered, a pretty girl with a snub nose, freckles and dimples. Rosamund flashed a smile and scurried forward to help her. Carrying a tray laden with food, the girl shied away from Rosamund’s outstretched arms, appalled. Understanding she’d made another error—the lady of the house did not aid a servant—Rosamund retreated to the cold hearth, watching while dishes and cups were arranged on a small table by the window. When the girl finished, Rosamund thanked her warmly and was rewarded by an astonished widening of the maid’s eyes and the glimmer of a grin before two more maids were admitted, who quickly removed the buckets and tub, exiting swiftly along with the first.
Alone at last, Rosamund stood in the center of the room and let out a breath so long and deep it was as if she’d held it all the way from Gravesend. Oh dear God. How could she have thought this might be easy? That she was being rescued? While it was a relief to be free of the Ballisters, they were a known quantity. Surprises were few and far between; she was able to navigate her way through each day and had even accrued allies. Here, she was a stranger cast upon an unfamiliar shore. She didn’t even speak the same language. Not only would she have to accustom herself once more to being served—rather than doing the serving—but Sir Everard owned slaves. Rosamund had heard of the trade in human cargo, the stories of how some city merchants and nobles flaunted their newly acquired property, dressing their blackamoors in fine clothes and treating them much as they did their servants, only without the inconvenience of a wage. But she had never thought to see one, or to have one attend to her needs, however grudgingly. Yet, Jacopo didn’t hail from the Africas but Venice. From her accent, Bianca did as well. Well-spoken, clean, and with some authority if their titles were anything to go by, they were not what Rosamund expected. Nothing was.
Taking in the huge old four-poster bed, the diaphanous curtains swathing it, the discolored blankets and pillows atop the coverlets, she did an inventory of the room, something practical, achievable, anything to ease the tumble of emotions inside. It was at least three times the size of her small one at the inn and though it was darker than her bedroom at Bearwoode, there was much to remind her of it—the decorative mantel, the deep hearth, the wooden armoire, the curtains billowing gently at the window and the landscapes hanging on the walls. It was akin to snatching a moment from her childhood. Her heart contracted. Then, she’d been loved. Then, she’d laughed—and often. Here? She gazed around. What would she do here?
Well, at least she was clean. Smoothing her hands over the gown, she admired her scrubbed skin, though it made her bruises stand out. Raising her hand to her nose, she inhaled deeply. Lifting the long, damp strands of her hair, she studied them. They no longer crawled with vermin and her scalp didn’t itch. That was something to delight in. Spinning in a circle, her arms outstretched, she felt a laugh begin to build; then she remembered the horrified looks of the servants, Bianca’s coldness and Sir Everard’s words, “She stinks like the Fleet,” and the laugh died. She ceased to turn. Crossing her arms, she bunched her fists in her armpits. Sadness welled.
This wouldn’t do. Cursing her weakness, she resorted to pragmatism again.
Testing the mattress, she was pleased to note it was soft. She sank into the feathers and wondered who’d slept on it before. Was this Sir Everard’s bedroom? There were two doors—the one she had entered by and another. Where did it lead? To Sir Everard’s chamber? Any thoughts she had about opening it were quashed. Was she to share his bed this night? Her throat grew tight. As his wife, was that not his prerogative? She offered up a swift prayer to God (and to her grandmother) that, even though he was old, he would be gentle and courteous, like the knights in the stories her grandmother told her. That he wouldn’t notice. That he’d be nothing like . . . nothing like . . .
Stop. She was cleansed now. She wouldn’t sully that feeling by thinking of . . . the past.
The mouthwatering smell of roasted meat reached her, reminding her she was utterly famished. Uncertain whether she was meant to indulge in the repast spread across the table or wait for company, Rosamund decided the amount of pheasant, bread, cheese and fruits, and the brimming decanter of wine, must be meant for two. Still, as the melting candles and the rhythmic tick of a clock suggested, Sir Everard’s “due course” was taking a very long time.
Resisting the cries of her stomach, she rose and went to the window and gazed out on the shadowy outlines of church spires and slate roofs, admiring the glow of distant bonfires and trying not to breathe in the thick smoke that hung in the air. Here was the city of which she’d dreamed, the city everyone spoke of—some reverently, in hushed tones; others more boldly, as if discussing a bear baiting; some spoke of it with such displeasure, it was as if they were describing Sodom and Gomorrah. In the distance she could hear the peal of a bell, the loud thump of a door, then a scream followed by coarse laughter and a volley of dog barks. London was wearing all its faces tonight. Turning away from the window, she continued her exploration of the room, opening empty drawers, running her hands over an assortment of glass ornaments, some with chips in them, picking up a fan, stroking a bedcover or chair. She was admiring a rich, if somewhat bedraggled tapestry hanging between the fireplace and the window when Sir Everard knocked and entered.
“The room is to your liking?” he asked, his arm describing an arc before he beheld her and froze. “My,” he exhaled.
Reddening under his appraisal, Rosamund was quick to respond. “Oh, indeed, sir. It’s . . . very nice.”
Sir Everard returned to his senses. “I’ve been remiss in not saying it before, I do offer you welcome, Rosamund, and might I say, you look . . . well.” He nodded. “I knew that with a bath and change of attire your loveliness would be evident.” A look Rosamund was not unacquainted with appeared upon his face.
Unable to help herself, Rosamund gave a dry chortle. “I would have thought you might also note the alteration in my fragrance, sir, since you found it so offensive before.”
Sir Everard’s expression changed, his mouth opened and closed and he turned aside. “Ah . . . indeed. I see. Quite.” His eyes fell upon the untouched food. “You haven’t eaten anything. I assumed you would be all but prostrate with hunger. You barely ate a morsel at the inn.”
Rosamund dropped another curtsey. “I was waiting for you, milord.”
Taking her by the elbow, he led her to a chair, using his stick to push aside an errant cushion. “Well, I’m here now. Sit, eat. Take your time. I’ve ordered the servants not to disturb us.”
That comment gave her pause, but she arranged the flimsy robe and watched as Sir Everard sat in the chair opposite. “Will you join me, sir?” she asked.
He flapped a hand. “I’ve already eaten. Please, don’t stand on ceremony.”
Repressing her shock that the meal was for her alone, and imagining how many customers such fare would feed (and the resultant profit), Rosamund began to pick at the meat, observing Sir Everard from beneath her lashes.
Conscious of his eyes upon her, she ate slowly, making sure to chew with her mouth closed and holding a napkin close by to remove any grease from her lips or fingers. As the minutes passed and still Sir Everard didn’t say anything, Rosamund realized what a dullard she’d been.
“Allow me to pour you a drink, milord,” she said quickly. Half standing, she splashed ruby liquid into the glasses, lifting one into Sir Everard’s outstretched hand.
“May I propose a toast?” asked Sir Everard.
“Please.”
“To my new wife.”
Rosamund drank slowly. Summoning what little remained of her courage, she decided she’d nothing to lose and much to gain. While her mother thought knowledge overrated and questions intolerable, had not her grandmother said the ability to learn is man’s greatest asset? And how did one acquire learning if not by asking questions? A talent at which blasted women excelled, according to Paul.
“Thank you, milord.” Putting down her goblet, she began, “You referred to me as your new wife, which would imply there was an old one.” She met his steady gaze.
Sir Everard’s brow furrowed. “Indeed, there was. In fact, this was her room. I’ve not been in it since . . .” He didn’t finish.
Despite the expression on his face, the fact he was forthcoming heartened Rosamund’s resolve. Enjoying the mellow feel of the claret on her throat and the rich taste of pheasant, she leaned forward. “May I be so bold as to ask you a question?”
Sir Everard waved his permission.
“Why did you marry me? It’s evident your servants were astonished.” He didn’t correct her. “While it’s clear I’ve much to gain from this arrangement”—her nod encompassed the house—“I’m yet to understand how you benefit. What can you hope to gain from plighting your troth with me?”
Sir Everard drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair and took a long draft of his wine. “Why did I marry you?” he repeated slowly, staring at a point beyond Rosamund’s shoulder. “It’s not the first time I’ve been asked that question tonight. It will not be the last.”
Snapping out of his reverie, Sir Everard regarded her solemnly. “I’m not surprised my behavior at the inn, offering to . . . errr . . .” He paused, flicked his hand toward her a few times. “Must be troubling you. What sort of a man does that on a whim?”
Rosamund nodded. She’d be lying if she didn’t admit it caused her more than a little perturbation.
“You see, Rosamund, despite my impulsiveness, I married you with a particular purpose in mind. You’re quite correct that marriage never entered my initial reckoning, but when your mother pointed out it’s essentially a business transaction, I thought, damn it, she’s right. After all, when I married Margery (my old wife), I gained useful family connections, some of whom you’re bound to meet, and I’m afraid they must be endured, and her generous dowry. In return, she gained my name and a title, and later shared my growing wealth. Neither of us was too proud to turn to trade and improve our situation through hard work . . . unlike some. It was all that saved us during the Interregnum and Cromwell’s rule. Our families invested in us and we invested in each other. Just like a business. We protected each other, profited from our relationship. That’s what I’m doing now: in giving you the advancement that comes with my name, I’m investing in you with the intention to profit. It’s evident your fortunes have undergone dramatic alteration, allowing me to find you in such reduced circumstances. Despite your father’s name, marrying you was a risk; but something tells me”—he thumped his breastbone to indicate what that something was—“you’ll be worth it.” He leaned forward, his right hand curled upon his knee. “Understand this, Rosamund. I always expect good returns on my investments.”
Taken aback, Rosamund waited.
“As my wife, even though you’re a bastard—”
She winced.
“—you’ll enjoy a certain degree of prestige . . . and notoriety.” He sank back into the seat.
Rosamund worked to keep her face impassive as she wondered exactly what that meant.
“What of the house, milord? I’ve never been responsible for so large an establishment, for running it. As your wife, I assume I—” How could she confess she’d never been responsible for any establishment? Unless the Maiden Voyage Inn counted and then she was hardly accountable—that particular pleasure had been Paul’s. Not that it prevented him apportioning blame when things went wrong, and punishment when they did . . . or didn’t. She swallowed and looked around, hoping her sense of being overwhelmed with responsibility wasn’t apparent.
Sir Everard dismissed her anxieties. “Bianca is my housekeeper and has done a fine job of taking care of Blithe Manor since Margery’s death. Until you’re ready to take on the various duties a wife would, she will continue to manage.” Leaning back in the chair, he smiled. “You’re not to concern yourself with such trivialities yet. I’ve another task I want you to focus on. My only expectation of you, Rosamund, is that you do exactly as I ask.”
Rosamund’s mind was spinning. “What do you ask of me, milord?”
Sir Everard adjusted his necktie, smoothed his hands down the front of his waistcoat then rested them atop his knees.
“Quite simply, what I require of you above and beyond anything else, is both loyalty and obedience.”
Rosamund waited for him to say more, but he appeared to have finished. She could hardly believe her ears. Was this all Sir Everard wanted in return for not only providing her with the means to escape her previous life, but giving her his name and the benefits of his fortune? There had to be a catch. Surely no man could be so generous, so forthcoming. What had she, Rosamund Tomkins, done to deserve such a benefactor? Why, she was already loyal—how could she not be? As for obedience, was it not a woman’s natural state?
Sitting very straight, her hands folded in her lap, Rosamund said, “I can be both those things, milord.”
“I never doubted,” said Sir Everard, smiling at her. She hadn’t noticed before, but his teeth were quite crooked, like the tombstones in the churchyard at Gravesend. Whether it was a trick of the candles or not, there was something predatory about his expression. “I’m also pleased you’re not one of those women who bombard men with questions. I don’t like them.”
Rosamund felt a rush of discomfort. Nevertheless, she took note. The last thing she wanted to do was displease him.
“There’s something else you should know as well,” said Sir Everard. “Something that will help you understand what I’m going to ask of you in the coming weeks—the task for which I want you to prepare.”
Rosamund swallowed. Here it comes. “Oh?”
“You see, Rosamund, when you married me, you didn’t just become Lady Blithman.”
Unable to prevent it, the words tripped from her mouth. “What else did I become?” Her voice was barely a whisper as her heart tumbled in her chest.
“Today, my lady, you also became a chocolate maker’s wife.”