The Sensorium of God

by Stuart Clark

  ‘Tomorrow we must get you some new clothes,’ said his father. ‘We cannot have you meeting the King looking as though you’ve spent all night on the street.’

  Halley looked down; the dark weave of his jacket and his once-white shirt cuffs were particularly grimy.

  ‘The King,’ Joane huffed dismissively.

  Halley shot her a look.

  ‘Now then, you two . . .’ said his father to no avail.

  ‘Perhaps you will finally admit the value of my work?’ asked Halley.

  ‘Oh, I’m supposed to be impressed, am I?’ she said, meeting his gaze.

  ‘Have you never wondered why things are as they are? The world is not a secret place; it’s open for our investigation,’ said Halley.

  ‘What good will such knowledge do us? Will it protect us from penury? Cure us of disease? You behave like a boy, concerned with boyish things. When will you grow up and stop expecting the rest of us to subsidise your foolish fancies?’

  Halley noticed the hasty way his father looked out of the carriage window.

  ‘So it was you who persuaded Father to reduce my allowance.’ Triumph lit her face, stoking Halley’s annoyance. ‘One day I shall inherit my father’s estate. Then you’ll see how carefully I conduct my business, and I can assure you that I will not be in the habit of handing out loans to your acquaintances.’ Halley saw the words strike home.

  ‘And just where does all your money go?’ she challenged him.

  ‘Enough, you two. We’re a family,’ sighed Halley’s father. ‘But, Edmond, it is time to start thinking of a wife.’

  ‘Yes, someone to calm you down,’ said Joane.

  ‘I don’t need calming down.’

  ‘What about Mary Tooke? You like her.’

  ‘Father, she’s a child.’

  ‘She’s older than you think. She’ll be out soon enough, it’s never too early to start these things.’

  ‘But I’m to tour the observatories of Europe.’

  ‘More of your father’s money wasted,’ said Joane.

  ‘Reputation-building, my love. Edmond must show off his star catalogue, otherwise the effort will be wasted.’

  Joanne huffed and pursed her lips.

  ‘You go off as planned,’ said Edmond the elder magnanimously. ‘I’ll start the negotiations regarding Mary. I’ll write when there’s an agreement.’

  Halley decided the best course of action was to ignore it all. That way, like so many of his father’s sudden fixations, the whole idea might just drift away as mist on an autumn morning.

  ‘Yes,’ piped up Joane, ‘marriage will put an end to your debauchery.’

  ‘I’m an astronomer.’ Halley crossed his arms. ‘I do not debauch women.’ Well, not unless they want me to, he mused.

  The Sun had not yet risen when, a few days later, Halley worked himself into his new clothes. He held a polished metal plate at arm’s length, craning his neck, wishing that someone would invent a full-length mirror. The buff colour and the yellow trims went against the season but ensured that he would stand out. He raised his head to the window, where the rushlight gave a faint reflection on the panelled glass.

  He liked the way the curve of his stockinged legs disappeared into the flared hem of the jacket, making his breeches hardly visible at all. He brushed his hair with care, arranging it over his shoulders and making sure that none of it was trapped inside the white lace stock around his neck. He lifted the rolled star chart, as thick and as long as his arm, from its place on the dresser. With a final nod towards his reflection in the window, he headed out of the room.

  His father was perched on the box seat in the hallway. Dressed in the informal blue uniform of the Yeoman Guards – the red livery being reserved for days when the King was in attendance – he was struggling with his footwear.

  ‘Let me help you, Father.’

  ‘Can no man in London make shoes to fit my feet?’

  ‘Perhaps if you wore fewer stockings.’

  ‘I have to wear three pairs to ease the infernal rubbing of the leather. And, besides, it’s winter.’

  ‘Summer doesn’t change the habit, from my memory.’ Placing the star chart to one side, Halley managed to squeeze his father’s foot into one of the offending leather vessels. ‘You’re in a bad mood because you have to attend to your duties at the Tower. You’ve grown to think of it as a club that you’re free to attend at will, rather than as your duty.’ He finished lacing the shoe and went to work on the second.

  His father grumbled and tightened his belt, smoothed the straining blue fabric over the curve of his stomach.

  ‘There,’ said Halley, ‘all done. Buy yourself some new shoes on the way home.’

  ‘Perhaps I would, if I weren’t owed over a hundred pounds by one of your mother’s friends.’

  Today was not the morning to remind him that Joane was his stepmother. ‘You’re referring to Cleeter?’ asked Halley.

  His father nodded. ‘Then there’s the Rector of Sawtry. He’s always behind on the rent – a rector!’

  ‘Why not let me help with your affairs? Your memory is not so good these days.’

  ‘Have I not just demonstrated how good it is? What more do I need to remember? Besides, you’re busy with your studies.’

  ‘Not too busy to help my father. You run the soapworks, you administer the properties – it’s too much.’

  Silence hung between them.

  ‘I was once like you,’ said Halley’s father before reaching for his periwig. He swung the dusty object on to his head, flattening the remaining silver wisps, and lifted himself to his feet. ‘We must go.’

  With a shrug, Halley retrieved the chart and unlatched the front door, allowing in the winter air.

  ‘I’m very proud of you, son,’ his father said, gesturing towards the rolled paper Halley was cradling. ‘You’ll do me proud again today.’

  Halley looked into the old man’s rheumy eyes. ‘I will.’

  After dropping off his father at the Tower, the carriage crossed London and rumbled into the greenery, heading for the King’s dwelling. Fronted by the open spaces of St James’s Park, and backed by the Thames, Whitehall was more than just a palace; it was almost a town in itself.

  Extended and enlarged over the previous two centuries, it flaunted its mismatched architecture. Red bricks, grey slates, white stones – all played a part in this sprawling construction. It looked more like a collection of individual buildings than a single continuous dwelling. Its fifteen hundred rooms rendered it the largest palace in Europe, surpassing even the Vatican, which was entirely as it should be for the home of an English monarch, according to general opinion.

  Halley had been free of nerves for most of the journey, but now that the towers of the palace gatehouse were in view he felt his stomach flutter. Involuntarily, his hand tightened on the star chart.

  Red-coated guards directed the driver to a courtyard, where Halley was greeted by a sallow official who introduced himself as Winslow. Without another word the official led Halley inside, where it seemed a redcoat was stationed every few steps. They served to heighten Halley’s anxiety.

  Perhaps the country really is in as much peril as Hooke and others are saying, he thought.

  With no conversation to distract him, Halley found himself studying the cut and stitching of Winslow’s clothing. It might have been drab in colour, but it was expensively tailored. Whoever this man was, Halley decided, he was important.

  They arrived at a high-ceilinged ante-room with extravagant coving and white panelled doors. His guide swung on his heels and held out his hand. ‘The chart, if you please?’

  ‘I thought I would have the chance to address the King before showing him the chart.’

  ‘You cannot march into the King’s presence with something that has not been fully inspected.’

  Like a scolded child, Halley handed it over. Winslow disappeared through a set of double doors. Halley drifted to the arched windows and looked out over a yard
where a stable lad was grooming a horse. He turned back at the sound of the double doors opening inwards.

  ‘You may approach His Majesty,’ said Winslow.

  Halley had expected the King to be ahead of him, enthroned and waiting, but the wooden seat was empty. The bow he had been practising stiffened inside him, and he ended up walking uncertainly into the room.

  The tall frame of Charles II was bent over a table near a bay window. He looked around at the sound of footsteps. ‘Edmond Halley, come in. We don’t stand on ceremony here.’

  The chart was unfurled across the table.

  ‘This is a fine work.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Majesty. It’s still a little crude compared to the real thing I intend to publish. It’s accurate, but it lacks the artistic finesse I envisage.’

  ‘I’m told that you left your degree in Oxford to pursue this work.’

  ‘I felt it was more urgent than what I was being taught.’

  Charles indicated the chart, on which a large circular frame represented the horizon and a rich scattering of black spots marked the positions of the stars Halley had observed. The astronomer had sketched in a few lines to indicate constellations, both new and old. Familiar ones nudged in from the top and followed the sweep of the zodiac – Capricornus, Sagittarius and Scorpio – but most of the others made alien shapes. ‘I’m intrigued by this grouping here,’ said the King.

  Halley knew which one the King was referring to without looking. He had made the pen stroke just last night while putting the finishing touches to the chart, marking out a straight alignment of stars and labelling it Robur Carolinum, Charles’s Oak.

  ‘I fear you think me presumptuous, sir. I had thought to speak to you before I showed you my map.’

  ‘On the contrary, I think you’re ambitious.’

  Halley looked at the King’s face for the first time since edging into the room. Under a mountainous black periwig, the King retained his swarthy appearance. Although his cheeks had puffed with age and the flesh around his eyes had darkened, he was still a handsome man.

  Halley spoke. ‘As the ancients placed their stories in the skies, so I took the liberty of placing your own story there too. What could be more inspirational for our mariners a long way from home than to look up into the skies and be reminded of the tree that sheltered you from the Roundheads? With your permission, I would like to dedicate the catalogue in your honour, and in recognition of the help you provided in your instructions to the East India Company to provide me with passage.’

  A curious smile lit up the King’s face. ‘I will allow this because you, Mr Halley, are something of a wonder: a gentleman, an able navigator and an accomplished astronomer. Yet you don’t look old enough to grow a full beard. Now, the first makes you acceptable, the second makes you an asset, and the third – ah yes, the third – that makes you invaluable.’

  Halley’s mind started tumbling.

  ‘I know of the so-called invisible college spread across Europe,’ continued Charles. ‘All you astronomers and natural philosophers writing to each other even when your parent countries are at war. This new investigation of nature seems to know no boundaries.’

  ‘I am English to the core, my liege.’

  ‘Indeed you are. And, as an astronomer of note, you will now be welcomed in countries across Europe regardless of their political or religious persuasion. You have already received a number of invitations, I believe: Danzig, Paris, Rome.’

  ‘Your Majesty is well-informed.’

  ‘Winslow does his best.’

  Halley glanced over to where the scrawny man hovered.

  ‘Walk with me,’ the King said to Halley, striding off towards a set of doors deeper in the room. Guards stationed either side opened them at his approach and then fell into step some half-dozen paces behind. Winslow drifted along at the rear, feigning incuriosity. Halley made sure his shoulder remained behind the line of the King’s as they traversed a white-tiled corridor.

  ‘What if I were to instruct Oxford to grant you your degree in recognition of your star chart? Such a strategic work of national importance should be acknowledged. Whoever controls the oceans controls the world, and to control the ocean we need accurate star charts.’

  ‘I should be greatly in your debt, sir.’

  ‘Do you know, it’s a shame you weren’t born a few years earlier. I might have named you my astronomer instead of Flamsteed. He’s so tardy with his work.’

  Halley felt a pang. To be the King’s Astronomer would indeed have been a prize; he did not know what to say.

  ‘I have a modest elaboratorium here in Whitehall,’ continued the King. ‘Alas, affairs of state conspire to keep me ever further from it, but one similarity I have noticed between natural philosophy and affairs of state is that, to be successful, both require . . . information. If I were to help you again – with finance for your coming trip into Europe – perhaps you would make a mental note to tell me upon your return if there was anything you noticed while you were away. Perhaps you might overhear certain things of value to me in my handling of the foreign powers. Maybe you will see some fortifications on your travels that it would be advantageous for us to know about.’ The King paused a moment. ‘Do you think you could do that?’

  Halley felt a stone lodge in his chest. ‘Espionage, sir?’

  ‘Not at all, I’m just asking you to be vigilant. You see, it’s seldom as straightforward as a matter of friends and enemies. There are balances to be struck, evidences and outcomes to be weighed. That’s where diplomacy comes in, and information is the key to good diplomacy. If I have one piece of advice for you, my young friend, it is this: trust your own judgement and always be wary of the promises of wise men. But the promises of powerful men, they are something different altogether and should never be mistaken.’

  Halley’s mind was working furiously to extract the meaning from the King’s words. Something about his emphasis on the word ‘mistaken’ made Halley suspect he had just been threatened.

  The King turned to face him. ‘Are you with me, Mr Halley?’

  Halley turned too. He took what he hoped was a discreet deep breath. ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw an ugly expression split Winslow’s lips. It took a moment to realise it was a smile.

  8

  Black velvet with red piping, golden buttons and extravagantly turned cuffs, Hooke’s new jacket was without doubt an exquisite piece of tailoring, though he generally found fine metalwork more worthy of admiration.

  ‘Go on then, try it on,’ said Grace, dancing from one foot to the other.

  Self-consciously, Hooke slid his arms into the jacket. As he fastened the buttons, she crouched and tightened the lacings at the knees of his breeches, then she brushed her hands across his shoulders, caressing the sweep of his arms and the contours of his back in a single flowing movement.

  ‘Is it as you had hoped?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, stepping back to appraise him head to foot. Her radiant expression made him glow inside. ‘Do you not feel the difference?’

  He indulged her with a smile. ‘If it makes you happy, it makes me happy.’

  ‘You’ll see; people will treat you differently now. And what about me?’ She pirouetted. A perfect emerald-green dress emphasised her waist and an elegant shawl encircled her shoulders.

  ‘You’re beautiful.’ Suddenly emotional, he turned and retrieved some letters from the little table near the front door. Before he knew what was happening, her lips pressed against his cheek, just a hair’s breadth from his mouth.

  ‘Before you go: remember, we saw those posters advertising dancing lessons? I would like to go to them.’

  ‘Now is not the time for us to be discussing this,’ he stammered.

  ‘I cannot stay inside for ever.’

  ‘But you do go out – I take you out. Come with me now to the Letter Office,’ he said.

  ‘That’s not what I mean.’

 
Hooke looked into her eyes. ‘I’m an embarrassment. Is that what this new jacket is all about?’

  ‘No. It’s just that . . .’

  ‘Just what?’

  Grace went to the misty window, where twilight was transforming the city outside into dark shapes.

  ‘Just what?’ insisted Hooke.

  ‘There are some things I would like to do on my own. And I could shop for us. Why should you do that, when you are so busy? You hardly sleep at all these days. I hear you pacing in the middle of the night.’

  Hooke felt embarrassed that she was aware of his insomnia. The other night, he had been so possessed of nocturnal energy that he had taken a saw to the beams in the cellar, cutting a niche so that he could move the big display cabinet into a more accessible position.

  ‘Why are you afraid of letting me out on my own?’ she asked.

  ‘I know the thoughts that dwell in your head. The indiscriminate way you apply yourself. Remember last time.’

  Her little nostrils flared. ‘I have been nothing but saintly since my return. Am I to be given no credit for trying to mend my ways?’

  Hooke pulled a face and shuffled the letters.

  ‘No, wait.’ There was a sharpness to Grace’s voice now. ‘That’s not the problem, is it? This is not about what I might do with others; it’s about what I don’t do with you any more.’

  Flames of passion and shame burnt inside Hooke. ‘I can always send you back to the Isle of Wight.’

  ‘You wish that we’d taken up where we left off, don’t you? You and I.’

  ‘Never speak of that again. It was a dream, nothing else.’ With that, he strode outside and into the gathering night.

  He was grateful for the coat almost at once. As well as being warmer, the longer length did make him feel as if he were walking more upright. He noticed similarly flattering designs on other gentlemen and wondered whether he looked as affluent as they did.

  There was a small queue in the General Letter Office when Hooke arrived. Once the staff had stamped his letters with the date and disappeared with the folded sheets into the back of the bureau, he returned to the streets. Though he had only been in there a few minutes, the light had gone. Rather than return to Gresham and Grace’s rebellious mood, Hooke’s mind filled with the lure of some hot coffee and gossip. He turned his back on the college and headed towards the dark alleyways of the coffee-shops.