The Spice Merchant's Wife

by Charlotte Betts

Genres: Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

1666. Newly married to a wealthy spice merchant, Kate Finche believes all her dreams of a happy family life are just around the corner until the Great Fire rages through London. She watches in horror as their livelihood goes up in flames, filling the air with the heady scents of cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves.

As the city is devastated, Kate's husband, Robert is forced to seek employment to ensure their survival, but when he is found drowned, Kate refuses to believe that he has taken his own life. Widowed and penniless, she seeks refuge in The House of Perfume, the home of blind perfumer Gabriel Harte, who awakens Kate's senses to a whole new world. But as she flees from this forbidden love, her husband's murderer comes looking for her . . .

The Spice Merchant's Wife is a stunning novel, bursting with the colour and flavour of Restoration London -- perfect for readers of Phillipa Gregory, Joanne Harris and Patrick Suskind's Perfume.

Release date: October 1, 2014

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 400

Sample

The summer had been swelteringly hot with barely any rain to wash away the dust and stench and I was not alone in wishing it at an end. The city was as hot and dry as a tinderbox and all anyone could do was to find a shady place and sit very still, waiting.

Mother Finche, plump, with a fair, faded prettiness, chatted desultorily with her two friends about the recent outbreak of the plague in an apothecary shop in Fleet Street and the scandalous doings of our French Catholic neighbours. At our feet silky pools of claret, purple, acid yellow and marine blue damask suitable for lining the parlour walls lay across the Turkish carpet, left by the draper for her consideration.

A fly buzzed irritably at the window and a languid breeze carried in the reek of summer drains together with a suspicion of rotting fish from nearby Billingsgate. Outside, the relentless clatter of wheeled and shod traffic grinding over the cobbles on Lombard Street set my teeth on edge.

I was suffering from the kind of heat-induced headache that even oil of lavender couldn’t ease and the conversation washed over me like the lapping waves of a warm sea. Longing to escape from the stifling parlour my thoughts drifted to my long-held daydream of being mistress of my own household. And, at last, after long years of misery and loneliness, my wish might soon be realised.

‘Katherine?’ Mother Finche touched my hand to draw my attention. ‘My son’s bride is such a dreamer,’ she said to Mistress Spalding.

Mistress Spalding fluttered a fan in front of her flushed cheeks, wafting the tang of stale perspiration across the room. ‘Who can blame her? This terrible heat is exhausting.’

Mother Finche fingered the purple silk damask. ‘This is very rich, don’t you think?’ she mused.

‘Might it be too dark?’ I ventured.

‘Nonsense!’ she said. ‘Why, the Duchess of Lauderdale has exactly this colour and she is a lady of excellent taste. Besides, I shall have borders of yellow fringing.’

‘I shall be most envious of you,’ said Mistress Buckley.

‘That’s settled then,’ said Mother Finche, satisfaction in her voice.

While the ladies gossiped, the clock on the chimneypiece ticked on as steadily as a resting heartbeat, measuring out the seconds. How many hours of my life, I wondered, had I spent in someone else’s home waiting and listening to the ticking of a clock? When would it all come to an end? It wasn’t that my husband’s parents were unkind to me but I’d lived in limbo with these near strangers for what felt like an eternity. Seven months married and my husband had been away for six of them.

I went to the window and rested my aching forehead against the casement. After rubbing away the city dust from the glass, I watched the people in the street below moving as slowly as treacle in winter, keeping close to the walls to avoid the sun. The black dog was back again, I noticed, nosing in the filth of the drain.

Bessie carried in the rattling tea tray. I caught the greasy odour of the kitchen on her coarse hair and saw the half-moons of sweat under her arms as she wearily set out the silver teakettle, spoons, dainty china cups and a ginger cake drizzled with honey.

Mother Finche began the ritual of measuring out the costly tea leaves and pouring the hot water. As the wife of a prosperous merchant, she had quickly embraced the fashion for tea parties, which the Queen had brought with her from Portugal. Mother Finche was always looking for new ways to impress her rich friends.

‘A street boy brought a note,’ said Bessie, taking a folded paper from her pocket.

Mother Finche held out her hand.

Bessie shook her head. ‘It’s for Mistress Robert.’

‘For me?’ I didn’t have any friends or family to send me notes. I unfolded the paper and the blood surged up into my cheeks. The Rose of Constantinople had docked and the long wait was nearly over.

I murmured my excuses to Mother Finche and her friends, slipped out of the parlour and ran down the stairs before she could stop me. Six months overseas and at last my husband was returning to me. I was nervous of this husband that I hardly knew, apprehensive and excited at the same time. He was the key to everything; the home and family of my own that I’d longed for ever since I was orphaned and sent to live with hateful Aunt Mercy.

Sultry heat rose from the ground and pulsed from the walls of the buildings in Lombard Street as I hurried by. Fly-covered mounds of stinking mud and rubbish prevented the sluggish trickle of water in the central drains from carrying the detritus of the streets away. My feet kicked up little clouds of dust, making a dark rim on the hem of my skirt.

I paused at the edge of the road to allow a heavily laden dray pass and saw a man emerge out of the shadows on the other side of the street and step into the harsh sunlight. Dressed in a feathered hat and full-skirted coat of sea green with waterfalls of white lace to his shirt, he looked as cool as a mountain stream. He carried a long, silver-headed cane in one hand and clasped an ornate glass bottle in the other. He walked slowly, not unusual in such heat, but there was something curious about the slight hesitation to his step and the way he swung the cane in small arcs in front of him.

It all happened so quickly that later I was hard-pressed to remember the exact sequence of events. I saw the man stop dead and cock his head as if listening. And then I heard the rumble of coach wheels approaching fast. Too fast.

Two black horses came galloping into view, their hooves striking sparks from the cobbles as they dragged a wildly swaying coach behind them. The coachman, clinging to the roof, attempted to regain control of his runaway steeds, while a pack of street dogs snapped and snarled at their hocks.

The man in the green coat was standing directly in the coach’s path.

Horrified, I shouted, ‘Look out!’ expecting him to leap aside, but he appeared frozen to the spot. I dashed across the street, arms outstretched, and thumped him in the chest, sending him sprawling in an undignified heap.

A rush of horse-scented air lifted my hair as, flecked with foam and their eyes rolling, the horses thundered past in a swirling cloud of dust.

Gasping, I clutched a hand to my chest.

The man was raising himself from the ground, his elegant brocade coat smeared with grime and the foam of white lace at his cuffs blackened with dust. A trickle of blood ran down his handsome face.

‘I have cause to be grateful to you,’ he said. The timbre of his voice was deep and smooth and I noticed that he was very tall, a little over six feet, I guessed.

And then I became aware of a whisper of an enchanting perfume drifting on the stifling air, teasing me with the fresh, outdoor promise of a spring day. A dark stain had spread out on the ground between us and shards of broken glass sparkled in the sun like diamonds.

‘Your flask is broken,’ I said.

He pushed back his thick blond hair with fingers that trembled a little but his expression was impassive.

Bending down to pick up his wide-brimmed hat, I noticed the delightful perfume again. Powdery and sweet, it brought to mind rain-drenched violets growing on a mossy bank. ‘Was that perfume in the flask?’

‘It was.’

‘It’s delightful.’ His eyes were an unusual light green but he didn’t meet my gaze. I felt a flash of annoyance at his rudeness and wondered if it was vanity that had caused him to match his coat so perfectly to the colour of his eyes.

‘I fear my client will be disappointed,’ he said. ‘I was on my way to Bishopsgate to deliver it.’ He inclined his head. ‘Gabriel Harte, perfumer, at your service, Miss…?’

‘Mistress Finche. Katherine Finche.’

‘Finche? Would that be the spice merchant Finches of Lombard Street?’

‘The same.’ I held out his hat but he didn’t take it. Wrong-footed, I stood there with the hat in my hand feeling foolish.

‘I dropped my cane,’ he said. ‘Would you oblige me by looking for it?’

Irritated that he made no attempt to look for it himself, I glanced around and spied the cane on the ground a few feet away. Again, he didn’t move to take it from me. ‘Your cane, sir!’

‘Thank you.’ Slowly, he reached towards me, moving his hand from right to left until it connected with the cane.

It was then that I realised he was blind.

He must have heard my indrawn breath because he gave me a half-smile. ‘I would have been in difficulties if you hadn’t come to rescue me.’

Contrite at my earlier annoyance, I said, ‘And I have your hat here, too.’ I touched it lightly to the back of his hand and he took it from me. ‘There’s blood on your cheek. Shall I wipe it away?’

‘If you would be so kind.’

Slightly embarrassed at such close proximity to a stranger, especially one so well favoured, I stood on tiptoe and reached up to wipe his freshly shaven face with my handkerchief. His skin carried a pleasant aroma of lemon balm and rosemary.

It was strange to look at him from close quarters, knowing that he couldn’t see me. ‘You had a lucky escape,’ I said. ‘When I saw the horses racing towards you, I feared the worst.’

‘I might have been frightened, too, if I had seen them.’ He smiled properly then as if he had made a good joke.

‘Can I take you somewhere?’ I offered.

His smile froze. ‘Thank you but no.’

‘You’ve had a shock…’

‘I can make my way home to Covent Garden perfectly well, thank you.’

‘But that’s on the other side of the city!’

‘Why, so it is!’ His tone was amused. ‘But I have been finding my way across the city, with only the help of my cane, for many years now. I thank you for your kindness, Mistress Finche.’ He bowed and then set off, his cane swinging gently in front of him. Then he stopped and turned towards me again. ‘Mistress Finche?’

‘Yes, sir?’

He hesitated. ‘Would you describe your appearance to me?’

‘My appearance?’ I frowned.

‘Forgive me. I know from your voice that you are young and that you are small and slender because your footsteps are light and quick, but I should like to know your colouring.’

I stared at him but his face gave nothing away. It didn’t appear to be an impertinent enquiry. ‘Why, sir, I have dark hair and hazel eyes and my skin is fair.’

His unseeing eyes stared into the distance somewhere over my left shoulder. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I believe I have your picture now.’ After a moment he gave a decisive nod. ‘And I hope your headache improves before very long.’

How did he know I had a headache? Puzzled, I stood there with the scent of violets suffusing the air and watched until his lean figure disappeared into the crowd.

Once he’d gone, I put my crumpled handkerchief into my pocket and encountered Father Finche’s note, prompting me back to the matter in hand.

Making haste down Fish Hill, I felt the faintest stirring of a breeze and this increased as I turned into the hustle and bustle of Thames Street. I skirted around a dray, whose driver was having a noisy altercation with the owner of a cart laden with timber. Jostled by sailors, coalmen and chandlers and the air full of the keening cry of seagulls and snatches of conversations in different languages, I cut through one of the alleys down to Tower Dock, from where I could look east along the river.

The tide was coming in and the river was crowded with ferryboats, barges and wherries carrying passengers from Gravesend to the city. A salty breeze was freshening from the east. Several boats were berthed and I hurried past the Custom House and turned into Wiggins Key. My heart skipped when I saw the Rose of Constantinople towering above me. Sailors ran up and down her gangplanks with baskets of goods on their shoulders and the wind rattled at the furled sails and lifted the pennant at the top of her mast.

Queasy with anticipation, I stood on the quayside, shading my eyes from the sun and squinting up at the Rose, looking for Robert amongst the hubbub. I couldn’t see him so, taking care not to trip over coiled ropes snaking across the quay, I made my way to Father Finche’s warehouse.

Matthew Lunt, the clerk, came to greet me.

‘Is Mr Finche here?’

Matthew mopped his freckled face with a handkerchief and nodded at the office.

I peered in through the open door to see my father-in-law sitting at his desk. He’d taken off his wig and draped it on top of his globe.

Pink and shiny-faced in the heat, he glanced up at me. ‘Katherine, my dear!’

‘Thank you for letting me know that the Rose of Constantinople has docked.’

‘I knew you’d be anxious to see your husband again.’

I looked at my shoes, while I tried to recall what Robert looked like.

‘As a merchant’s wife you’ll have to become accustomed to his long absences,’ he said. ‘But you’ll have children before long to keep you occupied.’

I felt the blush race up my cheeks.

Father Finche smiled kindly at my embarrassment. ‘Once Mother Finche had Robert and Sarah to keep her busy, the months when I was overseas flew past. She doted on our children. What a shame she had such a disagreement with Sarah.’ He sighed. ‘To tell the truth, I shall miss my travelling days. Not the sea voyages perhaps but visiting strange lands and peoples and the excitement of discovering exotic new merchandise.’

‘I look forward to hearing about Robert’s adventures,’ I said.

Father Finche leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Don’t tell my wife but I’ve taken a gamble on this last venture.’

‘A gamble?’

‘Usually I’m exceedingly cautious, but this time I’ve invested every last farthing of my own funds, as well your dowry, and persuaded all my friends and acquaintances to invest in the venture. Once all the goods are sold, I shall hand over the business to Robert. It’s time for youth and energy to step forward.’ Father Finche patted my hand. ‘Go on home now, my dear. Robert’s still aboard overseeing the unloading.’

‘Oh! But…’

‘He won’t want to be interrupted now but we’ll return in time for dinner.’

Disappointed, but at the same time relieved to postpone meeting Robert again, I made my way back to the Finche house.

 

 

The great orange sun was beginning to sink behind St Paul’s by the time I heard voices downstairs. Mother Finche and I had been sitting in the parlour for hours, listening to the clock tick while we toyed with our embroidery. I’d changed my dress three times and my stockings twice. My nose was dusted with powder but I had no need of Spanish cochineal paper to heighten the colour in my cheeks.

Dry mouthed, I listened to the cadences of my husband’s speech as he came up the stairs.

The door opened. Father Finche strode in, followed by Robert’s stocky figure, their strident laughter filling the elegant room.

‘Well, here he is, Katherine, my dear!’ said Father Finche, smiling widely at me.

Mother Finche ran forward to embrace Robert and smile at him with a softness in her eyes I hadn’t seen since Robert left. ‘Welcome home, my dear.’

Robert and I looked at each other uneasily. I remembered the line of his jaw now, a sharper version of his father’s chin. His skin had darkened in the Turkish sun and his brown hair had lightened a little. He assessed me with cool grey eyes and I became uncomfortably aware that he probably hardly remembered me, either. Then he smiled. One of his teeth had a small chip to one corner but they were white against his tanned skin.

‘Katherine.’ His cheek was prickly against mine as he kissed me and he carried with him the smoky smell of tar and of sweat overlaid with the salt tang of the sea.

‘Welcome home, Robert.’ He carried two parcels under his arm and I wondered what he’d brought. ‘How was your voyage?’ I asked. ‘Were there any pirates?’

‘None we couldn’t frighten off with a cannon shot across their bows.’

I shuddered at the thought of it. ‘And the Rose of Constantinople?’ I asked, full of hope and expectation.

‘The warehouse is stacked to the gunnels,’ said Father Finche with satisfaction. ‘And Robert has brought back some excellent merchandise.’

A knot of tension loosened somewhere under my breastbone. The quality of the goods Robert had bought with my dowry would determine our future.

Robert handed one of the parcels to me. ‘This is for you, Katherine.’

I unwrapped it and a bundle of shimmering silk slid to the floor. Exclaiming in delight, I gathered up the slippery material. Tiny gold peacocks were embroidered over the topaz silk, which was shot with moss green so that it looked topaz when I held it one way and then green if I tilted it the other. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I breathed.

‘I chose it to match your eyes,’ said Robert.

I smiled tentatively at him and he smiled back.

‘And I brought this for you, Mother,’ he said.

She shook out her bundle of midnight blue silk and kissed her son with loud exclamations of delight.

‘Shall we go straight in to supper?’ said Father Finche.

 

 

I watched Robert as he ate cold beef and bread, the last rays of the sun slanting through the window and sparking golden flashes of fire off his knife. He became very animated as he told us the tales of his voyage.

‘If you think it’s hot here in the city you should have been with me in Aleppo. Or Smyrna. The sun on the top of a man’s head can turn him mad. I took to wearing Turkish robes in Constantinople, like the natives, and found they served me very well. Perhaps I should adopt that way of dressing here while the weather is so warm?’ he teased.

‘That would cause a stir in church on Sunday!’ laughed Mother Finche.

‘I’ve brought you Damascus raisins and nutmeg for our puddings and some Moroccan leather to re-cover Father’s smoking chair.’

‘And the rest of the merchandise…’ I ventured.

‘Never fear!’ said Father Finche. ‘I have looked over all Robert’s purchases very carefully. Your dowry has been well spent and before long we will begin to see the return on our investment.’

‘How long?’

‘So impatient!’ said Father Finche, his grey eyes amused. ‘Has your time here been so onerous?’

‘No, indeed! You have been kindness itself…’

‘Ah well, I remember how urgently my wife wished to leave my father’s house and set up her own household when we were newly-weds.’

‘There’s no hurry for them to set up their own establishment yet,’ said Mother Finche. ‘Robert has only just returned to us and we will wish to enjoy his company for a while before he thinks of a new home.’

I dropped my gaze to the table in case she saw the sudden animosity in my eyes. More than anything I longed for a home of my own.

‘In any case,’ said Father Finche, ‘we need to keep the goods in the warehouse and sell them little by little so that we don’t flood the market.’

My throat constricted. How long?

‘Don’t look so stricken, Katherine!’ Father Finche laid a heavy hand over mine. ‘You can start to look for a rented house. And when you find a suitable property, I’ll buy you new furniture to start you off.’

‘Thank you, Father Finche!’ I kissed his sweating cheek and he patted my hand again.

‘What happy days are to come!’ he said. ‘The warehouse is packed with the choicest silks, nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, pepper and indigo. I’m never easy until a ship has safely docked. But now I can forget the bad dreams of sudden storms, shipwrecks and pirates that have plagued me over the past weeks.’

Robert yawned widely. ‘It’s been a long day for me and the ground is still rolling under my feet.’ He looked at me sideways. ‘But tonight I shall sleep in my own bed.’

‘Why don’t you retire early?’ said Father Finche with a half-smile. ‘You and your wife must have a great deal to talk about.’

The heat flooded my face and I could not look at him. All at once I didn’t want to be alone with the stranger who was my husband.

Robert picked up our wine glasses and kissed his mother. ‘Goodnight, Mother. It’s good to be home.’

‘It’s wonderful to have you back.’ She patted his cheek.

‘Goodnight,’ I said and followed Robert from the room.

Glancing back through the open door I saw Father Finch smiling knowingly at his wife.

Upstairs, the maid had left a jug of warm water and Robert stripped off his shirt and washed, while I undressed behind the screen.

Fumbling with the ribbons of my nightshift, I took a deep calming breath. We had consummated the marriage on our wedding night but the month of preparation before Robert’s voyage had been busy and we’d had little time to learn to know each other. Unworldly as I had been and with no mother to advise me, my marital duty had surprised me somewhat but I hadn’t found it too disagreeable.

‘Katherine!’ called Robert.

I tied my ribbons and then loosened them again and arranged my curls over my shoulders. I was under no illusion that this was a love match. The Finches had been looking for a bride with a good dowry to allow them to expand their business and when Aunt Mercy’s man of business made discreet enquiries in the city, they had been happy to arrange a meeting. For my part, I would have accepted a hunchbacked, cross-eyed dwarf to escape from my miserable existence cloistered in Aunt Mercy’s cheerless house in Kingston.

‘Katherine!’ Robert called again.

Slowly, I left the shelter of the screen.

He lay on the bed, looking at me. ‘Come to bed,’ he whispered.

I awoke early the following morning to find Robert lying spreadeagled across the mattress. I raised myself on my elbow and studied him, while I had the opportunity of doing so unobserved. His breath came in regular puffs and one tanned hand twitched slightly. Dark stubble shaded his chin. A pleasant but unremarkable face, neither handsome nor ugly.

The sun began to creep in through the shutters and the church bells rang the hour.

Robert took a deep breath and stirred. He stared at me with unfocused eyes.

‘Good morning, Robert.’ What had happened between us the previous night had been in the dark and now I couldn’t quite meet his gaze by daylight.

He yawned widely and sat up, scratching at the bristles on his chin. ‘We didn’t have a great deal of time together before I left, did we?’

I shook my head.

‘There were nights,’ he said, ‘lying on a bedroll on deck and looking up at the stars, that I thought about you and couldn’t remember your face. It troubled me.’

‘I found it the same myself!’

He kissed my hand. ‘Now that I’m home we shall change all that.’

The tension of the past months began to ease a little and I smiled back at him.

‘Why don’t you call on me at the warehouse this afternoon, Katherine?’ he said.

‘I should like that very much.’

 

 

After dinner, while Mother Finche rested, I set off to the warehouse. The heat assaulted me as soon as I opened the front door. The black dog lay on the step again, gnawing at his haunch and I pushed past him, stepping over our neighbour’s stinking rubbish, left out for the dustcart. Further down the street, an oily stain marked the ground where the perfume flask had broken. I wasn’t sure if I imagined it or not but I thought I could still detect the faintest hint of violets hanging in the air, despite the pervading stench of decaying vegetables. Fleetingly, I wondered if the handsome Mr Harte had returned safely to Covent Garden. And how had he known that I was suffering from a headache?

When I reached the warehouse I found Robert with his head bent over his desk.

‘Am I interrupting?’ I whispered.

He glanced up at me. ‘I’ve been making the last entries recording the new stock. Would you like to see the merchandise?’

He took my arm and unlocked a door from the office into the warehouse.

The dark and cavernous space of the warehouse soared above us but my overwhelming impression was of the sweet, pungent aroma of nutmeg and cloves, so intense it made the inside of my nose prickle.

Narrow ribbons of light crept in through the roof’s wooden shutters but the warehouse was full of shadows. The walls were lined with racking and laden with crates and bales of cloth. A number of rickety ladders leaned against the walls and nets full of goods hung from the rafters. Barrels were piled as high as a man in the centre of the warehouse, allowing narrow alleyways between. Our footsteps across the beaten earth floor were curiously muted, as if the very fabric of the building sucked all sound away from us.

‘The high ceiling makes it feels like a church,’ I whispered. ‘And the spices smell like incense.’

‘You don’t need to whisper,’ said Robert.

‘Are all these goods ours?’

‘Father hires out some of the warehouse space to one of the chandlers who stores his timber and pitch over there. We deal in spices and Damascus raisins but there’s money to be had in importing silk, cotton cloth and curiosities, too.’

I stared around at the vast quantity of goods. ‘Did you bring all this back with you?’

‘Some stock has been here for years, waiting until the moment, and the price, is right to auction it to the highest bidder. I’ve bought some handsome maroquin leather of the finest, softest quality but I shan’t sell the skins yet. They’ll be an investment for our future.’ Robert thrust a hand into his jacket and withdrew a key. ‘I’m going to take you to Mincing Lane. One of Father’s acquaintances has a house there available to rent and I’ve borrowed the key.’

I couldn’t suppress a squeal of delight and Robert laughed.

 

 

Mincing Lane was but a stone’s throw from the wharves and conveniently close to the warehouse. We stood in the street and looked up at the house, an ancient half-timbered building, three storeys tall, with the first and second floors projecting out over the street. The thatch was new and the windows in good repair.

The prospect of having a home of my own so soon made my heart beat like a drum.

Robert unlocked the door and I followed him inside. On the ground floor there was a serviceable kitchen and a stillroom, several storerooms and a cellar. A narrow staircase led upstairs to a charming oak-panelled parlour and dining room, each with a hearth. I ran my finger over the polished panelling and then opened the diamond-paned window at the back.

‘Robert!’ I called. ‘There’s a garden.’

He came and peered over my shoulder. ‘Look at the old apple tree; it’s laden with fruit.’

Upstairs were one large and two small bedchambers. The floors sloped and you had to be careful not to knock your head on some of the beams but I loved it.

‘What do you think, Katherine?’

‘It’s perfect!’ In my mind’s eye I saw embroidered bed curtains and soft rugs on the elm floorboards and a carved press for our clothes. I wanted desperately to make it into our home.

His expression was doubtful. ‘It’s not very large; certainly not as large as either of us are used to.’

‘But it’s cosy!’ I couldn’t bear it if Robert didn’t want it. ‘And it’s only a step away from the warehouse.’ I held my breath.

‘At least there are three bedchambers. We could have a maid and there would still be one left for a nursery.’

It was as if he’d read my mind. ‘Robert, you cannot imagine how I have longed for a house of my own. Living with Aunt Mercy was…’ I swallowed. How could I put into words the absolute misery of my previous life in the guardianship of a woman who hated me?

‘Was what?’

‘There was no laughter or sunshine,’ I said slowly ‘Only hours spent in silence learning my catechism. Or being beaten for some imagined misdemeanour and banished to my chamber for days on end.’ Shuddering, I recalled her birch switch. I could still see the fine white scars across my buttocks from her frenzied beatings. ‘I long to have a family of my own. I want to make us into a family as happy as the one I lost.’ There, I’d told him what was in my inmost heart. I glanced up at him, afraid I’d said too much.

‘Were you so very unhappy as a child?’

I nodded, the memory of it making my stomach churn.

He tipped up my chin and kissed me on the lips. ‘I’ll give you lots of babies, if that will make you happy.’

‘Oh, it will!’

Robert’s hands ran down my back and then encircled my narrow waist. ‘What a shame there’s no bed here. We could start making a baby straight away.’

‘Robert!’ I pushed him away, scandalised, but at that moment, if there had been a bed nearby, I would not have denied him. Our marriage may not have been a love match but all at once I was brimming with confidence for our future.

Later, I left Robert in his office and, my head full of plans for embroidering bed curtains and cushions for the little house, I walked back through the hot and dusty streets to Lombard Street.

Mother Finche was waiting for me in the parlour.

‘Robert asked me to call on him at the warehouse and then –’ I couldn’t contain myself ‘– he took me to look at a house in Mincing Lane.’

‘A house?’

‘Yes. We have decided to rent it.’

‘But it was agreed you would both stay here for a while!’

‘Robert likes the house.’ I judged it wisest not to say how much I loved it.

‘Then I shall take a look at it to determine if it is suitable.’

‘It is perfectly suited to our needs,’ I said, surprised at how firm I sounded. Over the years I had learned never to argue with Aunt Mercy. Old habits are hard to shake off but this house was too important to me to capitulate to another’s whims.

Mother Finche sighed. ‘Tomorrow we’ll make a visit to the Royal Exchange. There was some very pretty wallpaper in one of the shops, which may do for your parlour.’

A surge of self-confidence flowed through me. I’d never dared to state my desires so clearly before and I was astonished at how easily my mother-in-law had accepted it. Nevertheless, I merely smiled meekly and said, ‘Thank you, Mother Finche.’

A firm rat-a-tat sounded upon the street door.

Bessie’s heavy footsteps came up the stairs and the door creaked open. ‘Mistress Robert, there’s a gentleman to see you.’

‘A gentleman?’ said Mother Finche, giving me a sharp look. ‘For my daughter-in-law?’

‘Mr Harte,’ said Bessie.

A moment or two later Mr Harte paused in the doorway and I was struck again by how elegantly he dressed.

‘Mr Harte,’ I said, standing up. ‘May I introduce you to Mistress Finche, my husband’s mother?’

‘Katherine told me about your brush with a runaway coach,’ said Mother Finche. ‘Please take a seat.’

He hesitated for a moment and I touched his sleeve lightly.

‘There is a chair a few feet in front of you,’ I said.

Sweeping the ground with his cane, he located the chair and sat down, crossing his long legs. I noticed that he wore cream silk stockings and fashionable red-heeled shoes with fancy silver buckles.

‘Are you quite recovered?’ asked Mother Finche.

‘Perfectly, thank you.’ He reached inside his coat, pale fawn today with a daring scarlet lining, and withdrew a small bottle. ‘I’ve brought this for the young Mistress Finche for her kindness.’

The pretty bottle was made of pale greenish glass with white satin ribbon tied about its narrow neck. Carefully, I removed the stopper and sniffed at the contents. ‘Oh!’ Delighted, I rubbed a drop onto my wrist and then offered the bottle to Mother Finche. ‘It’s lovely!’

‘What can you smell?’ asked Mr Harte, a half-smile upon his face.

I brought my wrist up to my nose and inhaled again. Closing my eyes, I let the scent of it take me back in time. ‘Roses. Those dark red ones that are very nearly black. And lavender. Honeysuckle?’

‘You have a good nose,’ he said.

‘It reminds me…’ I broke off, suddenly overcome with almost unbearable sadness. All at once I recalled my mother’s hand stroking my hair as I sat upon her knee one summer’s eve in the garden of our family home in Oxford. That last summer before she and my . . .