Australian bestselling novelist Karen Brooks rewrites women back into history with this breathtaking novel set in 17th century London—a lush, fascinating story of the beautiful woman who is drawn into a world of riches, power, intrigue…and chocolate.
THE CHOCOLATE MAKER'S WIFE by KAREN BROOKS
Series: Standalone
Publication date: August 20, 2019
Published by: William Morrow
Genre: historical fiction
SYNOPSIS
Damnation has never been so sweet...
Rosamund Tomkins, the illegitimate daughter of a nobleman, spends most of her young life in drudgery at a country inn. To her, the Restoration under Charles II, is but a distant threat as she works under the watchful eye of her brutal, abusive stepfather . . . until the day she is nearly run over by the coach of Sir Everard Blithman.
Sir Everard, a canny merchant, offers Rosamund an “opportunity like no other,” allowing her to escape into a very different life, becoming the linchpin that will drive the success of his fledgling business: a luxurious London chocolate house where wealthy and well-connected men come to see and be seen, to gossip and plot, while indulging in the sweet and heady drink.
Rosamund adapts and thrives in her new surroundings, quickly becoming the most talked-about woman in society, desired and respected in equal measure.
But Sir Everard’s plans for Rosamund and the chocolate house involve family secrets that span the Atlantic Ocean, and which have already brought death and dishonor to the Blithman name. Rosamund knows nothing of the mortal peril that comes with her new title, nor of the forces spinning a web of conspiracy buried in the past, until she meets a man whose return tightens their grip upon her, threatening to destroy everything she loves and damn her to a dire fate.
As she fights for her life and those she loves through the ravages of the Plague and London’s Great Fire, Rosamund’s breathtaking tale is one marked by cruelty and revenge; passion and redemption—and the sinfully sweet temptation of chocolate.
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Praise for The Chocolate Maker's Wife:
A sweeping tale brimming with historical details and figures, including diarist Samuel Pepys, this sumptuous novel covers five eventful years that include a dreadful plague and the Great Fire of London. At the center is the charming, courageous Rosamund, whose spirit makes this novel a rich indulgence.
- Booklist
“Historian and novelist [Karen] Brooks shows her research and imaginative chops in a luscious and astonishingly affecting chronicle of family scandal, political unrest, and redemptive hope in 1660s London . . .readers will be pulled into the highs and lows of this novel’s personal drama and the sweep of its historical backdrop.”
- Publishers Weekly starred review
A sweeping tale brimming with historical details and figures, including diarist Samuel Pepys, this sumptuous novel covers five eventful years that include a dreadful plague and the Great Fire of London. At the center is the charming, courageous Rosamund, whose spirit makes this novel a rich indulgence.
- Booklist
“Historian and novelist [Karen] Brooks shows her research and imaginative chops in a luscious and astonishingly affecting chronicle of family scandal, political unrest, and redemptive hope in 1660s London . . .readers will be pulled into the highs and lows of this novel’s personal drama and the sweep of its historical backdrop.”
- Publishers Weekly starred review
EXCERPT
Excerpted from the book THE CHOCOLATE MAKER’S WIFE by Karen Brooks. Copyright © 2019 by Karen Brooks. On sale August 20th from William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Reprinted by permission.
On the 29th May 1662, God Almighty and Ever-Punishing chose to make it bloody hot. At least that’s what Rosamund heard Sissy Barnes say as she staggered into the kitchen with a pail of milk. The current of warm air she brought with her caused the other two scullions to moan and flap their aprons at their faces, earning a scolding from Dorcas, the housekeeper, who told them to stop making such a blasted fuss. Rosamund pressed her lips together lest she too be accused of making a blasted fuss and instead picked up the tray of bread, melting cheeses and coddled eggs to deliver to the sweltering guests waiting to break their fast in the taproom.
Tobacco smoke hung thick in the air, punctuated only by the chittering of the finely dressed women who appeared to be competing with each other to see who could be the loudest. As Rosamund entered, one of them lamented in strident tones that the inn didn’t provide coffee, a protest greeted with much head-shaking and tut-tutting. Rosamund didn’t feel inclined to inform the heavily powdered woman, whose cheeks carried more patches than flesh, that they did indeed provide the bitter, silty beverage, but supplies had run out with the sudden influx of visitors. The women made a point of ignoring Rosamund, holding her responsible for their having to drink ale or sack like commoners instead of the fashionable new drink fast becoming the rage in London. Their male companions offered her sly smiles and surreptitious winks. One of the so-called gentlemen even leaned behind his lady to pat Rosamund on the bottom. Overlooking this liberty, as she did all others because her stepfather, Paul Ballister, said a man was within his rights to treat a woman any way he wanted (a view Rosamund silently maintained her grandmother, Lady Ellinor Tomkins, would have contested), she replaced the tray behind the counter and waited to see if her services would be further required. The men and women puffed on their pipes, sipped the liquids they claimed to despise, ate the tepid but tasty food placed in front of them and prattled emphatically — usually about whatever they were reading in the news sheets and pamphlets so many of them brought with them from the capital or purchased in town. She’d have to make sure to remove them when they’d finished lest Paul happen upon them. Poring over the discarded papers that he was too tight to buy himself, he would rail about the ‘rubbish royalist claptrap’ the ‘cunting correspondents’ published, then take his anger out on all those around him — mostly, her. He never said anything negative about the King within earshot of the guests; he was too clever for that. Choosing to nod amiably as they recited snippets from the pages and praise His Majesty like the most practised sycophant, he presented a picture of affability.
Looks could be so deceiving.
Rosamund rubbed a streak of egg-white from her bodice and frowned at the greasy mark it left on an otherwise reasonably clean gown. For the umpteenth time she wished she could read the news sheets too, especially since whatever was written seemed to incite such passionate conversations and aggravate Paul so very much. A contrary part of her had no doubt she’d like what he loathed and that gave her a little warm feeling right between her breasts.
She examined her fingernails and resisted the urge to chew them. Her mother had warned her that her usual lacklustre efforts at personal hygiene were unacceptable while there were so many guests, and insisted she wash her face and hands every night and morning. Pleased to obey her parent in this instance, knowing the additional patrons also meant Paul was kept occupied tending to them, Rosamund enjoyed feeling relatively clean, even if the condition was only temporary.
When she glanced at her reflection in the mouldy mirror hanging behind the bar, she marvelled at how pink her cheeks were when they weren’t decorated with smut and mud, and how her brows formed neat arches without soot in them. Whereas no-one would have given her a second look a week ago, it was remarkable what a little soap and water could do. Tucking a stray lock of hair back into her cap, she was trying to fathom how she could remove the egg stain when she caught a glimpse of her stepfather weaving his way between the tables, bowing in his fawning way to all and sundry. Before he could detain her, Rosamund ducked below the counter and slipped out of the room. Keen not to be accused of slovenliness, or anything else that might earn her stepfather’s opprobrium, she grabbed the besom and some rags and swiftly ascended to the upper floors, wiping the bannister as she went, searching for the dust and dirt inevitably trailed inside from the road. The Maiden Voyage Inn might be on the verge of decrepitude, but there was no reason for the old place to be filthy as well.
On the 29th May 1662, God Almighty and Ever-Punishing chose to make it bloody hot. At least that’s what Rosamund heard Sissy Barnes say as she staggered into the kitchen with a pail of milk. The current of warm air she brought with her caused the other two scullions to moan and flap their aprons at their faces, earning a scolding from Dorcas, the housekeeper, who told them to stop making such a blasted fuss. Rosamund pressed her lips together lest she too be accused of making a blasted fuss and instead picked up the tray of bread, melting cheeses and coddled eggs to deliver to the sweltering guests waiting to break their fast in the taproom.
Tobacco smoke hung thick in the air, punctuated only by the chittering of the finely dressed women who appeared to be competing with each other to see who could be the loudest. As Rosamund entered, one of them lamented in strident tones that the inn didn’t provide coffee, a protest greeted with much head-shaking and tut-tutting. Rosamund didn’t feel inclined to inform the heavily powdered woman, whose cheeks carried more patches than flesh, that they did indeed provide the bitter, silty beverage, but supplies had run out with the sudden influx of visitors. The women made a point of ignoring Rosamund, holding her responsible for their having to drink ale or sack like commoners instead of the fashionable new drink fast becoming the rage in London. Their male companions offered her sly smiles and surreptitious winks. One of the so-called gentlemen even leaned behind his lady to pat Rosamund on the bottom. Overlooking this liberty, as she did all others because her stepfather, Paul Ballister, said a man was within his rights to treat a woman any way he wanted (a view Rosamund silently maintained her grandmother, Lady Ellinor Tomkins, would have contested), she replaced the tray behind the counter and waited to see if her services would be further required. The men and women puffed on their pipes, sipped the liquids they claimed to despise, ate the tepid but tasty food placed in front of them and prattled emphatically — usually about whatever they were reading in the news sheets and pamphlets so many of them brought with them from the capital or purchased in town. She’d have to make sure to remove them when they’d finished lest Paul happen upon them. Poring over the discarded papers that he was too tight to buy himself, he would rail about the ‘rubbish royalist claptrap’ the ‘cunting correspondents’ published, then take his anger out on all those around him — mostly, her. He never said anything negative about the King within earshot of the guests; he was too clever for that. Choosing to nod amiably as they recited snippets from the pages and praise His Majesty like the most practised sycophant, he presented a picture of affability.
Looks could be so deceiving.
Rosamund rubbed a streak of egg-white from her bodice and frowned at the greasy mark it left on an otherwise reasonably clean gown. For the umpteenth time she wished she could read the news sheets too, especially since whatever was written seemed to incite such passionate conversations and aggravate Paul so very much. A contrary part of her had no doubt she’d like what he loathed and that gave her a little warm feeling right between her breasts.
She examined her fingernails and resisted the urge to chew them. Her mother had warned her that her usual lacklustre efforts at personal hygiene were unacceptable while there were so many guests, and insisted she wash her face and hands every night and morning. Pleased to obey her parent in this instance, knowing the additional patrons also meant Paul was kept occupied tending to them, Rosamund enjoyed feeling relatively clean, even if the condition was only temporary.
When she glanced at her reflection in the mouldy mirror hanging behind the bar, she marvelled at how pink her cheeks were when they weren’t decorated with smut and mud, and how her brows formed neat arches without soot in them. Whereas no-one would have given her a second look a week ago, it was remarkable what a little soap and water could do. Tucking a stray lock of hair back into her cap, she was trying to fathom how she could remove the egg stain when she caught a glimpse of her stepfather weaving his way between the tables, bowing in his fawning way to all and sundry. Before he could detain her, Rosamund ducked below the counter and slipped out of the room. Keen not to be accused of slovenliness, or anything else that might earn her stepfather’s opprobrium, she grabbed the besom and some rags and swiftly ascended to the upper floors, wiping the bannister as she went, searching for the dust and dirt inevitably trailed inside from the road. The Maiden Voyage Inn might be on the verge of decrepitude, but there was no reason for the old place to be filthy as well.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Karen lives in Hobart, in a beautiful, convict built sandstone Georgian house that whispers and chatters to her all the time. She lives there with her beloved partner, Stephen, two bichons, Tallow and Dante, Labradoodle, the irrepressible, Bounty (the brew dog) and her four cats, Baroque, Claude, Jack and Cromwell. She’s often visited by her wonderful children – son, Adam, and daughter, Caragh – both of whom she is very proud, as well as her fabulous friends. Mostly, however, she writes, reads, reviews books, watches too much TV, travels and dreams.
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