Philippa Carr - [Daughters of England 05]

by Lament for a Lost Lover

  In London we should be joined by Lucas and his new wife. I never saw my mother in such good spirits as she was when she could gather her family together.

  But I was never completely happy when my son was not with me, though Charlotte kept assuring me that in the care of Sally Nullens the boys were as safe as if we were there, and I had to accept this.

  In due course we went to the service and there I had the pleasure of being presented to the King and Queen. I was fully aware of his charm, as indeed who could help being, and I liked his gentle Queen with the great, brooding, dark eyes. Poor woman, I was sorry for her if all the tales I heard of his infidelities were true, and I was inclined to believe that they were.

  When we came out from the service Carleton was beside me and he pointed out Barbara Villiers, Lady Castlemaine—a woman I instinctively disliked.

  Carleton laughed at me. “She is reckoned to be irresistible.”

  “If I were a man I should find it the easiest thing in the world to resist her.”

  “Ah, but then you are not a man and you are noted for your powers of resistance. Look how you resist me.”

  I left him and joined my father.

  We all returned to Clement’s Lane, and later that day my family left for their own residence. That night at supper Uncle Toby suggested that we all go to the play on the following day.

  It was declared a good idea and I was excited at the possibility of seeing Harriet again, although I had heard no mention of her name. I think Carleton knew this, for he was watching me closely.

  So to the King’s House we went, and I was thrilled to be once more in the playhouse and sit in the box and watch the life that went on below me. The gallants, the orange girls, the ladies in their masks and patches, and the exquisite gowns. There was much more order than there had been on the previous occasion, and when I commented on this, Carleton told me that playgoers had at last realized that they had come to the playhouse to see and hear a play and were becoming more and more interested in what was going on on the stage than the trouble they could stir up among the audience.

  So it seemed, for there was a hushed silence when the play began and no need this time for one of the players to step forward and ask for silence.

  The play was called The English Monsieur and it had been written by the Hon. James Howard, one of the Earl of Berkshire’s sons. His brothers also wrote for the stage, Carleton had told me as we rode to the theatre, and so did his brother-in-law John Dryden.

  Uncle Toby said he had seen Dryden’s The Rival Ladies and found it very good. “And the fellow worked with Robert Howard on The Indian Queen. That was a fine play about Montezuma and most splendidly was it put on the stage. But give me a comedy. I look forward to tonight. There is one little actress who gives me great pleasure to watch.”

  “I am sure Arabella will enjoy her acting too,” said Carleton smiling, and I wondered what innuendo there was behind that remark. For it was a fact that I always suspected that there was some hidden intent behind everything he did or said.

  “There will be a crowd at the playhouse tonight,” said Lord Eversleigh. “After having been closed for so long, people cannot wait to get back to them.”

  “It was very necessary for them to be closed during the time of the plague,” I pointed out.

  “Indeed, yes, but what a loss. So much to make up for.” The play began. I waited for Harriet to appear, but it was not Harriet who took the part of Lady Wealthy, the chief character in the play, but a small woman, very pretty with great vitality and a gamine charm. She took the part of a rich widow who was courted by fortune-hunters and played with the idea of marrying, as they said, “well” and in the end cast aside such nonsense and married her true love.

  The plot was slight, the dialogue scarcely sparkling, but the amazing personality of this delightful actress carried it along, and the audience was with her every moment she was on the stage.

  I should always remember her dainty looks, her jaunty charm, her constant laugh and the way her eyes almost disappeared when she gave way to it. She was dark and sparkling and the entire audience loved her.

  As we rode back to the house Carleton said: “What did you think of Nelly?”

  “I thought she was enchanting:”

  “So it seems to others—including His Majesty.”

  “I thought he was enamoured of an actress called Moll Davis.”

  “Alas, poor Moll, she is by way of being superseded by Nelly.”

  “I doubt not Nelly’s reign will be as brief,” I said. “He is faithful to the Castlemaine, so perhaps he is capable of fidelity to others.”

  “I would not agree with your definition of fidelity.”

  “What a glorious day that would be when we could agree about something.”

  We went on to discuss the play and it was a most stimulating hour.

  The days that followed had a quality of unreality about them, and even now I cannot really believe in them. A very strong east wind had sprung up. I heard it during the night, blowing through the narrow streets, and I sat up in bed listening to it and wondering how strong it would be in the open country round Eversleigh, where it was always so much more fierce than in London, for coming in from the east it had spent a little of its energy before it reached the capital.

  Just before dawn I was aware of an unusual light in the sky, and going to my window I saw that it was a glow from what must be a large fire.

  By the time I arose the glow had deepened. I remarked to the maid that it must be a very big fire indeed. She replied that one of the tradesmen had just come in and said that it started in a baker’s shop in Pudding Lane. The house was in flames in no time and the strong east wind had spread the fire to the neighbouring buildings.

  During that day there was no talk of anything but the fire which was rapidly spreading and had already consumed a number of buildings, and at night our rooms were as light as day from the glow of the flames. A pall of smoke hung over the city and it was getting worse.

  “If it continues like this,” said my father-in-law, “there will be nothing of London left.”

  Carleton suggested that Charlotte and I return to Eversleigh, and my mother wanted us to go to Far Flamstead which was a safe distance from the city.

  I said firmly that I should not go until the danger was over. There was a great deal for us to do on the spot, for the refugees from the fires were put into certain empty houses and Charlotte and I had joined the band of helpers who were arranging to look after them.

  People were bewildered. Many of them were bent on running away, and the river was full of craft containing families with what possessions they had salvaged. Some were escaping to the country, others were going to the houses which had been set up to receive them, and others to camp in the fields about Islington and Highgate.

  Three days had passed while the fire was still blazing. It was useless to try to put it out by ordinary means. The whole of the Thames would not douse this fire, it was said.

  Alarm was spreading. We kept getting scraps of news. We heard that the roof of St. Paul’s Cathedral was ablaze and the glow in the sky could be seen for ten miles around the city. Melting lead was running into the streets and the stones of St. Paul’s were flying like grenades through the streets, the cobbles of which were too hot for people to walk on. The great bells of the churches were melting. The wind caught the ashes and spread them for miles around. I heard that some of these were blown as far as Eton.

  The Church of St. Faith was collapsing. Its roof was gone and its walls had fallen in. In Paternoster Row, the home of the booksellers, the contents of the shops had been burning for several days.

  Something must be done.

  The King hastened to London with his brother and members of the nobility to find a means of stopping the fire. Carleton was with him; so were my father, Geoffrey, Lord Eversleigh and Uncle Toby. They believed they had a solution. It was desperate, but they must try it, for two-thirds of the city was already in ru
ins, and from the Tower along the Thames to the Temple Church and along the city wall to Holborn Bridge, there was scarcely a building standing, and if it was it must be an empty shell.

  The drastic plan was to blow up those buildings towards which the fire was racing so that, when it reached them, there would be only an empty space and the flames would have nothing to consume and therefore would necessarily become less fierce and perhaps be able to be brought under control.

  We awaited the outcome with trepidation. All day long we heard the explosions. The men came home, their garments and even their faces blackened with their exertions. But there was an air of triumph about them. They had halted the great fire of London, and now, they prophesied, it would only be a matter of time before they had put it out.

  The nightmare was over, but the damage was enormous. Four hundred streets had been completely destroyed with about thirteen thousand houses. An area of four hundred and thirty-six acres had been devastated. We had suffered four days of calamity and during that time eighty-eight churches had been destroyed, including St. Paul’s Cathedral. The City gates and Guildhall, the Exchange and the Customs House had also gone, and the value of the lost property was over seven million pounds. There was only one matter for rejoicing. In spite of this colossal destruction, only six people had lost their lives.

  The fire was discussed interminably around dinner tables.

  “The King,” said Carleton, “surprised his people … though I guessed he would behave as he did. People are inclined to think that because he has a keen wit and likes to use it, because he has an appreciation of beauty and a love of pleasure, he is incapable of being serious. Now they realize their mistake. None worked as hard as he did.”

  “It was an inspiration to us all,” agreed Geoffrey, “to see him, sleeves rolled up, his face blackened by smoke, giving orders as to where the gunpowder should be laid.”

  “And he was merry with it,” said my father-in-law.

  “A man,” put in Uncle Toby, “who would meet any disaster with a merry quip which puts heart into us all.” He raised his goblet. “A health unto His Majesty.”

  And we all drank it and someone started the ballad which was being sung throughout the country:

  “Here’s a health unto his Majesty

  With a fal, la, la, la, la, la, la

  Confusion to his enemies

  With a fal, la, la, la, la, la, la

  And who will not drink his health

  I wish him neither wit nor wealth

  Nor yet a rope to hang himself

  With a fal, la, la, la, la, la, la.”

  And we all joined in, thanking God that, in spite of the plague and the fire which He had seen fit to bring upon us, there was not one of us who would have gone back to the Puritan way of life. All of us were with the King in spite of his growing reputation for profligacy.

  There was rejoicing in the streets. The fire was over, and if many had lost the homes they had known for years, there were now promises to rebuild London, a different city, with wider streets where the sun and air could reach the lower rooms of houses, proper gutters where the drainage could run away and not harbour rats and give out noisome smells.

  Carleton said: “This fire could well be a blessing in disguise. Christopher Wren is going to build a fine cathedral in place of old St. Paul’s. He has designs for other buildings. The King is excited by them. He showed me some of them today.”

  And in spite of the terrible problems created first by the plague and then by the fire which had followed so closely, there was optimism in the air. Then this was tinged with suspicions and doubts.

  Someone had caused the fire. Who? That was the question everyone was asking.

  It was not long before a scapegoat was found.

  There was whispering in the streets that it was the Papists. Of course it was. Had they not destroyed eighty-eight churches—the great cathedral among them? They wanted to destroy the Protestants just as they had on St. Bartholomew’s Eve in France nearly a hundred years ago. The method was different. That was all.

  People were marching through the streets, demanding the arrest and execution of Papists.

  “The King will not allow that,” was the comment in our house. “He’s all for tolerance.”

  “And some say,” said Uncle Toby, “that he flirts with the Catholic faith.”

  “Flirting with the ladies is more to his choice, I’d say,” said Carleton quickly. “And if I were you, Uncle Toby, I would not repeat such comments. They might be ill construed.”

  The King did set up an enquiry for the Privy Council and House of Commons to undertake, and it was a relief to have it proved that there was no foundation in the accusations.

  Those days of terror had their effect on us, at least that was what I tell myself, but perhaps I am trying to make some excuse for what happened almost immediately afterwards.

  We had not yet returned to Eversleigh but planned to do so within a few days. My parents had gone to Far Flamstead and Geoffrey to his estate. Lord and Lady Eversleigh, with Uncle Toby and Charlotte, had gone in the carriage to visit some old friends of theirs on the other side of Islington. Carleton had ridden over. As I had never met their friends and wished to make my preparations for our departure, I said that I would stay in the house.

  It proved to be a fatal decision. I often thought how such a small incident, seemingly insignificant at the time, can affect the course of our lives.

  No sooner had they set out than it started to rain. Within an hour it was torrential. The wind had come up again and I wondered how they were faring.

  I busied myself with getting my things together and laying out the little gifts I had bought for the boys. I had drums and a hobbyhorse apiece and battledores and shuttlecocks, and I had bought them new jackets and complete riding outfits apiece.

  I gloated over these things, packed them and unpacked them while I anticipated the pleasure they would give.

  The afternoon grew darker. The rain was still falling, the wind still howling. It was going to be a rough night.

  At six o’clock I ordered that the candles be lighted, for it was very dark, and Matilda had said they would be back not later than six. She had no fancy for being out when the light was failing. The roads were thick with thieves and no one was safe. These men carried blunderbusses and did not hesitate to use them if their victims did not surrender their possessions with speed.

  So I was sure Matilda would insist on their returning early, as it was such a dark day. In fact I had expected them to be in before this.

  The minutes ticked away. It was seven o’clock. Something must be wrong. I was now beginning to be anxious.

  It was just after seven when I heard someone come in. I hurried down the stairs and, to my surprise, there was Carleton. He was soaked to the skin, the water dripped from his clothes and was even running from his hat down his face.

  “What a plight!” he cried seeing me. Then he laughed. “I rode back because I thought you’d be anxious. The carriage was stuck in the mud close to the Crispins’ place. They are all staying the night there. It would be folly to come back on a night like this.”

  “Oh … they are all right then?”

  “Perfectly all right. No doubt feasting on roast beef and warming themselves with malmsey wine at this moment, and I should not at all object to following their example. Have you supped?”

  “Not yet … I was waiting …”

  “We’ll sup together.”

  “First you must get some dry clothes. I will have hot water sent to your room immediately. Get those things off without delay. Take a bath and get into dry things …”

  “I am delighted to obey you.”

  “Then pray do not stand there. Get to your room and I will have the water sent up at once.”

  I felt excited. I pretended not to know why. I had not realized how anxious I had been. It was wonderful to know that they were all well, and I was glad that I was not going to be alone for the evening.
Even Carleton, I told myself, was better than no one.

  I went to the kitchen. “Master Carleton is wet through,” I told them. “He has ridden through this terrible weather from beyond Islington. He needs hot water … plenty of it. And have some soup made hot. We will sup as soon as he is ready.”

  I went to my room. It was rather silly, I told myself, to be so elated, but I was looking forward to one of those verbal battles which were always inevitable when we were together.

  I looked at myself in my mirror. It was a pity I was wearing this dark blue gown. The material was velvet and quite pleasant but it was not my most becoming gown. My eyes went to the cherry red silk.

  What was I thinking of? If I changed I could be sure he would notice and he would imagine it had been done for him.

  No, I must stay in my blue gown.

  He was quicker than I had believed possible. He came into the winter parlour, which was used when there were only a few to eat together and where I had ordered that a fire be lighted, and I thought the room with the small tapestry on one wall and candles flickering in their sockets while the log fire threw a glow over the room was very attractive. The table had been laid for two and the dish of soup was already on the table, hot, steaming and smelling delicious.

  He came in, fresh from his bath, ruffles at his neck and the sleeves of his shirt. He wore no jacket but a brocade vest. I thought: I suppose he looks handsome if one cares for that kind of saturnine looks.

  “What a pleasure!” he cried. “Supper a deux. I could not have wished for anything more delightful. I enjoyed your solicitude … hustling me into my bath, making me take off my wet garments, making sure that I put on clean dry ones.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I merely suggested what would seem good sense to anyone. There is nothing to be grateful for in that.”