by Priya Parmar
I will send for you soon, my love. You will return to a different city. The markets are all moved, and the Exchange is held in Gresham College (as well as the Royal Society). All churches are opened to house the poor. The city is still unpredictable as there are so many displaced persons, and the talk is rife with plots and arson. The Catholics and foreigners are naturally suspected. I feel easier knowing you are safe and away. I sent Hugh every day to check on the house in Drury Lane. It is safe. You are constantly in my thoughts.
Ever yours,
Hart
WHITEHALL, LONDON
SEPTEMBER 6, 1666
Minette,
It is over. We are safe. The city is in ruins. We must rebuild.
Charles
When We Begin to Rebuild
Tuesday, September 11, 1666—Official Notations For Privy Council Meeting on This Day to Be Entered into the Log-book
Notations taken by Secretary of State Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington
Eight p.m.
The Privy Council met to consider Mr. Wren’s plans for the rebuilding. They are detailed and exquisitely drawn but so quickly despatched after the fire as to cause some surprise among the members. The Royal Society was perturbed not to have approved these plans first, as Wren is one of their charter members, but we are glad to begin the reconstruction with all due haste.
Our reports show that many Londoners are erecting temporary shelters and living on the sites of their destroyed homes. Those Londoners who have cellars have roofed them over and are living within. The disentangling of property rights in the city will be left to the magistrates to decide, but it is a matter that must be dealt with fairly and promptly. It is unfortunate but necessary for some to forfeit their property to the Crown, as the streets must be widened to prevent any future calamity of this kind. If said home-owners feel they have been dealt with unfairly, they may petition the Crown.
His Majesty took Mr. Wren’s plans to his own apartments to give them further consideration.
Nothing further to report,
Secretary of State Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington
Hill House, Surrey
Teddy has arrived to keep us company!
“The smoke ruined my new striped silk chaise longue—that was really the final straw, my petals. A man can only take so much,” he said, primly removing his pale leather gloves. “Filthy beastly thing, fire—very destructive.”
“And so you walked?” Rose asked, tearing a piece off her sugar bun.
We were seated in the garden under the shade of a horse-chestnut tree on what felt like a summer afternoon. The dapper pink gladioli I planted last spring near the boxwood hedge had finally bloomed, the blush-pink peonies—unfashionable but one of my favourites—were out after I had given up on them, and the air smelled of fresh earth and honeysuckle. So clean and clear and far from soot-choked London.
“You walked to where?” I asked, puzzled. Teddy lived in Milk Street.
“Out.” He said vaguely, reaching for a warm bun. “Well, out to my wretched cousin Henry’s house—I always disliked that he lived in provincial little Clapham, but that day it suited me very well. Me and the ten or so who tagged along in the hope of finding food and a bath. Cousin Henry was not happy I had invited company—terrible curmudgeonly man.”
“Clapham!” Teddy is not known for physical exertion, and the village of Clapham was miles away. “How awful,” I said, imagining a smoke-stained Teddy trudging through the fiery streets.
“Once I fully accepted that my shoes were ruined, it was all right—the lilac velvet pair with the black heels—dommage. I am going to see if that lovely little man in Honey Lane next to All Hallows Church can repair them, but then he might not be there now,” Teddy mused.
“Honey Lane might not be there now,” Rose said, reaching for another bun. “I think I heard the church and churchyard burnt along with the houses in North Cheapside.” Rose furrowed her forehead, trying to recall.
“That lovely old church! Wasn’t it there from the Crusades?” I asked.
“Mmm, before, I think,” Teddy said. “As long as my lovely St. Mary Magdalen is still standing.”
I smiled. Teddy often attends morning service at that beautiful church and is surprisingly devout (although he swears it is the cherubic choristers he goes to see).
“How long did you walk?” asked Rose, tipping back her bonnet and tilting her face to the warm afternoon sun.
“Hours,” Teddy sighed. “We were quite a jolly bunch once we got clear of that fiasco of a fire brigade. I understand the king came and sorted out that silly mayor. They say Bonnie Charlie actually rode so close his coat caught fire. Quel courage.”
“Yes, Hart wrote to me and said he has inspired the city with his bravery and care.”
“Yes, but will he care enough to rebuild it?” Rose asked shrewdly, licking the sticky sugar from her fingers.
Later
Mother is proving unruly and difficult. Each day Cook hides all the spirits, and Mother spends all day searching for them. Yesterday she ransacked the winter store-rooms and upended a rack of dried hops. Tiresome.
HAMPTON COURT, ENGLAND
TO OUR DAUGHTER, THE MADAME OF FRANCE AT ST. CLOUD
FROM HER MAJESTY QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA
SEPTEMBER 12, 1666
Ma fille,
What an ordeal! The footmen quite lost their heads in all the commotion. I insisted that they desist their panicking and think properly. I ordered all the birds in the aviary set free as the groundskeeper could not manage to have their travelling cages prepared in time. Unfortunately, the birds flew only as far as the roof, and from there they watched the frenzy below. It will be impossible to round them all up again.
All was in order and then at the last moment I remembered the christening robe. Imagine if we had left it! Luckily, the palace remained untouched (including the chapel), although I shall have to go over the household inventory most carefully, as this is just the sort of opportune moment when a servant could make off with something priceless. Crisis can often bring out the very worst in people.
With love,
Maman
Note—The servants actually wanted to waste precious time packing their own things. Can you imagine? What could they have had worth saving?
ST. GERMAIN, FRANCE
TO HER MAJESTY QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA
FROM PRINCESSE HENRIETTE-ANNE, DUCHESSE D’ ORLÉANS
SEPTEMBER 16, 1666
Maman,
There are awful pamphlets circulating in France (printed by the Dutch, no doubt). They claim that the recent tragedy in London was the will of God, visiting his vengeance on the English for burning the Dutch ships.
Please, please, do your very best to ensure that neither James nor Charles sees this terrible libel. James, because he would rush headlong into a brave but foolhardy course of action, punishing printers hither and yon, and Charles, because he would believe it is true.
With love,
Minette
To be delivered by hand to Mrs. Ellen Gwyn, Hill House, Surrey
September 20, 1666
London
My dear,
It was announced today that the king has employed a young architect of genius, Mr. Christopher Wren, to help guide our city to its rebirth. Unfortunately, his city-wide plan would require too many of our citizenry to forfeit their homes, as the restructuring would be quite comprehensive, but His Majesty has given him the rebuilding of the churches of London, St. Paul’s, of course, being the primary concern. (They say the churches were the gems in Wren’s plans anyway.)
The London horses are already growing accustomed to the sounds of rebuilding, but I am afraid our Ruby is in for a dreadful noisy shock. She hates the sounds of carpentry!
I long to see you,
Hart
September 21, 1666—Hill House (late)
“Mmm, I hear Wren draws scrumptious things,” Teddy said, stretching his toes out towards the fire. Avoiding
his wife and his overbearing in-laws, he has been staying here with us.
“Isn’t he the one from Oxford?” I asked sleepily. I remembered hearing about him during the plague.
“Yes, the short don we saw striding around the Bodleian—genius comes in such amusing packages, don’t you think?”
Note—We heard this afternoon that both All Hallows and St. Mary Magdalen were destroyed by the fire. “Mr. Wren will build us some new ones,” I said, trying to comfort.
September 21, 1666—Official Notations for Privy Council Meeting on This Day to Be Entered into the Log-book
Notations taken by Secretary of State Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington
Ten a.m.
Seven petitions today for royal debts in arrears:
Mr. John Wink: Jeweller—1,400 pounds (ruby earrings for Lady Castlemaine)
Mr. Jacob Worthing: Jeweller—2,800 pounds (diamond ring for Lady Castlemaine and a gold timepiece for the queen)
Mr. Francis Hardecastle: Jeweller—600 pounds (jewelled ring for Mrs. Moll Davis)
Mr. Eliot Flat: Milliner—500 pounds (three ensembles for Lady Castlemaine, gloves not included)
Mr. Samuel Parish: Tailor—1,200 pounds (six ensembles for Lady Castlemaine, gloves and corsetry included)
Mr. Christopher Hatley: Clockmaker—1,450 pounds (ten small gold clocks for His Majesty)
Mr. Richard Wincomb: Member of His Majesty’s wind orchestra—2 guineas (back pay)
It was suggested among the council that the Crown find the funds to meet these debts privately, rather than apply to the Parliament.
In addition: In order to become less reliant on foreign imports, now that much of our own industry is destroyed, the king has banned French fashions for the foreseeable future. No plans on how to enforce such a law.
Nothing further to report,
Secretary of State Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington
When We Return Home
September 27, 1666—London! (wind blowing ash everywhere)
Ruby is perplexed by all our backing and forthing. I am happy to be back in the capital and am relieved to have escaped my family. Their ability to turn even the most public disaster into a personal calamity astounds me. Rose was distraught as she was unable to rescue her gowns from Madame Ross’s before our departure, and she is sure that Mathilde, a rival French whore, has made off with them in the chaos. She talked of little else all the way to town—exasperating.
Mother got drunk and fell down the kitchen stairs, spraining her ankle and squashing a bag of ripe tomatoes—messy. We left her to recuperate at Hill House, attended by Perry, Hart’s new valet, and Kate, the scullery maid—heaven help them.
I have only today ventured out into the wreckage of London, and I was shocked by what I found. The city is in ruins—that I expected—but daily life continues, miraculously. Shopkeepers whose shops burnt to the ground have set up in tented, temporary structures and are carrying on. Blacksmiths are blacksmithing in the street; cheesemongers are cheesemongering out of makeshift barrows; mothers feeding their children in the rubble where their kitchens stood. Hooray for Londoners!
Note—Hart just poked his head in to tell me that although the theatres will remain closed for some time, we have been invited to play at Whitehall. To revive the spirits, says the king.
WHITEHALL, LONDON
SEPTEMBER 29, 1666
Minette,
You may think me wicked, but I am filled with hope that we may create a new and efficient city. This palace is something I should dearly like to tear down and begin again. It is a mess. If only we can find the funds!
Charles
September 30, 1666—London
I went by hackney to the new market today on Tower Hill. All the talk was of conspiracy. Who started the fire? Everyone is suspected—the Quakers, the French, the Dutch, certainly any foreigners, but Catholics most of all. It is fear that fuels these suspicions. Why would Catholics deliberately burn London? It is not logical. That they are obsessively seeking out a who rather than a what is irritating. Everyone is always so keen to find a who. A better fire brigade system and designated firebreaks sound to me like a better place to spend energy. There is also more quiet, more secret talk of the government’s involvement. That in order to create a new and glorious London we had to burn the old. I do not believe such things of people.
Later
Rose returned from the Exchange (the New Exchange in a new spot—everything is new now) this morning and told me a ghastly rumour. They (the ever chattering they) are saying that the king might have started the fire himself! They say with the new building plans he stands to gain three hundred thousand pounds! “No,” I told her vehemently. “He loves his city … he was the one riding around putting out the fire. It is ridiculous.” Rose agreed that it was a nonsense rumour, but a sticky one. She’s heard it three times already this morning.
When I Give My Royal Performance
October 15—Maiden Lane
What an evening!
We did it. Hart and I and the company played George Buckingham’s The Chances, for the king and queen and all the court. The queen wore a simply but elegantly cut amethyst gown, and the king wore a dazzling white silk coat with black-worked cuffs—only this king could pull that off. Buckingham stood off to the side and chewed on the end of his thick blond wig in anxiety until the play was over. Rose sewed me a stunning silver gown of layered silk. The light layers gave a floating effect, and I felt like I soared through the dancing without touching the ground. As soon as we left the palace I shamelessly hitched up my beautiful new gown to keep it out of the London mud. The messy rebuilding plus the recent rain has made the city a river of mud.
Rose has been working with Madame Leonine, the famous French dress-maker who has recently moved to London. She has set up a small atelier in Broad Street. She was lucky to get a space, as the reshuffling after the fire left so few vacant, and is already catering to the highest ladies in the land. It is an unlikely pairing, but she and Rose work well together. Both realists, they deliver exactly what they promise.
Later—Maiden Lane
The performance was witty and sharp and energetic—my muscles throb, and my face aches from smiling as I tumble into bed. Still, it is a successful formula—smile, sally, jab, forgive, laugh. Everyone enjoys the fast repartee—except perhaps Hart, who can sometimes look wounded as I hurl these barbed lines at him (all in the script, and all in fun). I always take time to reassure him afterwards, although why he should need reassurance when he can plainly see that they are not my words is beyond me. It is exhausting, and my declarations of love grow more adamant.
“You must become a more convincing liar, darling,” Teddy scolded tonight, pulling the last pins from my tightly upswept hair.
“I wish I did not have to lie,” I responded with my customary candour, raking my fingers through my heavy curls, scratching my itchy scalp.
His eyes met mine in the mirror. “But if this is the life you wish to live, you pays your money, you takes your choice.”
Note—Castlemaine was not in attendance, as I hear she is very much visibly carrying the king’s fifth child, but she has requested a repeat performance for select friends tomorrow night!
October 28—Whitehall
It has become custom for us to do double performances with a costume change in between: the first for the king and queen and court, the second for the king and Castlemaine and court. Strangely, everyone pretends that this is not the case. The audience pretends that they have not just seen the play, and we pretend that we have not just performed the play. Bizarre. Tom frets over the expense of extra costumes.
I watch the king, in the centre of it all. He is courteous and even affectionate to his little barren queen, and seems comfortable but not overly enraptured with Castlemaine. It is la belle Stuart who holds his interest. She moves easily (if vapidly) between both worlds, and the king’s eyes never leave her shapely backside.
Castlemaine has taken to ad
dressing me after the performances. She seeks my advice about gowns and shoes and dancing and toilette.
“I must get some of that lovely appley scent you use,” Castlemaine said tonight, cornering me in the Matted Gallery. “It would be charming for the country.”
I looked at her uncertainly. Her own scent was an oppressive musk. “I’ll ask my apothecary to send some to you,” I said with brittle gaiety.
“Oh, do!” Castlemaine said, squeezing my arm conspiratorially. Just then a shy thin girl of about five years emerged from behind Castlemaine’s skirts. “My daughter Charlotte,” she said, pushing the little girl towards me. “Charlotte is here at the request of His Majesty, her father,” Castlemaine said pointedly, just in case I had mistaken her parentage. “She is interested in music and the arts. Mrs. Gwyn is an actress, Charlotte,” she said in that sing-song voice adults often use with children.
“On the stage?” the little girl asked solemnly, her eyes growing large.
