In order to compensate for what would have been a short journey to the chocolate house, which was only a few streets away, Sir Everard ordered the driver of the hackney carriage to take a longer route so Rosamund might see a little of the city. Filled with excitement at the prospect and touched by her husband’s consideration, she sat on the edge of her seat, leaning forward.
It was past midday, the heat growing as the small conveyance maneuvered its way between slow drays, ornate coaches, impatient horsemen, messengers and tired vendors wheeling carts or carrying laden panniers promising “sweet oranges,” “fresh oysters” and “oven-hot pies,” uncaring their falsehoods were as apparent as the scorching sun.
The swell of people grew as they passed the grand Merchant Taylors’ Hall before turning into Leadenhall Street and the markets. Some folk loitered around the buildings, others strode swiftly along the cluttered street, papers tucked under arms, or lugging baskets filled with purchases. Many strolled, stopping to examine the contents of a barrow or exchange a “God’s good day.”
The carriage made its way past wagons jammed so close together, Rosamund could have reached out and touched the sides as curses and greetings were offered in equal measure. Sometimes they were forced to a standstill as drivers argued for precedence based on the rank of the passengers they carried. Urchins took the opportunity to approach and beg coin or take some, darting dangerously between vehicles and hooves to escape, the shouts of their victims following them. The smell was pungent, a mixture of animal and human waste, unwashed bodies, flensed carcasses, cooked and rotting foodstuffs, all overlaid by various perfumes, most of them completely failing to mask the powerful combination of crowds and the reek of the nearby tanneries. Then there was the omnipresent smoke.
Rosamund was transfixed. She had never seen quite so many people in one place before. Sir Everard pressed a scented kerchief to his face while Rosamund inhaled and rejoiced in all she beheld that proved she was, indeed, in London.
“How long is this blasted trip going to take?” exclaimed Sir Everard, beating his cane on the roof.
“Almost there, milord,” cried Jacopo, who was atop with the driver, just as the carriage lunged forward.
Moments later the conveyance bounced to a halt amid shouts of protest that they were blocking the way.
Alighting carefully to avoid the dung, a hand on Sir Everard’s arm, Rosamund looked around. They were at the crossroads of Birchin Lane and Lombard Street. The latter was a cobbled street filled with carts, horses and people. There was an array of businesses down both sides of it selling everything from toys to oils and buttons and offering the services of a notary and a barber. On one corner was a stationer’s and across the road from him an insurance office. Inside narrow Birchin Lane she could see a crowded ordinary, a coffee house and at least two taverns before a bend obscured the rest. Above the businesses were residences and more offices with protruding upper stories, replete with crooked, belching chimneys, making the roadway much darker than it should be for that time of day.
Sir Everard led her down the cobbles into Birchin Lane and past the curious bystanders who gave her more than a cursory glance. It wasn’t until they halted at a wooden door with a bell and a shiny doorknob, and a shingle swinging in the breeze above depicting a pair of crossed swords, the blades long and threatening, that Sir Everard smiled. Painted beneath the swords was, incongruously, an open book.
“This is the chocolate house.”
“It is?”
Seeing her puzzlement, Sir Everard explained. “This used to be a blacksmith’s premises, a long time ago. Now it’s a bookshop—the Crossed Blades and Open Book—at least, downstairs. The chocolate house is above.” He gestured toward the upper stories.
Rosamund studied the facade with great interest. The building was twice the size of its neighbors. There were three stories, the lower one with large glass windows. Above them was blackened stone and long casement windows with tessellated glass. Above this was a jettied wooden story with small dormers. The place was imposing. Directly opposite was the entrance to Exchange Alley, a tight covered walkway that broadened into what appeared to be a cruciform shape, exposed to the skies.
Sir Everard pushed open the door and bade Rosamund enter. A merry bell trilled her arrival.
She stepped into a room lined with shelves filled with all manner of books. There were two large tables in the center, and a long counter occupied the far wall. Behind this was a rear door, which was ajar. On almost every surface were stacked books, folios, piles of news sheets and news books, almanacs and numerous pamphlets with prints of flowers, women, children and buildings upon them. There were posters and notices tacked to any available surface and scrolls tied with string in bundles on the counter. Candles burned in lamps, illuminating pockets of the shop, their greasy scent mixing with the more pleasant one of old paper. Quills and inks also occupied the counter as well as an open ledger beside which sat a lump of cheese and a tankard. There was a steep staircase to Rosamund’s immediate left. Overhead was loud thumping, hammering and the guttural shouts of working men. The entire room was filled with what Rosamund first thought was smoke, but quickly realized was plaster dust when something heavy was dropped on the floor above, causing a cascade of white to rain upon them. The shafts of light, from both daylight beaming through the window and the candles burning within, created passages in which colonies of motes spiraled. Reaching for a kerchief, Rosamund sneezed three times in succession.
There was the scuffle of boots and a man rushed through the door behind the counter, positioning himself swiftly as he wiped stained hands on an old cloth tucked into his apron.
“Oh, it’s you, Sir Everard,” he said with relief. He was of medium height and sported a strangely colored periwig and frilled shirt, the latter all but hidden under a leather apron. He had the biggest nose Rosamund had ever seen, maybe because it was so very red and had a rather large wen in the corner. His eyes, which were bloodshot, appeared swollen.
“God’s good day to you, sir.” He smiled, flashing a mouth with as many spaces as teeth and doffing his cap. “I thought you were Muddiman or worse, L’Estrange, here for a reckoning.”
“Ah, William,” said Sir Everard amiably, touching the brim of his hat. “Still suffering the effects of the renovations, I see.” He gestured to the man’s clothes and face.
William rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Me and my goods. A bibliophile only likes dusty books when they’re discovered in foreign monasteries or left in some benefactor’s will. No one likes new items to be so afflicted, not even me,” he said with a droll expression, beating his apron from which clouds of white chalk plumed. “It renders them old before their time.”
And men. Rosamund noted the way the dust settled in the creases on his face, emphasizing them. His shirt was not gray, it was actually cream. Rosamund peered at the wig more closely.
“How much longer do you think they’ll take, milord?” William swept his hand across the counter, revealing the chestnut wood beneath the dust. “It’s affecting my business. If it weren’t for the printing press out the back and my license, I’d be sore pressed to make a living.” As he finished, there was a loud bang above, followed by another shower of plaster and laughter. Footsteps could be heard before hammering resumed.
Sir Everard made a click of exasperation and slapped the powder from his jacket. “The men are working as fast as they’re able. Just be grateful I’m paying you for the inconvenience. That should more than compensate for any losses and enable you to meet your debts.”
William muttered something under his breath. “Financial losses, maybe, but it’s goodwill I can’t account for, and it’s not like there are no other bookstores customers can patronize, what with St. Paul’s and those places in the Poultry. Even my regulars are choosing to buy their stationery from Watson’s over there.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the shop on the opposite corner. “Scot reckons his business has never been better since you bought into the Lane.” He nodded toward the bookseller across the road. “And God knows how long my license will last with the mercurial L’Estrange about to be put in charge of printing. All it takes is one wrong word and he’d shut me down.” Finally, he paused and noticed Rosamund.
“Forgive me. Here I am complaining and forgetting my manners. Who might I have the pleasure of addressing?” he asked, looking her up and down as he bowed, grinning broadly, the powder on his face settling into friendly creases. “Haven’t we met before?”
“No, good sir. Of that I am certain.” Rosamund dropped a curtsey. “I am—”
“My wife,” finished Sir Everard, covering Rosamund’s hand, which was still on his arm.
“Wife?” William gave an awkward bow. “Why, I didn’t know you had another one, sir. I mean, I didn’t know you’d re— I mean . . . ah . . . welcome to my humble shop, my lady. I must say, your resemblance to—”
“This is the Lady Rosamund,” said Sir Everard brusquely. “She’s a Tomkins of Durham and newly arrived from the country. I’ve brought her to London to teach her everything I can about the trade before we open.” He pointed a finger upward.
“Hmmm, Tomkins, hey?” He looked at her with fresh appreciation. “Learning about the trade, you say—the chocolate house, no less.” The way William said it, he might have been discussing a conventicle of Catholics. “Have you tried the stuff yet, milady?”
“No, Mr. . . . ?”
“Henderson, but you may call me William, or Will. Most do. Then I hope you like it better than I do. Not that I’ve had any from upstairs yet.” He pulled a face. “Nasty foreign ooze if you ask me. Best left to the Spaniards and Catholics with their pleasure-loving ways and fancy notions, him above excepted.” He pointed a finger toward the ceiling.
Startled, Rosamund wondered if he was referring to God.
“No one did ask you, Mr. Henderson,” said Sir Everard, reminding the man of his position. “And I’d appreciate it if you kept your opinions to yourself.”
“No, yes, well,” said Mr. Henderson, understanding he’d overstepped the mark. “Don’t let me hold you up. Pleasure to meet you, milady. If I can assist you with any titles you might like to read . . . ?” His arm swept the room, raining more flecks in its wake. “Or a news book or two?” He flicked a stack of papers on the bench.
“You too, sir,” said Rosamund quickly, dismayed by his offer and wanting to quit his sight before he repeated it.
Leaving Mr. Henderson and the deluges of plaster behind, they climbed the stairs.
* * *
Whatever she had imagined when she tried to picture the chocolate house, it wasn’t this disordered room filled with men in stained breeches and aprons, their sleeves rolled, bent over sawhorses, up ladders, hammering, painting and altogether appearing remarkably busy. There were dust sheets—for all the good they did—jumbles of chairs, pieces of broken wood, buckets filled with a noxious-smelling liquid, and windows so filthy there was little point to them. An astringent smell enveloped everything, underpinned by tobacco, sweat and another, richer, more earthy aroma.
Jacopo held the door open and Sir Everard tapped his cane hard against the floor. A man detached himself from a group. Doughty, with a stomach that arrived before he did, he doffed his cap to reveal a pate on which some strands of dark hair were buried beneath fine white specks. He gave a bow to Sir Everard, winked at Jacopo and flashed a wide, toothless grin at Rosamund that almost made his fleshy cheeks explode.
“Good afternoon, Sir Everard.”
“Remney,” said Sir Everard. “Rosamund, this is my builder, Mr. Remney.” She waited for him to formally introduce her, but he continued on. “You received my note regarding the wood for the bar?” Sir Everard scanned the room.
“Aye, milord. This morning. The men have wasted no time removing it.” Remney performed a flourish with his cap. “We’ve already reordered and will have its replacement built as soon as able.”
Sir Everard nodded approval.
“Since your last visit,” continued Mr. Remney, “that wall is complete”—he pointed toward a structure at the end of the room—“as is the kitchen, which pleased Señor Filip no end, let me tell you. We’re in the process of building the three tables you requested, and after we’ve rebuilt the bar, we’ll make the booths, fix the broken stools, paint the walls, hang the lights, bolt the last of the sconces, and then you can spruce the place up all nice.” As he spoke, he regarded Rosamund with a very healthy curiosity. As did the other men, who, though they kept working, did so with one eye upon her.
Self-conscious under their scrutiny, Rosamund edged a little closer to Sir Everard. She was his wife, after all.
Preoccupied, Sir Everard released her and beckoned for Remney to follow him. Soon they were thick in conversation.
Rosamund wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do. The room was like the aftermath of a battlefield, strewn with the corpses of wood, paint and rags.
“Signora,” said Jacopo. “While the signore inspects the works, would you like to meet the chocolate maker, Señor Filip?”
This must be the man Sir Everard claimed he stole from the King of Spain. She glanced at her husband, who was using his stick to lift a dust sheet. “I would, Jacopo. Very much.”
Picking their way through the workmen and debris, Jacopo led her toward a heavy curtain at the back of the room. It reminded Rosamund of the one traveling players would erect upon their temporary stage at the Cock and Bull at Gravesend.
In an act of pure showmanship, Jacopo gripped the middle of the fabric and lifted it.
Ducking slightly, Rosamund went through, Jacopo so close behind her she could feel his warm breath on her neck. The curtain dropped, and she found herself in a long, narrow room that disappeared around a corner, filled with steam and gurgling noises.
“You must needs be more careful, sir!” cried a stern voice.
“My apologies, señor,” called Jacopo, peering through the mist. “I bring you a guest—of Sir Everard’s.”
“Well, what are you waiting for? Bring her forward.”
Jacopo steered Rosamund through the damp air, his hand at the small of her back.
It wasn’t until they came closer to the two great bubbling cauldrons hanging over a huge hearth that Rosamund was able to see her surrounds more clearly. Not that she needed her eyes to tell her what was happening when her nose was already alert. The heady smell of spices and something she didn’t recognize filled her nostrils, making her head spin and her senses reel.
It was warm this side of the curtain. Near the hearth was a smoke rack filled with small dark stone-like objects. Against one wall were shelves scattered with all manner of instruments. There were shiny pots, pans and any number of what looked like silver coffeepots, each with a slender wooden stick jutting from a hole in the middle of its lid and a long handle protruding at the back. There were lovely porcelain bowls and plates as well as ladles, spoons, copper jugs and jars of colorful spices. She could just discern cinnamon, anise seed and what looked like vanilla pods, along with pails of liquid. There was milk, water, one filled with petals, another with the peels of oranges and lemons. Curious, Rosamund would have moved closer, only Jacopo pulled her in another direction.
“Allow me to introduce you to our chocolate maker extraordinaire, Señor Filip de la Faya.”
A compact man with a thick mop of graying hair—no cap or periwig for him—emerged from the steam on the other side of the hearth. His eyes, which were almond-shaped and alive with curiosity, were a vivid gray, startling against his swarthy complexion. Bowing low, the man smiled, revealing uneven teeth.
“May I welcome you, mistress? Madam?”
“Señora will do,” said Jacopo. “This is signore’s wife, the Lady Rosamund. She’s here to taste the chocolate.”
“His wife?” Filip’s eyebrows rose. Recovering, Filip’s smile broadened to include Jacopo, who returned his grin warmly. “Welcome, my lady, to the chocolate kitchen, where we’re perfecting the drink for English palates. I beg your forgiveness for the noise.” He shook his head in disapproval toward the curtain, where the hammering and sawing continued. “And for the mess. Querido Dios,” he exclaimed as a sneeze the other side of the curtain exploded. “And the dust. Most of which we manage to ensure remains out there.” He looked pointedly at Jacopo before slapping him affectionately on the back.
Rosamund decided she liked this forthright man with the lilting voice, even if he was a Spaniard and likely a Papist with pleasure-loving ways and fancy notions. The dust he complained of was barely noticeable in this part of the room.
“Thank you, Señor de la Faya,” she said and noticed a rather sallow-skinned boy with unruly dark hair sticking out beneath his cap, who sat at a low table bearing a large stone. He moved a fat roller back and forth across the dense blackish substance splayed across the stone. Ignoring the strangers in the kitchen, the boy continued working, the tip of his tongue peeping from the corner of his mouth.
“This is my son, Solomon,” said Filip, urging Rosamund closer and placing a hand on Solomon’s shoulder. The boy ceased rolling and looked up. He had his father’s eyes. Upon seeing Rosamund, his eyes widened and the color in his cheeks deepened.
“Hello, Solomon. That’s a fine name you’ve been given.” Rosamund smiled.
The boy bowed his head. “It’s the name of a king in God’s good book.” His hand flashed across his chest before it froze then dropped into his lap. Despite His Majesty’s calls for religious toleration, already the boy had learned to suppress the signs of his faith. Best in a country that, whatever King Charles said, regarded all Catholics as enemies. Rosamund prayed no one else had seen his action lest it bring trouble.
“It was his grandfather’s name, and his before that.” Filip’s fingers dug into his son’s shoulder, causing Solomon to wince. The action had been noted after all. “We come from a long tradition of proud Spaniards.”
Determined to put father and son at ease, Rosamund said, “I have it on the best authority that Spaniards are the finest chocolate makers.”
Filip gave her a startled look.
Nodding, Rosamund said, “I can think of no one better than you, Señor Filip, to tell me how the chocolate is made.”
The wary expression on Filip’s face altered immediately. “Is that so? Well . . .” Reaching into a sack sitting on the floor beside his son, he pulled out a round dark mass. “Let’s start here, shall we? This is a chocolate cake.”
He passed it to Rosamund, who first removed her gloves, and held it in her palm. Heavy, thick and sticky, it was nothing like the cakes she knew. She wondered how it was eaten.
“It’s the basis of the chocolate drink—broken into pieces before boiling water is added. We’re attempting to make our own cakes in the hope we do not have to import these from my homeland. This is what we’ve been doing since our arrival.”
“You’re not long in London?”
“About six weeks. The equipment only arrived two weeks ago, the raw materials a few days past, thanks to Sir Everard.” He nodded toward what was in her hands. “That’s made from crushed cacao beans.”
“Cacao?”
“Sí, cacao.” Filip strode to the fireplace and returned with some small dark-brown pods, the same kind Rosamund had seen on the smoke rack and thought to be stones. “These are taken from inside the fruit of the cacao tree—Theobroma cacao. It means ‘food of the gods.’” He beamed. “Sí, señora”—he tipped the tiny pods into her other palm—“in your hand, you hold the equivalent of ambrosia. An ambrosia we turn into nectar.”
“Food of the gods . . .” Rosamund stared at the seeds. They looked so ordinary, yet their name was so grand.
Filip continued, “They’re roasted until the husks become brittle and we can peel them away. Then we grind the insides on a special stone called a metate—what my son is using. After any remaining grit is winnowed out, we’re left with a paste. This is fashioned into cakes. This is what Solomon is making. Smell it.” He lifted her hand with the cake toward her nose.
Rosamund inhaled. There was little scent, just faint hints of earthiness, of duskiness. Same with the pods. “I can’t really smell—”
“There’s not much odor. But once we add our flavorings . . .” He gestured to the jars on the shelves, the sacks on the floor and the pails of liquid and flowers. “Then dissolve the cake in hot water, well . . .” Once again, his eyes sparkled. “You will see.”
“Indeed, she will.” Sir Everard let the curtain fall behind him and brushed bits of detritus from his jacket. “Prepare some chocolate for my wife, Filip. First, let her taste it in its natural state, then include those additives of which you spoke.”
As Filip strode to the shelves to grab one of the silver pots, Sir Everard began a running commentary.
“Did Filip explain about the cacao tree? He did. Good. Watch as he breaks off a piece of the cake and places it into the chocolate pot. Now he adds some boiling water, stirs vigorously to dissolve the cake, and voilà—you have a drink. After you’ve tried it, he’ll add some sugar. Not all of us can drink it unadulterated like the Spaniards. It’s, shall we say, an acquired taste.” He reached down to tug Solomon’s hair. “We English need sweetening, don’t we, Thomas?”
The last comment was directed toward another lad who sat on the other side of the hearth, quiet and unobtrusive. Now he all but cringed and began to work a large bellows to keep the fire burning hot. Sweat dripped from his brow, and the front of his shirt, where it peeped above his apron, was wet. His hair, which was autumn brown, stuck to his moist forehead. He gave a quick nod.
“Yes, milord.” His voice alternated from high to low.
“That is Filip’s other apprentice,” said Sir Everard quietly. “Thomas Tosier. I’ve only recently hired him. In time, we’ll employ extra apprentices, more help. We also have Widow Ashe.” As if on cue, a woman emerged from around the corner, a besom in one hand, a rag in the other. Dropping a curtsey, she could scarce look anyone in the eye; her cheeks were flushed, her face swollen, and she quickly disappeared to continue her duties. Sir Everard explained that her husband, one of Mr. Remney’s men, had been killed when the cart delivering wood to the chocolate house had rolled back onto him. Rosamund bit back an exclamation. Why, the poor woman was not much older than her and already a widow. Since she had no family or friends to rely on in London, and had no desire to return to her native Berkshire, Sir Everard had told Mr. Remney to put her to work. Responsible for keeping the kitchen free of dust while the renovations were in progress and fetching fresh water from the conduit, she’d only been working two days. No wonder her face was etched by sorrow; it also explained how awkward she was around the men. As soon as she could, she had allowed the steam to swallow her.
Rosamund regarded Sir Everard with kindly eyes. Seemed she wasn’t the only one to benefit from his largesse.
It was only when Thomas resumed breathing life into the fire that the spell cast by Widow Ashe lifted. Nevertheless, Rosamund found herself searching for her; aware of the scratching of her besom, her soft shuffle.
Encouraged by Sir Everard, Filip closed the lid on the unusual pot. Placing his hands on either side of the stick protruding from the hole in the lid, he began swiveling it back and forth between his palms.
“Agitating the chocolate is, along with choosing the right additives,” explained Sir Everard, gaining Rosamund’s full attention, “the most important part of preparing the drink. The stick, or molinillo, as the Spaniards call it, has ridges on the end.” At a signal from Sir Everard, Jacopo darted over to the shelves and extracted a stick from a pot to show Rosamund, who placed the chocolate cake and cacao seeds on a nearby table and took the stick in her fingers. Sir Everard explained, “It not only helps dissolve the cake and ensures the spices blend but creates the most delicious foam on top.”
Filip ceased to work the drink and placed the pot on a tray with a beautifully patterned porcelain bowl. As he went to pour the chocolate, Sir Everard intervened.
“Allow me,” he said. He took the silver pot and, holding it with one hand by the long handle at an angle above the bowl, while using his other to keep the lid shut, poured from a height. A stream of muddy liquid splashed into the dish. “Here.” He passed it to Rosamund. “As promised. Your first taste of sin in a bowl.”
Aware everyone in the room was watching as she raised it to her lips, she closed her eyes and drank. All at once, the sounds that formed a percussive backdrop died away as a warm ribbon of thick fluid flowed down her throat, coating her tongue and leaving a small residue on the back of her lips. Heat filled her mouth and lapped her teeth before cascading in a hot waterfall to sit in her very core. Initially heavy, that feeling dissolved to be replaced by something oily, sour and very gritty.
Unable to prevent it, she gagged. Resisting the urge to spit, she stared at Sir Everard and Filip in dismay. Only then did she see the grin on Filip’s face and the barely contained glee in Sir Everard’s. Even the boys turned their heads away lest she see their smiles. Jacopo simply shook his head. What tomfoolery was this? Why, no one would pay to drink this rubbish, unless it was a torturer in the Tower who could put the threat of such a drink to good use.
“It’s completely horrible,” said Rosamund, coughing and smacking her lips together as she looked around for something that would rid her mouth of the awful taste. She’d be better off drinking coffee mixed with refuse from the streets.
Sir Everard gave a long, loud laugh. “Without any additives, it is indeed a dreadful drink. My apologies, Rosamund, I’m deeply sorry. But you had to try it in its raw form to appreciate what comes next. You see, this is where Filip comes into his own. While the Spaniards can drink it untouched, emulating how the Mayans and Aztecs drank chocolate, they’ve also perfected what to add to transform it. Filip?”
Filip swiftly opened the lid of the pot and with a flourish added first a little milk, then sugar, a pinch of cinnamon, some red powder and other spices Rosamund didn’t recognize. He agitated the liquid with the molinillo once more and poured the contents into a second bowl, which he offered to Rosamund.
She hesitated.
“Go on, my dear. Taste it. I promise, you won’t regret it,” said Sir Everard softly.
Taking the bowl from Filip, she gazed at the frothy contents. Sir Everard gently raised her hands toward her unwilling mouth. “What you drank before is how the other businesses serve their chocolate. This, this is how we will serve ours.”
Shutting her eyes and praying she wouldn’t embarrass herself by choking on the drink, Rosamund took a cautious sip.
All at once something light and wondrous wrapped itself around her tongue and traveled down her throat in a sweet river of molten marvel. Her eyes flew open, followed by her mouth. A long, sweet breath escaped and her lips curved into a beatific smile. Slowly she licked her lips, trying to recapture the taste and understand it. Colors leaped into her head. She thought of the deep purple of her mother’s favorite hat, the soft velvet of the puppet show’s curtains, the stars above Bearwoode sparkling as if just for her, winking and blinking against their onyx backdrop. She recalled birdsong, the hum of bees in summer, and, before she could prevent it, a burble of laughter escaped, rising from the same spot where the chocolate now pooled, lifting her heart and exploding like the tiny bubbles that sat atop the drink.
The contrast between this and her first sip could not have been greater. Her laughter grew, mingling with the bittersweet taste in her mouth, melding with the steam and honey glow of the candles and the hearth. The sound was so pure, so heart-achingly magical, that each person beside her would recall it later that night in their dreams.
For the first time in weeks, Filip would be able to reconcile his guilt over the circumstances in which he’d left his homeland. Solomon would clutch his pillow and see the face of the little girl in the barber’s next door with the tumbling curls and toothy grin. Thomas would remember the newly born kittens being licked by their mother. For the first time since her Davey died, Ashe wouldn’t weep herself to sleep. Sir Everard would be spared dreaded nocturnal memories of his wife and children, while Jacopo would wake with an erection so painful, he surprised his lover by thrusting into him without warning, delighting him with his sudden manliness and need.
As if waking from a dream herself, Rosamund gradually became aware of the men and the boys staring at her and Ashe, her broom still, observing her with undisguised envy. As her laughter eased, her delight was echoed back in their expressions.
“Why, milord,” she said, composing herself, “if there is a way to find paradise on earth, then surely this is heaven.”
* * *
At the end of the day, while fires were doused, stock set in order for the morrow’s preparation and perfecting, Rosamund wandered around, a bowl of chocolate in her hand, noting the number of chocolate cakes being stored, the type and quality of the equipment.
She drifted toward a table hidden around a corner at the very back of the room, aware that wherever she wandered, Ashe hovered nearby, afraid to approach her but curious all the same. It reminded her of what she’d been like as a child at the inn, watching the guests, the servants too, longing to befriend them but knowing it was not her right. She made sure to smile warmly at the woman but was disappointed when she turned away. To Ashe, she was as remote as those at Gravesend had once been. The thought filled her with sadness—she was caught betwixt two worlds, belonging to neither.
The table before her was strewn with ledgers, paperwork and quills. Her hand alighted upon a sheaf of bound papers with a picture on the front she’d never seen before. It was a botanical of some sort, broken in half exposing tiny beans, much like the cacao ones she’d held earlier. Were these the chocolate pods of which Filip spoke? How fitting they were heart-shaped. For Rosamund knew, as sure as her eyes were brown and her hair pale gold, that Londoners would grow to love this enchanted substance—at least, they would the way Filip prepared it. Flicking through the pages, she was dismayed she could only admire rather than discern the content. Words such as “its,” “with,” “and” and “others” she could recognize and sound out, but these were merely words that fitted beside important ones. On their own they had little meaning. Defeated, she pushed the pages away.
“Wadsworth’s translation,” said a voice by her elbow.
She’d been so lost in studying the documents, she hadn’t heard Sir Everard approach. “I haven’t had time to read it yet, but I’m told if you want to understand chocolate, it’s invaluable,” he said. “Wads-worth was a captain, took it upon himself to translate a doctor named Antonio Colmenero de Ledesma’s work on the drink. He had years of experience making chocolate, refined the process.” Picking up the documents, he gave them to her. “Here. Take these home. I want you to read it; no, I want you to understand it.”
Horrified, Rosamund quickly dissembled. “Thank you, sir.” Tucking the pages under her arm, her heart sank into her too-large shoes. How was she to read it if she could only decipher a few words?
Suddenly, this delightful excursion became a reminder of all that was wrong with her sudden marriage—apart from the obvious. Here was Sir Everard, who had shown her nothing but kindness and understanding, who had given her the gift of his name, his wealth and her first taste of chocolate. No. That she wanted to forget. Given her a second taste of this nectar of the gods. All she’d done was be complicit in the illusion of her talents, the falsehoods her mother told in order to trap the man and which she’d made no effort to undo.
Torn by the desire the chocolate had aroused, Rosamund also wanted to flee and retreat to the sanctuary of her bedroom. There, she would pray to God and ask for his help in unraveling the dreadful knot of lies before they did any more damage. For a fleeting second, she was shocked to realize it was her room at the inn she pictured, not the one at Blithe Manor. Despondent, she thought of the closet and all the memories it contained.
Sensing the shift in her mood, Sir Everard tilted his head. “Forgive me, Rosamund,” he said softly. “I was so determined to show you the chocolate house, to have you experience the drink, I forgot that yesterday you were not only ripped from your old life but were the victim of a harsh accident. How is your head?”
Grateful she had an excuse, Rosamund lifted a hand to where the hooves had struck. “I fear I have a megrim coming on, sir.”
“Come, we’ll get you home. The chocolate house will still be here. Remember, you may return whenever you wish. In fact, I insist you do. I want you to feel as at home here as at Blithe Manor.”
Uncertain how to respond, Rosamund nodded and smiled.
It wasn’t until they went to leave, and she said farewells to Filip, Solomon, Thomas and Widow Ashe, taking a last, lingering look at the chocolate beans, the elegant pots, the delicate serving bowls and the magical stick that worked such wonders upon the liquid, that she acknowledged that until she told her husband the truth about her so-called literacy, she could never allow herself to enjoy chocolate or the chocolate house again.