by Priya Parmar
Note—The queen miscarried—again. And at Merton College to boot—the very place Castlemaine had her last healthy baby. I understand her pain and pray for her.
When We Are a Mad Couple
Tuesday, April 17, 1666—Theatre Royal
A success! At last I am a comedienne!
James (the middle of the Howard boys), together with Dryden, wrote me a comedy! Well, in truth, they just wrote a comedy, but they kept me in mind for a part as they wrote it. I am honoured! The play is The English Monsieur, and I play Lady Wealthy, costumed in a beautiful striped silk gown donated by Castlemaine herself (Rose had to take it in by half, as she is of a more rounded figure), and Hart plays Wellbred, my lover whom I much abuse but then reform and marry—and very well he does it, too! His timing is much improved. We tease and joust with barbed words but then call a truce and commit to loving each other. It is a brilliant new formula, and the audience thoroughly enjoyed us. We shall play it again tonight!
Note—Hart told me this evening that the queen’s mother died last month in Portugal, but they have not told our little queen, as she is in a course of physic and they dare not upset her delicate emotional balance. How horrible to be lied to.
Later
I am a success, but Rose has returned to being a whore—terrible, not to be spoken aloud, but true—sadly and, I fear, permanently true.
April 22—Maiden Lane
They have finally told the queen. All the court is now in deep mourning (finally). The queen is so small and looks even smaller in black.
April 30, 1666—Maiden Lane
Our new styled comedy is a sensation, and I have become something of a known figure in town. They are calling it “mad couple comedy.” Last night we were dining out, and an elderly husband and wife approached me. Hart tried his best to shield me from the attention (it discomfits him to have me looked at), but I did not mind their affection. I found it true and touching. They told me I am in person just as I am on the stage. “It must be a mark of my poor acting,” I responded gaily. Hart rolled his eyes.
Note—There is finally talk of peace with the Dutch. I am ashamed to admit that often I forget we are even at war.
HAMPTON COURT, ENGLAND
TO OUR SISTER, THE MADAME OF FRANCE
FROM HIS MAJESTY KING CHARLES II
MAY 30, 1666
My dear sister,
I am tired of war. We have nothing to gain by pursuing this course. I have no longer the stomach, nor the funds (actually I never had much of either) to go on. I can only now wish for peace and leave the rest to God.
With love,
Charles
HAMPTON COURT, ENGLAND
TO OUR SISTER, THE MADAME OF FRANCE
FROM HIS MAJESTY KING CHARLES II
JUNE 5, 1666
It is being called the Four Days’ Battle, and the outcome was terrifying. Only now are we understanding the full extent of our losses—eight ships and six thousand men; many burnt to death in their flaming vessels, a horrible death. The Dutch lost two thousand—together, eight thousand men—and for what? The wounded are pouring in, and we have not the physicians to treat them all. I have appointed Thomas Clifford as Commissioner for the Sick and Wounded Seamen and set the ladies of the court to cutting linen for bandages.
And still this country wants more. In my own council chamber, Arlington told Carlingford (making sure I was within earshot), “Our fleet is almost ready, and the Dutch are expecting us.” As if we are to call upon them for an afternoon of tennis.
The vanity of this war sickens me. Holland was good to me during my exile. I still owe the House of Orange a substantial part of Mary’s dowry—and this is how I have repaid them? This was a mistake.
Sick at heart but always your,
Charles
July 4, 1666—Hill House
The season is over, and we are away to the country. I am glad for the rest. Here is peace: away from the tumultuous stage and the bustling city. Here I can take the time to truly care for Hart, as I know he has been feeling neglected. Here we will take time together. I will try harder to quiet my mind and enliven my heart. Yet I can’t help thinking, if it were true love, would it require all this effort?
Note—I invited Rose to come, but she declined. She seems fixed on her course.
When We Are Struck by the Fire
Sunday, September 2, 1666—London, Maiden Lane
Hart woke me in the night with the news that there is a great fire east of here. He had already sent Hugh to fetch Rose. Luckily, Mother and Grandfather are with Great-Aunt Margaret. “How did it happen?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.
“My love, this city is made of wood. Each house has hearths, candles, ovens, torches … It is easy enough.”
We are as ready as we can be: our valuables are packed (we had not yet unpacked from our last trip to Hill House) and waiting in the hall; Ruby is on her lead next to me as I can’t have her running off should we need to go quickly; and we have put wet sheets under the doors and water buckets beside every window. In the end we ran out of buckets and used pots and vases and even the footbath. Is there anything else? Oh the…
Chickens. Rose, Hugh, Cook, and I rounded up all the chickens and locked them in their coop. Hugh can put it in the wagon when we go. If we go.
Tom, wigless and hatless, arrived after breakfast to say that he has hired men to remove all the costumes and paintings in the theatre to a safer location and to stand by with water buckets in case the fire reaches Bridges Street. Hart left with him to secure the theatre, promising to be back in two hours. We are not to leave the house.
If it is not out soon he is sending me to the country. “Won’t you come with me?” I asked, surprised by how very much I wanted him to come.
“I think my duty is here,” he responded heavily.
Sunday, September 3, 1666—Maiden Lane
Hart is just home for an hour’s rest and food. He is exhausted, his hair singed and his face blackened. The fire seems to have begun in Thomas Farriner’s bakery in Pudding Lane, just behind the Star Inn on Fish Street—we bought sugared buns there last Christmas. Farriner swears he properly banked his ovens, but nevertheless the fire broke out. Mayor Bludworth arrived quickly but refused to pull down the neighbouring houses to create a firebreak (disastrous!)—so it spread down to the warehouses of Thames Street and on and on. It is a monster. It raged through the lovely old church of St. Margaret’s and St. Magnus the Martyr (a church that has stood in that spot since the conquest!), and then it reached the wharves: timber, pitch, hemp—a fire’s favourites. There is a strong south-easterly wind, which is making matters worse.
Eventually the king and his brother the duke overrode the mayor and took control of the fire-fighting (so bold—they are at the forefront of the fire-fighters!), but it burns out of control. Hart has been at the king’s side aiding in the organisation of the fire engines—the water supply is not consistent, and the streets are too narrow for these great machines to get close, and so really, all we have are bucket brigades to the river and hooks to pull down houses as fast as we can. I fear for our home in Drury Lane, but Hart says he cannot imagine that it would reach that far west, but then yesterday he would never have imagined it would reach St. Botolph’s. This crisis has brought out his best self—efficient, patient, brave, and reasonable. There is nothing of the spoilt, sulky man he can be when threatened by things far less tangible.
Nine a.m.
Hart and Tom shared a hurried breakfast of sausage, buns, and pottage before setting out. Cook packed them a basket of hard-cooked eggs, dried meat, cheese, and bread, as well as flasks of goat’s milk (cider and ale are far too flammable). They are both exhausted but still determined. Tom’s left shoulder was burned yesterday when a street lamp collapsed on him. Rose rebandaged it this morning, but Hart forbade me to go to the apothecary for a cooling salve, even though it is just over in Chancery Lane. They want us to stay home and have promised to send word if the fire gets close. I am afraid of
the blaze but anxious to be doing something useful.
Later
We went out. It was a silly thing to do, but I needed to see for myself that the house was safe, and Rose wanted to get some things from Lewkenor Lane. The air was white with ash. My face felt papery and hot in the obscured morning sun. I reached for Rose’s hand and pulled her close beside me. We walked arm in arm as we had as little girls as we made our way through hazy streets. Everywhere were signs of hasty departure. On Longacre, packed cases stood outside an abandoned coach, its wheel cracked and left unmended; on St. Martin’s Lane, chickens ran about the street, a goat rummaged though a rubbish heap, and the smell of rotting meat clouded about the deserted butcher shop. And then, in the hot, smoky air of Bow Street, we found a friend.
“Oh no!” Duncan said when he saw us. “Back home to Maiden Lane for both of you.”
Startled, we both stood open-mouthed in the road, unsure of what to say. What is the etiquette when one runs into an old friend after a long and painfully awkward separation in the midst of a national crisis?
“But Duncan, we are just—” Rose began.
“Just being foolish as ever. Turn around,” he interrupted, roughly took our hands, and pulled us in the opposite direction.
“Duncan, we are going to check on the house!” I tried to reason with him.
“The house is fine. I checked this morning.”
Rose and I looked at him, surprised. “This morning?” Rose and I spoke in unison.
“Girls! Move!” he said, herding us back toward Maiden Lane.
It was only after he had safely escorted us back to the house that I stopped to wonder how he knew I lived there.
Rose spoke to Duncan in the music room for several minutes while I went to organise hot water for a bath. We were all covered in the fine ash that was drifting over the warm streets like a snow in summer. It seems Duncan has followed our lives from a careful distance, in case we had need of him. He looked in on Drury Lane during the plague until he finally left town. He checked on Drury Lane this morning. He has seen me sing upon the stage. He has seen Rose stand in Madame Ross’s window, has seen Rose at the market, at the dress-maker, at the cheesemonger, at the mercer. He has watched over both of us, but it is Rose—summer, winter, autumn Rose—whom he waits for. He has never stopped waiting for Rose.
September 3, 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
Emergency session, three p.m.
The king and duke were both absent as they insist on fighting the fire personally. His Majesty and the duke sailed downriver to Queenhithe and, dispensing with Mayor Bludworth, who has proven inept at managing this disaster, called for Alderman Sir Richard Browne, a former mayor and hero of the Civil War. His Majesty ordered the Coldstream Guards into the city, organised by Sir Richard Browne. The king and the duke hope to halt the fire at St. Botolph’s wharf, and there they remain. It has been documented throughout the city that the presence of the monarch and the heir to the throne do give the townspeople the heart to combat this disaster and the courage to keep order in the chaos. There is much trouble in obtaining the owner’s permission to destroy a house—as a house destroyed by fire will be compensated by the government but one wilfully destroyed will not. The king has chosen to dispense with the owner’s permission and create firebreaks where he sees fit—he carries with him a heavy purse of gold and distributes compensation where he can.
There is already talk of Catholics setting this fire purposefully. May God have mercy on London.
Nothing further to report.
Secretary of State Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington
September 3, 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
Emergency evening session, nine p.m.
The king and the duke, together with the fire-fighters and citizenry, are making a stand at Three Cranes Stairs, but the wind has shifted to the north and the flames are moving back towards the city. If this continues, they will have to reassess their strategy.
In the twenty hours since the outbreak twenty-two wharves have been destroyed, six Livery Company Halls (including the Watermen, Vintners, and Fishmongers) and nine churches have been destroyed. So far the great Drapers Hall has been lucky.
The townspeople are evacuating on foot, carrying their belongings. Unharmed churches have become makeshift warehouses for the displaced to store their goods.
Nothing further to report.
Secretary of State Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington
Later—Maiden Lane
We can now see the sky burning orange from the house. The streets are awake with eerie half-lit shadows. The church bells are ringing, calling all civic-minded citizens to help fight the flames. Many from the theatre have gone to help, soaking their clothes and hair in water before they went. In the morning Rose, Ruby, and I are leaving—again.
Later, four a.m.—Hill House (exhausted)
We carried six people safely away from the city: a mother, her four children, and an elderly man who had become separated from his family. The coach is only meant to hold four. Hart would be furious, but Hugh has promised not to tell. How glorious to be able to smell ordinary things again—cinnamon, apples, fresh laundry, peppermint—instead of a burning city.
September 4, 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
Emergency morning session, four a.m.
Reports that this fire may not have been accidental. Discussion this morning as to whether or not it could have been begun by foreigners (Dutch?) or Catholics.
I have written to the forts at Gravesend, preventing any shipping from exiting the country, and have instructed that no persons or vessels may leave the Cinque Ports.
We have arrested Cornelius Reitvelt, a Dutchman and a baker, with a bakeshop in Westminster. He is being questioned in his involvement in the fire’s outbreak and progress.
Nothing further to report.
Secretary of State Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington
September 4, 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
Emergency morning session, six a.m.
Grave concerns of rioting in the City. A mob assaulted a member of the Portuguese ambassador’s household, believing that they had seen him intentionally fire a house. Four Life Guards intervened when a Frenchman was assaulted by a mob believing that he, too, had intentionally fired a house. Both were placed in Bridewell Prison.
Reports of looting throughout the City. The townspeople seem to have lost the will to fight this disaster and are looking to save what they can.
Nothing further to report.
Secretary of State Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington
September 5, 1666
Maiden Lane
My dearest Mouse,
I rode with the king and the Duke of York all this day. The king was magnificent. He rode to the very edge of the flames, his face blackened, his clothes soaked. I was awed and humbled by his courage and his very force of person. He ordered his victualler to send bread to the poor at Moorfields and proclaimed a day of fasting next month, whereby appointed men will go about to collect money for those suffering. He is verily a good king with a true care for the weal of his subjects. He is also a man, and is distraught and exhausted by the state of his beloved city. Beside him all the day were his valiant brother, the Duke of York, and his young son, James, the Duke of Monmouth (who manned the King’s Guard).
The Royal Exchange burnt this day, as did Bridewell Prison. I can only pray that the poor souls held within were freed. I feel
hopeful that the fire has almost run its course. Heaven knows what we will find when this is over.
I think of you in the green fields of Hill House. You are my comfort as I face this catastrophe. I understand your mother is to join you in the country? Your grandfather wrote to warn me. Courage!
Be well, my sweet,
Ever your,
Hart
Note—Miraculously, there have not been above a half-dozen deaths reported. Unthinkably good luck.
Thursday, September 6, 1666
Maiden Lane
My dearest Mouse,
It is over. London smoulders. The fire cut a mile-and-a-half swath through our city, stopping just short of our theatre. The king made a splendid speech this day at Moorfields. He insisted that it was an act of God and not man—there was no plot. No man was responsible. He promised to take Londoners under his special protection and vowed that together they would rebuild a greater London. He painted a picture of a new, modern city, built of brick and stone. He spoke of “this, our native city,” reminding all who heard that he, too, was born in our glorious capital. Those hearing his words were filled with hope, and for myself, I must say that I am deeply enlivened at the thought of a new London. We have been struck down by plague and fire, and our spirits are yet encouraged to hope.