Matthew yawned and straightened his cramped legs, trying to shake off the leaden sleep that had overcome him as he sat vigil by Rosamund’s bed. For five days he’d barely moved except to talk to the doctor and to Filip, Bianca, Sam and the boys. All that time she’d drifted in and out of sleep, her head bandaged, her hand too. Her face was bruised. Her skin had been so very red when they first brought her to Seething Lane, but at least that had faded, unlike the memories that shrieked from her mouth and caused her to thrash about the bed.
Dear God.
If he hadn’t arrived at the house when he did, if Filip and Mr. Nick and the women hadn’t already started to fight the fire with pails of water, he might never have been able to enter the manor. He shuddered; it didn’t bear thinking about. The additional burns he’d received when he kicked in the door, heaved the beam out of the way and threw Aubrey off her, they would heal.
So would Rosamund—at least, her physical self would. But what of the scars those moments with Aubrey would sear into her soul? And, as he’d learned these last days and nights, there were other, older scars, upon which these would now be grafted.
Alarmed by what spilled from her mouth as she drifted between consciousness and nightmares, he was helpless to soothe her. With Bianca’s aid, between them they settled her—if you could call the frown that puckered that sweet brow, the tremulous hands and mouth, “settled.”
Able to piece together what haunted her nightmares, not wanting to acknowledge what must be true, Matthew slumped into despondency. How could anyone commit such terrible crimes against her? He’d thought he’d been dealt an unkind blow by fate when he encountered the Blithmans, but it was nothing compared to what Rosamund had been forced to endure before she ever met them. To think he’d once suspected her of knowingly being in league with Sir Everard to defeat him.
He was ashamed.
If Bianca hadn’t coaxed out of him what he’d heard and how he felt, and in turn offered what Jacopo had told her about Sir Everard and his intentions toward Rosamund, he might have done something hasty. When Bianca admitted she too had at first suspected Rosamund of having questionable morals, and how it wasn’t until she saw the marks upon her flesh that first night she began to doubt her initial impression, he felt somewhat mollified.
Later, Bianca explained, she saw in Rosamund what everyone did who bothered to look beneath the large eyes, the quick smile, the joyous laugh and natural ebullience—not only a genuinely good-natured person who refused to allow outrageous misfortune to keep her down, but also a reflective and clever woman who was quick to read in others what they often didn’t recognize in themselves.
Matthew thought on Bianca’s words as he studied Rosamund’s face in repose. He knew every hair in the arch of her brows, every fine vein atop her eyelids. The bow of her mouth, the sweep of those long eyelashes against the curve of her cheek. An artist could not have captured her the way Matthew could merely by closing his eyes.
After Helene, he’d never have believed he could admit a woman into his heart again and allow her to take it into her keeping. For that’s what this woman of endless surprises, resilience and kindness had done—this fine chocolate maker had taken the raw and bitter ingredients that made up who he was and remixed them until he was altogether more palatable.
He smiled at his own musings and wondered, for the umpteenth time, what Rosamund would make of them. If only she would wake . . .
He rose and opened the curtains to admit the gray light. Outside, rain was falling. Blessed rain after all this time. Hopefully it would be enough to quench the last of the fires. He watched it flow in shuddering bands down the glass. Perhaps he could yet hope for a miracle.
Almost afraid to look, he turned to the bed to see what changes a new morning wrought, if any.
What he didn’t expect was a pair of chocolate-deep eyes gazing back at him.
He fell to his knees beside the bed and searched for her hand.
“Rosamund,” he whispered.
She tried to talk, but nothing came.
He poured her a glass of small ale, then tucked an arm behind her and gently pulled her upright. Lifting the drink to her lips, he could only stare as she winced when the cool fluid hit her dry, sore throat. A peculiar itch threatened the back of his eyes.
When she signaled she’d had enough, he put the glass down and eased her back among the pillows.
“How long?” she asked, finally. Her voice was little more than a susurration and the effort clearly cost her. She began to cough, and he held her while she barked and wheezed, relieved the doctor had warned them to expect that as her lungs cleared themselves of all the smoke she’d inhaled while she was unconscious in the burning room.
Slowly, he retracted his arm and watched her sink into the pillows. She looked so young with her hair cascading over her shoulders, hair that had been singed and even now bore a bright orange streak at the front, like a flame. A reminder of what she had survived. It would grow out. If she hadn’t been wearing a cap, if Aubrey’s body hadn’t borne the brunt of that beam and protected her from the flames, well . . .
Never believing he could be grateful to Aubrey for anything, he was for that. He could forgive him much for saving Rosamund’s life.
He fought back the tears. God damn, but they were perilously close to his eyelids these days. He blamed lack of sleep at the same time as he almost crushed her fingers.
Her dark eyes flashed and recorded everything around her. The flowers Grace picked each day and refreshed in a glass of water. The books Bianca brought and read to her. The news sheets Sam had collected so Matthew might also keep abreast of tidings, even if it was old news and much of it written by him. The bowls of chocolate lovingly prepared by Filip and the boys. In those chestnut eyes he saw a deep suffering he couldn’t recall seeing before, as if she’d caught a glimpse of hell and been forever altered. The very notion ate at him. He would take all that away if he could.
“How long?” repeated Matthew lightly, waiting until her last coughs subsided, summoning a small smile. “A mere five days. You’ve been asleep”—near death—“or close to it for five days.” An eternity by any other measure. “But look, we have rain.”
They both gazed toward the window, the shower now a heavy, steady thrumming that cast a silver light over the room and drowned the sounds of the street. Above them, footsteps resounded. A door slammed shut. He didn’t know what to say. No, he didn’t know how to say it.
“Where am I?” she asked.
Matthew gave a half laugh. “Sam’s. We all are. For now.” Then, seeing the questions in those extraordinary eyes, he told her everything—well, almost everything. He focused on how he’d carried her out of the room and down the stairs, Filip running to his aid, just before the ceiling collapsed and the entire roof caved in.
“If it hadn’t, there was a risk the other houses might have ignited, but it meant the flames were contained within the walls. But I’m afraid Blithe Manor is no more.”
Rosamund took the news well considering the last of her sanctuaries was now but rubble and ash. The rain became heavier. Sodden ash.
He went to stroke her face but held back. Once he’d learned what had happened to her at the hands of her stepfather and brothers, how they’d made free with her, touching and more, the Satan-spawned bastards, the caresses he’d stolen, of her face, arms and fingers, ceased. If he couldn’t touch her with permission, he’d deny himself the pleasure. It was the least this precious woman was owed.
Understanding she wanted the entire story, he told her how Sam once more offered his house—not only to her, but to any of her maids and the drawers who could not return home, to Filip, Thomas, Solomon, Ashe, Grace and Bianca—Mr. Nick as well. Even to him, as Mr. Henderson’s house was nothing more than a scorched husk. Soon, he would tell her how he and Sam had grown quite close, the naval clerk enjoying having another set of ears into which to pour his accomplishments.
Sam would join Matthew’s vigil by Rosamund’s bed and share his daily adventures with him, a responsibility Elizabeth was more than content to relinquish. Thus Matthew learned that in the days since he had brought Rosamund here and the doctor had treated her, the King had not only addressed the thousands of homeless spread across Moorfields and beyond, he’d been greeted like a hero. Fighting the fire side by side with commoners, on horseback for over thirty hours, he’d earned the respect none of his other actions had since taking the throne. Matthew had seen the King for himself, and his brother, the Duke, both covered in filth, bone-weary, not only using hooks to pull down roofs, wielding shovels to help make firebreaks and laying explosives, but shoring up flagging spirits with praise and bonhomie and sharing the basic rations that were distributed. He and Sam agreed they hoped His Majesty would take advantage of the people’s goodwill to shore up his position and do more good. Somehow, knowing the fickleness of the people and the propensities of the pleasure-loving King, they confided that they doubted it.
He wondered if he should mention Wat. How the curmudgeonly man, shocked by Aubrey’s death and what had led to it, and at a loss what to do with himself, had remained in the vicinity of Seething Lane and set about making himself useful. Every day he would inquire after the young mistress’s health—seemingly not out of duty as much as a genuine desire to know. One could almost believe he was relieved to be free of any obligation to Aubrey.
Rosamund lay quietly, her hand limp against the bedclothes.
“Aubrey?” she asked finally; his name a wound upon her lips.
Matthew shook his head. “I . . . I was too late.” How did he explain that as soon as he saw her, crushed not only beneath a great burning piece of wood, but Aubrey as well, his only care was for her? With a strength he didn’t know he possessed, he’d heaved the beam aside, then pushed Aubrey off. What the poltroon was doing there, having sworn to keep away, he would yet discover. Out of the corner of his eye he’d seen the man was unconscious, that his legs were already burning. Even so, he’d intended to come back for him, and would’ve too, had the house not fallen.
That was his intention . . .
“He’s dead?” she asked.
“Yes.” Matthew would never tell her about his animal screams, the way they echoed as he fled down the stairs with her in his arms, how Aubrey’s pleas to save him haunted his nightmares.
“Perhaps”—she began to cough again—“it’s better that way,” she said.
Matthew didn’t dare speak for a moment. It was better. Most of all, for Aubrey. “When you’re able,” he said, clearing his throat, “I want you to tell me what Aubrey was doing there. How the fire started.”
A pained expression furrowed her brow.
“Only if you wish, my lady,” he added quickly. “If it causes you too much—”
“I want to,” said Rosamund hoarsely. “I must. There’s something you need to know . . .” Her voice died away, and her eyelids grew heavy.
Matthew stared at her, willing her to be with him once more. Learning what had befallen them had been too much. She fell back into the blessed release of slumber.
* * *
Three nights later, knowing everyone else in the crowded house was occupied, Rosamund sent for Matthew and Bianca. It was time to tell them what had happened before the fire at Blithe Manor, and about the pages from Lady Margery’s diary.
Sam, with help from a subdued Wat and a jovial Mr. Nick, had spent the entire day transferring all the household goods he’d stowed away because of the fire back into the house. After enjoying luncheon at the Globe, he was off to Deptford to fetch his wife, who’d been away again. Apart from Filip, Solomon, Thomas, Grace, Adam and Hugh, who were enjoying a game of Primo in the kitchen with Sam’s servants, Jane and Will, and Mr. Nick, who had found a nearby alehouse, they were quite alone.
Rosamund felt so much better. Bianca had been solicitous in her attentions, feeding her soup and bread dipped in warm milk, while Filip prepared special bowls of chocolate. Sam had ensured the chocolate and the chocolate-making equipment were salvaged from the wreckage of Blithe Manor. Most of it suffered only some singeing and the indignity of soot.
Each day, the boys and Grace had spent time with Rosamund, mostly to reassure themselves she was really on the mend, but also to boast of their bravery during the London fire. Able to crawl out of bed, she’d sat on the chair Matthew usually occupied and listened as they spoke over the top of one another, trying to earn her admiration. Draped over the back of Thomas’s chair, Grace hung on his every word.
Hardly boys anymore. Thomas was broadening across the shoulders and his voice had deepened. Solomon, who was looking more and more like Filip each day, appeared to have grown inches since she last saw him. Perhaps the water with which they’d fought the flames had, as it did plants, helped them grow. The thought made her smile.
It was from them she learned that Wat was also staying in Seething Lane, albeit bunking down in the stables with some other homeless people. Bianca explained that by making himself useful, he wanted to make amends. Rosamund wasn’t sure she was ready for that and was grateful to learn Mr. Nick was keeping a close eye on him. What she was ready to learn was that Adam, Hugh, Kit, Art and Timothy had found work at one of the few surviving coffee houses.
Prowling the streets each day, looking to help where he could while also collecting stories for the London Gazette, which returned to publication on the 10th of September via an open-air printing press, Matthew had come across a coffee maker who was desperate for more boys. Provided with excellent references, and demonstrating these were not mere hyperbole, the boys had been welcomed. Their work came with accommodation. Spilling into her room, awkward and grateful, the boys bade Rosamund farewell and let her know that when she opened again, they would return to her faster than she could twirl a molinillo.
With a heavy heart she watched them leave. She would hold them to that. When she reopened.
When? Who was she fooling? The question was if she reopened.
Ever since she’d regained her faculties, it preoccupied her every waking moment. Aubrey’s reminders of her financial situation had struck a chord. He was right that without an income from either the chocolate house or the bookstore, she’d be forced to rely on the generosity of others. “Others” meaning men.
With Blithe Manor gone, the situation was even more dire. And what of those dependent on her? It was grand the boys had found work, but apart from rebuilding and cleaning, the sort of skills Filip, Thomas, Solomon and even she herself possessed needed not only demand, but a place in which they could be utilized. That required money, time. And what of Ashe and young Grace?
Losing the chocolate house and bookstore, not to mention three-quarters of the city, while very inconvenient (she almost laughed hysterically at how inadequate that word was)—as long as they’d had a roof over their heads, their circumstances were not completely grim.
Losing Blithe Manor changed everything. All she’d owned had been contained within those four walls. While the chocolate-making equipment had survived, what good was it to her now?
While it was fine to presume on Sam for a few days, this arrangement couldn’t last forever. How could she remain in London when it was little more than charred rubble? How could she open another business without a cent to her name? Without any material goods to barter with? As a woman? Well, there was one way, and she wasn’t even going to consider that.
The fact was, she had nothing. She was a nobody with a title, and that wouldn’t pay the rent or put food on the table.
She could hear Sam now: What you need, my dear, is a husband.
Matthew’s face rose before her. A face that was so dear to her and yet, what happened back at Blithe Manor, learning the truth about the whole sordid mess, the way in which Matthew had been manipulated, the lengths to which Aubrey, Helene, Lady Margery and Sir Everard would go to protect the family name no matter the cost, left her feeling scraped out and hollow.
Everything was now tainted. She’d known almost from the outset that she resembled Helene Blithman. It was the reason Sir Everard married her; he depended on the similarity to make his vengeance complete. Aubrey had regarded her as not only a reincarnation of Helene but God’s approval of their incest made flesh.
The thought made her skin crawl.
What of Matthew? Did he see Rosamund as a second chance at love? Or a second chance at his first marriage, minus the incest and cuckolding? Was that why he brought her into his business so willingly? Why he had been so delighted that Mr. Henderson left the bookstore to both of them? It had bound her to him in other ways.
Thoughts whirled in her head, mixed with flames and ashes. Her dreams were nothing but charred ruins. She didn’t even know if she wanted to rise like a phoenix anymore. After all, didn’t the damn bird just burn again? She would have to make up her mind soon; it wasn’t fair to keep Matthew close under a false pretext, to offer hope where there was none. If she did, then she was no better than those she despised.
Before she could make those kinds of decisions, she owed Matthew and Bianca the truth. They needed to know what Lady Margery had written.
Bianca lit some candles and stoked the coals in the hearth while Matthew mixed them all bowls of chocolate. The rain was light now, so light they heard the distant bells of one of the remaining churches chime the hour. Seven of the clock. Rosamund prepared what she would say.
Matthew and Bianca settled in neighboring chairs, steaming bowls of chocolate in their hands, their eyes upon her. Slowly, interrupted by the occasional cough, she relayed the contents of the remnants of Lady Margery’s diary. Then she briefly told them what Aubrey had done and said. How he’d threatened her and, through her, those she cared about. Her voice was still husky, scorched by the smoke.
When she finished, Matthew’s eyes fixed on her face for a long moment. He let out a protracted whistle.
“His threats . . . to expose me, you, they were empty, you know. Said to frighten you, force you to capitulate to his whims. He’d no proof. I made sure of that once I realized Sir Henry wasn’t paying the men to watch us. I had him call them off and order them never to work for Aubrey again. I told Sir Henry their time was being wasted over a matter of the heart when it would be better spent ferreting out real traitors. But you weren’t to know that.” He sighed, his eyes downcast. “As for Lady Margery . . . I never knew . . . never suspected.” He placed his bowl on the floor and raked his hair with his hands, as if turning over the topsoil of his mind. “She was so quiet, remained so much in the background. I’d never have guessed the level of her involvement.” He shook his head. “It always appeared she was obeying Sir Everard’s whim.” He looked to Bianca for confirmation.
“I believe that was the impression both of them wanted to give. She was a very strong and able woman for all she appeared . . . demure.”
“Like Helene,” he whispered. He looked at Bianca. “Did you know about them . . . Aubrey . . . Helene?”
Bianca bit her lip. “I had . . . suspicions. Jacopo and I both, but we dared not speak about them, lest they . . . be made manifest. But,” continued Bianca hesitantly, “it does explain why Lady Margery took her own life.”
“She what?” Matthew sat forward.
Rosamund drew in a sharp breath. She had wondered how Lady Margery died, but never suspected she’d killed herself. She recalled the words in the diary:
. . . I would do anything to secure my children’s future and preserve their good name. Ours. Anything. I do not regret one thing. Not even what I am about to do. May God forgive me.
“How?” asked Rosamund softly. She leaned back and closed her eyes for a moment.
“She hanged herself from the bedpost. Plaited a sheet and looped it about her neck and . . .” Bianca took a deep breath. “I found her the next morning. I woke Sir Everard immediately. Together we . . . we took her down, untangled the sheet, placed her back in the bed and the master ordered me to tie a scarf about her neck so when the doctor came, he would not see the dreadful bruising. We told him she died in her sleep.”
Rosamund’s hands crept to her own throat. “It explains so much.” Not only the words in the diary, but why Sir Everard was so guarded when he spoke of his wife. Suicide. Incest and suicide. May God forgive her, forgive them.
“He ordered us to never speak of it again,” said Bianca softly. “Of her. I oft wondered why she did it. I prayed for her soul, at Meetings.” Her hands fluttered. “As for the baby . . .” She shook her head. “Again, I wondered but I never saw, only heard rumors. Helene was careful as few as possible laid eyes upon him.”
She flashed an apologetic look at Matthew.
“She kept him heavily swaddled.” He paused. “I scarce saw him myself. I never suspected what I learned later. I believed God had sent us a flawed child to love and nurture. I would have, too, you know.” His eyes took on a faraway look before they snapped back to the present. “In many ways, I should be grateful to them, I suppose—to Aubrey and Helene.”
“Grateful?” Bianca spat. “How can you, of all people, say that?”
Rosamund knew what he meant, or thought she did.
“Had Aubrey not defied his father’s orders and written to Helene from the colonies, had she not kept the letters and copies of those she sent to him, I might never have known the truth. I would have believed my wife and my baby drowned at sea and continued to blame myself. I would have spent my life grieving and being held to account for deaths in which I played no part.” He released a long, sad sigh. “Knowing about Aubrey and Helene, their unnatural love, I’ve had years to reconcile her death and the babe’s, but even so, it has been difficult. Now to learn of Lady Margery’s part in all this, when I thought it could not become more sordid, has, I confess, quite flummoxed me. I always thought . . . I believed it was Sir Everard alone who set out to deceive and then punish me for learning the truth. I used it to bring him to his knees, force him to compensate me for the humiliations and deception I suffered.” He gave a contemptuous snort. “But it was never the whole truth, was it?”
“It never is,” said Rosamund softly. She was thinking back to Bearwoode and what Master Dunstan used to say whenever she asked him why her mother had abandoned her. There are always three sides to every story: yours, theirs and God’s. She wondered what God would say about this one. Wash his hands of it and pass it to the devil?
Now she understood why Matthew never revealed the name of Helene’s lover. What was it he’d said when she asked why Sir Everard didn’t force his daughter to marry the man who got her with child? There was an impediment to their union. Impediment. Aye, incest. No wonder Sir Everard was desperate to have the letters returned; no wonder Matthew was able to use them to force first Sir Everard and then Aubrey to do his bidding . . . for a time, anyhow.
Once more, the terrible power of words was laid bare. The ways in which they could be both used and abused . . .
“And Aubrey thought to find redemption by taking you to wife,” said Matthew sourly, interrupting her thoughts. “His reasoning beggars belief.”
“He said”—Rosamund tried to recall the exact words—“‘we can undo all those terrible things—the baby’s death. Father’s actions.’” She paused. “He said to me, ‘But you, you’re not my sister, you only look like her . . . With you, I can love openly, out of the shadows. Even God Himself would bless our union.’” Her eyes dropped to her hands twisted together on her lap.
“Mio Dio,” whispered Bianca.
“He was deluded,” said Matthew, shaking his head. “Not even God could forgive what he did. What Helene did too.”
“What they all did,” finished Bianca.
There was silence.
“Bianca,” began Rosamund, “do you think Sir Everard suspected there were pages missing from one of Lady Margery’s diaries? From her last one?”
“He would have turned the house upside down if he’d known they existed. He simply didn’t want anyone to read any of her diaries—he destroyed whatever he found.”
“Were there many?”
“Sì. Written over years. She would oft be found in her closet writing the day’s events.” Bianca frowned, her voice thoughtful. “I came across Sir Everard in there once, not long after you”—she nodded toward Matthew—“married Helene, reading them. The following day, they were all gone. After that, Lady Margery took to hiding them. He remonstrated with her for being so foolish as to record everything. I did wonder what she wrote that so perturbed him.”
“Do you think tearing out those pages, the ones where she reveals everything, was her vengeance upon him? For destroying her words, silencing her?” asked Rosamund.
They all exchanged a long look.
Bianca nodded slowly. “In more ways than one. Sir Everard never tolerated her Papist sympathies either. Forbade her its rituals, the solace of the confessional. She must have kept the beads after he broke her rosaries and covered her confession with them. It was also her way of undermining him and of adhering to her faith.”
Matthew stared at the ceiling, exhaling loudly. “I don’t know whether that makes me feel worse or better. All that time, I dedicated myself to revenge—but I was punishing the wrong person.”
“Not entirely,” said Rosamund. “Sir Everard chose to take up the mantel. Remember, he did try to kill you.”
“He tried to get you to kill me.”
Rosamund went quiet. Imagine if she had succeeded. Imagine life without that man sitting opposite her now. Imagine if she were still married to Sir Everard and had the weight of Matthew’s death on her conscience. She shuddered.
Bianca moved to cover her.
“Are you cold, my lady?” asked Matthew.
“Not really.” She waited until Bianca finished tucking the blanket in, and thanked her. “I was just thinking what a wasted emotion revenge is. It fills the soul with nothing but darkness.”
Matthew gave a sardonic laugh. “The important thing is not to get swallowed by the darkness. To remember, even when the shadows grow long and you fear they will consume you, there’s still light in the world.” He glanced at her before turning to face the fire. “You just need to find it.”
And love, thought Rosamund. And love. You just have to be brave enough to acknowledge it.