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Karen Brooks Books

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“From what I understand, signora, the Quakers, who are also known as Friends, are a small group of devout people who worship in silence, believing no one person can interpret the word of the Lord but all have the Light of God in them. When it shines, whoever feels it may address others--- the Friends--- who gather for meetings. They believe that under the loving eyes of God the Father, all men and women are equal." "Equal? Men and women?" Rosamund could scarce believe it. "Men and women, the nobles and the poor, the gentry and the servants-- even those with dusky skins or cream. All the same." "And they worship in silence? How?" "By communing with God in their own way.”

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“Ever since she left Bearwoode Manor there'd been people dictating what she should do, think, feel-- how she should behave. Why, even her grandmother had, but to good purpose. Now for the first time in her life it was as if, like a reptile, she'd shed her skin, abandoned an old version of herself and was ready to strike out anew, every day becoming more resistant to the expectations of others-- of men. Part of her longed to fly free, not to escape the chocolate house or Blithe Manor, but to relish what these places gave her-- freedom and safety, and within those bounds, the liberties they bestowed.”

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“Together they read plays and poems by William Shakespeare and Thomas Hobbes's Leviathan, and Bianca translated some of Ovid's poetry for her as well as parts of Homer's great works. They relished the poems of Andrew Marvell, John Dryden and John Milton. They read excerpts from the King James Bible, as well as passages from books of history, gardening, medicine and more. The closet wasn't much, but it was Rosamund's, especially now it bore no resemblance to its former owner. It was her cave in which, like Ali Baba, she kept her trove of treasured ideas and growing knowledge, but could open and close it at will with the key hanging around her neck. It was in this room that Rosamund finally started to feel a sense of belonging.”

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“She had devoted time to improving her reading and was now more than proficient. The shelf she'd first cleared with Bianca overflowed with tales of King Arthur and his knights, Ovid's poetry, plays by Sophocles, Aristotle and Aeschylus, Apuleius, names she loved repeating in her mind because the mere sound of them conjured the drama, pageantry, passion, transformations and suffering of their heroes and heroines. One of her favorite writers was Geoffrey Chaucer-- his poems of pilgrims exchanging stories as they traveled to a shrine in Canterbury were both heart aching and often sidesplittingly funny. Admittedly, one of the reasons she loved Chaucer was because she could read him for herself. It was the same reason she picked up Shakespeare over and over, and the works of Margaret Cavendish, the Duchess of Newcastle upon Tyne. They all wrote in English. Regarded as quite the eccentric, the duchess was a woman of learning who, like Rosamund, was self-taught. Her autobiography, A True Relation of my Birth, Breeding and Life, a gift from Mr. Henderson, gave Rosamund a model to emulate. Here was a woman who dared to consider not only philosophy, science, astronomy and romance, but to write about her reflections and discoveries in insightful ways. Defying her critics, she determined that women were men's intellectual equal, possessed of as quick a wit and as many subtleties if only given the means to express themselves-- in other words, access to education.”

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“For a fleeting second, he'd thought her Helene returned from the dead, but as he swiftly drank in her features, watched the way the anger left her eyes but not the passion that fueled it, and then saw her offer compassion and justice to the two rogues, he knew this was no Helene reincarnated but a wondrous woman who, already, drew him the way shrines did pilgrims.”

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“Look to yourself, Matthew, please. I'll not forgive you if you don't return this time." "You admit you'll miss me, then?" Even as death drew closer, he could make a joke. "Just a little," she conceded. With a laugh that was half cry, she pulled his face toward her and pressed her soft lips into his firm ones. All at once, the slow roar of the fire that had underpinned their entire journey dulled. The faces of those nearby disappeared as she stared at the man whose mouth captured hers. Leaning into him, she felt a heat that had nothing to do with the approaching conflagration rise, and she melded her body to his, found the crevices and planes into which her own flesh fitted so perfectly. With a deep, urgent moan, it was Matthew who pushed her away this time, his eyes molten with desire. "Do that again and I may burn where we stand," he said hoarsely. "I'd rather that than risk you in the fire”

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“Matthew?" Pure, sweet and with a joyous inflection that rang with disbelief and hope all at once, it floated above all other sounds. His eyes slid from the men waiting to hear his news to search for the lips bearing his name. In all his imaginings, he hadn't pictured her like this. A lush, pearly-haired goddess with rosy cheeks, vibrant, flashing eyes and laughing mouth made her way toward him, acknowledging those who would detain her, including some young rakes who reached out in yearning. She smiled them aside and with a mere touch of her slender fingers parted shoulders the way God did oceans. Her forest-green dress made her look like a sylvan goddess comes to play among the mortals.”

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“Nowhere in Matthew's league, their writing was execrable even if the sentiments were heartfelt. They were students at Middle Temple, and until she discovered they were all from wealthy families, Rosamund oft wonder how they would ever pass their studies if they continued to haunt the Phoenix instead of attending classes. "They've decided you're the only object worth studying, señora," said Filip one day. "They would be experts in all things Rosamund." "Better they spend time on other projects," she muttered, stealing a glance in their direction. "Something laudable upon which to bestow their inheritances." "They're noblemen's sons," Filip replied. "They've no need of those things ordinary people require to elevate or enlighten them. You're the sun around which they orbit." "Then they'd best beware lest they get burned.”

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“She would toss in everything from mint, which signified virtue, to honeysuckle for love, fennel for strength (it was very strong in taste) and peppermint for warmth of feeling. Mint also helped settle upset stomachs and the apothecary told Rosamund fennel would ease flatulence, which made her chuckle. She would be sure to add some to Sam's chocolate. Hyssop and anise seed, she knew from Widow Cecily back at Gravesend, would help with a cold, as would marshmallow and orange or lemon juice.”

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“Cloves sweetened the breath and stoppered up the bowel. A drop of musk or ambergris was likely to inspire passions by firing the lower regions. Rosamund was a little hesitant with these last two lest she unleash something beyond anyone's control. Filip had chuckled when she confessed her fears to him and threatened to advertise these when the place opened. The varieties of what could be added were endless, as was the transformation even a small sprinkle of something like vanilla or milk could lend the dark fluid. It changed from being a little bitter to luscious. Likewise, a few extra twists with the molinillo and the consistency altered from gritty to frothy, to smooth as silk, leaving a fine coating on the tongue and throat that could be revisited for hours after. Including a small quantity of chili made the drink hot and spicy; cinnamon made it sweet and even heady.”

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