When she wasn’t recalling her nights with Matthew, shivering with scorching anticipation and remembrance, marveling that a man could be both so gentle and yet so . . . so . . . firm (she blushed), that being touched by a man, by love, could feel so right, so heavenly and so wondrously, deliciously joyous, Rosamund was trying to solve the problem of what the future held.
Sam had generously offered a loan to help them secure rooms so they might have their own place to live, but a chocolate house was beyond his means and her expectations. This was something she had to do for herself—something she and Matthew had to resolve. Matthew spent each day pacing the streets, talking to Mr. Newcombe, the publisher of the London Gazette, seeking out stories and, in the evenings, writing them—that was, until he joined her. The money he earned was not much, but if they bided their time, the rents on his land would be due, and if he sold his shares in the ship, in a few months they would have earned enough to secure passage for them all.
Bianca was uncertain whether Filip, Solomon and Thomas would want to come. And if Thomas didn’t go, it was unlikely Grace would, so Rosamund asked Sam if he could try to find them work in Whitehall’s kitchens. The King and so many courtiers had frequented the Phoenix and praised its chocolate as the best in town. If they really meant it, then who better to make it exclusively for the court than the Phoenix’s very own chocolate makers? Especially one who had the cachet of having worked for the King of Spain?
Sam promised he would see what he could do. If that didn’t work, Rosamund tried to think of other options but, as Bianca said, they were, like time, fast running out.
Hoping to find some answers in the capital, Rosamund was shocked when she finally walked the streets and was reminded of the devastation. Despite the heavy rains that had fallen, many of the ruins still smoldered, the fires having burned long and hard, melting lead, precious metals and so many books and papers. Word was that deeds, wills and leases had gone up in smoke, causing no end of friction among landholders, business owners and private households. Not that any of that was relevant to Rosamund. When one owned nothing, a missing deed was neither currency nor credit.
Entire streets contained only the blackened bones of what had once stood—shops, houses, taverns, guildhalls and churches. Homeless people, their faces etched by despair and hardship, picked over the ruins. Fights were frequent, theft moreso as families returned and set up camp in what remained of their houses, bringing with them the few things they’d rescued from the flames. Food ran short; people were starving.
Farmers from outside London were encouraged to bring in their goods. The more unscrupulous charged extra, attempting to profit from the city’s misery. Some were stoned and run out of town when tempers flared. Others sold their goods at reasonable prices and were welcomed. Workers came from everywhere to help with the rebuilding. Not for altruistic reasons, but because there was coin. It didn’t matter—London needed them and they needed the city. It was an uneasy symbiotic relationship.
Rumors still abounded that the fire had been a Papist plot. Dutchmen, Frenchmen, Spaniards and even Italians were hunted down and hauled onto the street; some were killed in a brutal form of misplaced justice. Even though Parliament and the news sheets swore the fire was an accident, an act of God, no one wanted to believe that God could be so cruel.
Rosamund believed it. She’d witnessed the depths to which He could stoop. But she’d also seen the heights to which He could ascend. Problem was, His benevolence and judgment were so arbitrary and, she quietly thought, patently unfair. Still, she was grateful for Matthew. And for Bianca, Filip, Ashe, Sam and all the others around whom they clustered in these trying days.
The King, so grand and noble while the fire raged, now focused on rebuilding the physical structures of his city—not on the people who had lost so much. Rosamund’s heart broke every time she stepped out. If only there was something she could do . . . but how could she hope to help others when she couldn’t even offer succor to those who relied on her the most?
* * *
One morning an unexpected visitor arrived at Seething Lane. Rosamund received him in Sam’s parlor, dressed in a black gown with one subtle piece of ruby embroidery that Elizabeth had kindly loaned her. She looked pale, and there was a fragility about her that disguised a determination honed by the steel of experience—something those enchanted by her smile overlooked to their detriment.
A flaw the lawyer Mr. Bender did not possess.
Bianca was also in a borrowed gown; plainer than Rosamund’s, it nonetheless showed the household was in mourning.
“Lady Rosamund,” said Mr. Bender, giving her a bow. “Mistress Abbandonato,” he said, offering the same to Bianca.
Returning the compliment, Rosamund gestured for him to join her by the window. Bianca took another chair while the Pepyses’ maid, Jane, poured some coffee. Filip, Thomas and Solomon had gone with Sam to the palace, so enjoying their chocolate drinks was out of the question, and Rosamund didn’t feel comfortable enough in the kitchen to search out ingredients and mix her own. Elizabeth, who was very aware of social rank, would not hear of it anyway. Rosamund respected her hostess’s wishes, even as a wayward part of her longed to challenge them. Fortunately, Elizabeth and Sam remained unaware of her and Matthew’s nocturnal activities—if they’d known, then chocolate making wouldn’t have even rated a mention. The thought made her smile.
“What a lovely surprise, Mr. Bender,” she said. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
Putting down his bowl of coffee, believing the smile on her face was for him and enjoying the way it made him feel, Mr. Bender returned a wide smile to both ladies.
“May I say how glad I am to see you both looking so well. When I first heard what happened at Blithe Manor, how you, Lady Rosamund, were trapped upstairs . . .”
Rosamund had no desire to taste the coffee, but in order to consider her response, bought some time by lifting the bowl and swirling the contents. Screwing up her nose at the bitter smell, she quickly put it back down. No matter what Elizabeth said, she would make a trip to the kitchen after this and make some chocolate.
“If it hadn’t been for Mr. Lovelace,” she said, “it might be quite a different story. I would have met the same fate as Mr. Blithman.”
Bianca gave a discreet cough.
“Ah, yes, Aubrey,” said Mr. Bender. “He’s the reason I’m here.”
Anxiety plucked at her spine.
“Well, not him exactly,” continued Mr. Bender. “But his holdings.”
Rosamund glanced in Bianca’s direction, brows raised. As the lawyer drew some papers out of a satchel, she thought yet again about the inferno at Blithe Manor and the losses it entailed. Whereas the London fire had, to date, only four casualties, Blithe Manor had one. Fortunately, apart from Aubrey and, of course, Rosamund, not a single other person was injured. The same couldn’t be said for the contents. Not only was every piece of furniture and all her clothes, most of the household goods and the belongings of just about every maidservant and footman destroyed, but also Sir Everard’s library and her Aladdin’s Cave. All the books and news sheets, pamphlets, booklets and bills reduced to fodder for Aubrey’s demented ambitions. All those words of history and poetry and every one of Matthew’s letters and pamphlets that she’d savored, transformed into cinders.
That had been the hardest loss to bear. Aubrey’s death was beyond awful, no doubt, but she’d be telling falsehoods if she didn’t admit—at least to herself—she was relieved he was gone.
The fact he saved her was a bitter pill to swallow. She didn’t want to feel a debt of gratitude to him, yet she did. She sent a silent prayer for his soul, wherever it resided.
“You see, my lady,” said Mr. Bender, moving the coffeepot and sugar bowl to one side and laying out some papers. “While the fire consumed many legal documents, some lawyers being slow to remove their records to safer places, I was not so remiss. Which, it turns out, is very good news indeed.”
“Is it?” asked Rosamund, failing to understand what this had to do with her.
“You see, in light of Aubrey’s death, and in the absence of a direct heir, the entire Blithman estate goes to you.”
At first Rosamund didn’t quite catch what he was saying, she was busy admiring the secretary hand on the pages before her. She only realized he’d said something else when he cleared his throat and she saw Bianca staring at her, eyes wide.
“Beg pardon, my lady,” said Mr. Bender, daring to touch her hand where it rested on the arm of her chair. “But do you understand what this means?”
“What what means, Mr. Bender?”
Passing her a thick document, Mr. Bender pointed to a list on the first page. “You may have lost the manor house, but that was just the spire on the church, the nib on the quill. The Blithman holdings sustained some losses due to the embargoes in place during the plague and the forfeiture of perishable stock, but they’ve recouped hefty profits since. Furthermore, the lands Aubrey acquired in Virginia, along with his existing cotton and tobacco plantations, are doing very well, as are the estates Gregory acquired and managed in Guinea up until his untimely death. Even once the Chancery Court takes their percentage, you’re a very wealthy woman, Lady Rosamund. Very wealthy indeed.” Rosamund saw the figure at the bottom of the third page.
This couldn’t be happening. Dazed, her mind whirled. What of the letter that Aubrey had threatened to use and thus render her less than a widow? The one that would have annulled her marriage to Sir Everard?
“Forgive me, Mr. Bender. But did . . .did Aubrey ever give you or make mention of a letter from his father? A report from a doctor?”
Mr. Bender gave her a long, steady look. “No, madam,” he said in an expressionless voice. “I do not recall such a letter or report. I do not recall that at all. Now, if I may continue?” He turned a page and went on explaining.
Rosamund continued to stare at him when she heard a word that unsettled her deeply. “Did you say ‘slaves,’ Mr. Bender?”
“I did indeed. You see, some of your greatest profits are derived from the trade Sir Everard set up when he signed a contract with the Royal Adventurers into Africa. Currently, he has three dedicated slave ships, but with Aubrey’s additional two ships—”
Rosamund didn’t hear any more. She saw the light go out of Bianca’s eyes, her full lips draw back in what was almost a rictus. Without being told, she knew where Bianca’s thoughts had traveled. To her long-dead mother, to Jacopo. To those years with the Blithmans. No matter how loyal or clever she was, no matter her paternity, there would always be those who would never let Bianca forget her birth.
“Mr. Bender,” said Rosamund, a tad more sharply than she intended.
The lawyer waited expectantly.
Any doubts she had about being in receipt of such beneficence fled. “I want to thank you for bringing me such unexpected news. I think it will take me some time to digest this.” Her hands swept the table. “Is it possible to keep these papers so my . . . friend . . . Mr. Lovelace, and my cousin Sam might examine them with me? So Bianca and I might pore over them?”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Bender, arranging them in a stack. “I have the originals in my office.” He paused. “If I may be so bold, my lady. With such wealth at your disposal, you’ll have suitors knocking down your door. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if the court approaches you for a loan, what with the privy purse being so . . . tight.”
Rosamund inclined her head.
“If I may also proffer a word of advice,” he said gently. “From an old father with a lovely daughter to someone of her age and also possessed of great beauty?”
“You may,” said Rosamund, a rush of warmth for him blossoming in her smile.
“Regarding the suitors I’ve no doubt will come in droves once word of this gets out.” He held up a finger to halt her protests. “No matter how guarded you might be, my lady, mark my words, it will get out. If there’s one thing all Londoners talk about, it’s tragedy and money. They can’t get enough of either. Except maybe scandal. The news sheets are full of rubbish. If they’re not alarming us, they’re depressing us or turning us into some kind of moral constables standing in judgment of one another . . .” He took a deep breath. “Forgive me, my lady. Once I get onto the subject, I’m like a preacher at the Cross. What I’m trying to say is, keep your powder dry.”
“I beg your pardon?” Rosamund bit back a laugh.
“That is, don’t be hasty. If there’s one thing money does buy, it’s the leisure of time—to make decisions. Better still, to make the right ones.”
Rosamund rose. “I thank you, Mr. Bender.” Moving around to his side of the table, she dropped a kiss on his cheek, delighting him. “From the bottom of my heart.” She returned to her seat. “You know, advice is a funny thing—it’s too often given by those least equipped to provide it. But in this case, you’re the perfect person and offer the best of its kind. Now, if I may ask some more of you?”
“By all means,” he said.
“These slave ships you say I’ve inherited. I confess, this disturbs me deeply. Part of me always suspected it might be how Sir Everard made his fortune. I’ve been derelict in not discovering the truth. If only I’d asked Jacopo . . . Dear God. After Sir Everard died, he kept the business going . . .” She flashed an apologetic look at Bianca. “Forgive me that, Bianca. Forgive me.”
Bianca gave her a small smile. “There’s nothing for you to forgive. Even if you’d known, you had no rights over the business then.”
“She’s quite right, Lady Rosamund. There was nothing you could have done. No difference you could have made . . . then.”
Rosamund stared first at Bianca, then Mr. Bender. “No. Not then.” At that moment, Rosamund made up her mind that she would do whatever it took to free Bianca, to rid her of the invisible shackles that bound them to each other and allow her beloved friend to know the joy of liberty and, wherever possible, choice. Taking a deep breath, she gestured to the documents. “What I wish to know: Is it possible to change the purpose of these ships now?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Rosamund saw Bianca’s chin rise.
“You mean, from transporting slaves? Of course. It would take time, some money.” He chuckled. “But it can be done. Only, if you’re interested in making considerable profit”—he avoided looking at Bianca—“then slavery is the way to go. The demand in the New World and the territories being opened up there is—”
“You said yourself, Mr. Bender,” interrupted Rosamund. “I’m a wealthy woman. Surely if I wish to change the focus of my shipping business”—the personal pronoun gave her an intense flash of pleasure—“I am now well within my rights to switch from human cargo to something else more . . . palatable.” She looked meaningfully at Bianca.
“Ah, er. Quite. Forgive me. Both of you.”
With dignity that made a royal wave appear the coarsest of actions, Bianca bowed her head.
They spoke for a further hour as Mr. Bender outlined her immediate obligations. He asked her to sign a few papers and then arranged for her to come to his offices in a week. In the meantime, he left her with a generous purse of coins and advised her to hire a capable man as soon as possible to attend to her interests. Someone she could trust. Possibly an assistant as well, as the holdings were really quite vast.
Barely able to withhold her excitement, she grabbed Bianca’s hands and spun her around as soon as Mr. Bender was escorted from the room.
“Can you credit this? Why, Bianca, this is preposterous. This is bloody marvelous!” She danced in circles, her hair coming loose. “I thought I was a nobody, that I had nothing. I’ve been so worried about what we’ll do, but now all my problems are solved. Our problems are solved. I am somebody.”
Tolerating her mistress’s ebullience for a little longer, laughing at her evident delight, Bianca finally shook off her grip and sat down. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What’s that?” said Rosamund, panting and falling back into her chair.
“You didn’t want to be beholden to the Blithmans for anything, and now you are.”
“True,” conceded Rosamund. “But I also have to be realistic. And the facts are, Bianca, with this kind of money at my disposal, estates, houses, ships and so much more, not only can I make amends—you heard what he said about the slave ships”—Bianca reached for her hands and held them tight—“I can make a difference. A real difference.”
“To what?” Bianca stared at her mistress, hope radiating from her.
Rosamund leaned forward, her eyes sparkling.
“Everything.”