Chaloner's blog: February in Restoration London

The second monthly post from Susanna Gregory's creation, Thomas Chaloner, spy for the King's intelligence service.

Chaloner's Blog: Restoration London, February …

After the freezing days of January this month has seen days of blazing sunshine and temperate nights, for once making me look kindly on the ill-fitting window in my lodgings.  After weeks of adding all my outdoor garb to my bed-coverings, the draught through the cracks in the rotting frame is welcome.  I spotted some lengths of new timber in the yard.  No doubt my landlord will now repair the damage, and I shall sweat through sleepless nights instead of shivering.

The balmy weather has cast Bulteel into an even greater depression.  He mutters darkly over his secretarial duties for the Lord Chancellor, swearing that the world is out of kilter and that we are all doomed.  Young Ruby Martin, her belly pushing roundly at the light material of her dress, told me that the primroses are already flowering inside the walls of St James's Park.  I am not sure whether to believe her, as she isn't the sort of person to notice anything which isn't in breeches.  It made me wonder with whom she had been dallying there.

The street-preachers now clamour that the unseasonal warmth is a sign of God's displeasure with the debauchery of the Court.  Last month their racket was that the hard frosts were His anger at the restored King's licentiousness.  They always want it both ways, but their current messages of hellfire are cheerfully ignored as people go about their business in the sunshine.

I would have thought this lightened atmosphere would have speeded up the many repairs which need to be made in the capital's streets, not least those to London Bridge where the Wardens have closed part of the approach on the Southwark side.  The work is progressing so slowly that they even held up the King as he returned from a visit to a brothel in Bankside.  Brodrick was with the party and he told me that His Majesty was none too pleased when they finally inched their way past the obstruction, only to see fifteen workmen leaning on their spades around a hole, drinking ale and offering advice to the one fellow actually wielding a shovel.  The King roared at them that the job would be done a lot faster if they all dug together, and was outraged to be brashly told that it was against their Guild rules for more than one man to dig a hole at a time.  Brodrick was despatched to the Guildhall to verify this claim and discovered they were telling the truth.  It is written into their charter, a charter signed by the King's own father.  I am surprised Cromwell didn't annul it, along with everything else he changed, but perhaps he ran out of time.

Brodrick regaled me with his account of this obstruction to the royal routine when I accompanied him to the Theatre Royal.  It was welcome relief from the obscure humour and arcane language of Love's Labours Lost, but even so I had to continually drink wine to properly get me through the tedium of it and regretted that indulgence when I woke.  In Clarendon's rooms the following morning Brodrick recommended sack as a cure for my sore head.  He avows that two draughts of it are the perfect remedy and uses it on a daily basis, which may explain his liverish complexion.  I felt considerably worse after just one and spent the rest of the day in a quiet corner of the Rainbow Coffee House, listening to conversations when I wasn't dozing.  The talk was dominated by descriptions of the King being again delayed, this time making him late for a game of tennis.  Some people are taken by the idea of a toll being exacted on all wheeled vehicles entering the City during the hours of daylight.  This seems an ill-thought out plan, but once it is realised that their deliveries will be more expensive and that the congestion will simply move elsewhere this notion will quickly dissolve.  All the same the problem should be addressed.  Robinson, the Lord Mayor, is an acquaintance of my Lord Clarendon and regularly visits his apartments.  If there is an opportunity I shall suggest to him my own solution.

In this New Year I have become lax in my routine of visiting my old master, John Thurloe, so took myself to his rooms in Lincoln's Inn last week.  He is still distressed by the grubbing up of the Inn's orchard to make way for new building, but this has not prevented him from acquiring what he terms 'naturally healthy' ingredients to be prepared for his table.  I called just before noon and was offered nettle soup.  It was quite foul, and I was relieved that his cook then served us with a fine venison pastry.  Thurloe haughtily declined this treat, saying it would cancel the benefit of the nettles.  It may well have done so, but as it had the undoubted advantage of dispelling their vile taste, I did not much care.

On Monday Clarendon summoned me to attend him at his house in the Strand.  I hastened from the City only to find it was his wife who wished to speak to me.  She is fond of Ruby and will keep her at Worcester House for as long as is possible, but recognises that her condition cannot be kept quiet for very much longer.  Lady Clarendon made a half-hearted attempt to persuade me of her charms, but had no more success than her husband.  She recognises, too, that as Brodrick has not called on them in the last fortnight, he will not be the man to walk her up the aisle.  Instead, she has asked me to investigate the suitability of a certain Sir Rupert Spivy of Woolwich who has indicated he may agree to offer for Ruby's hand.  I agreed, on the understanding that Bulteel would undertake any financial negotiations.  The notion of travelling south of the river is made no more attractive by the thought of having the Lord Chancellor's glum secretary for company, but at least he will bear the tongue-lashing from my lordship when the whole enterprise inevitably falls apart.

Leaving the trivial preoccupations of Worcester House I met Mr Pepys coming from the New Exchange, his wig slightly askew and wearing an air of satisfaction.  However, when we spoke his demeanour was not happy, saying he was weary of trying to convey to the King that the fleet was in sorry condition and was not equipped to face the aggression of the Dutch.  We agreed that His Majesty was more intent on ensuring the happiness of his mistress than the security of these shores, and he hurried off towards White Hall to do battle again with the Navy Board.

I have a sore head again this morning, occasioned by dining too well with Leybourn, who was in celebratory mood after selling a copy of L'Ecole des Filles for ten times the amount he'd paid for it the week before.  He would not reveal the identity of the buyer, though hinted it may have some connection to a young blade who has caught Lady Castlemaine's eye.  There are so many at Court eager for the King to bring a halt to that relationship, that a hundred or more who would pay to see her appetite satisfied elsewhere.

Somewhere along my route home I mislaid one of my shoes.  The cobbler in Chancery Lane tells me he only sells them in pairs, that he would not countenance creating a single shoe to match the remaining one.  This stubbornness is most frustrating, and I must hope that the members of his profession who ply their trade in Cheapside have a more reasonable attitude.  After all, when I made the original purchase it could be said that I bought one and got one free, so a sensible fellow should be grateful to take my money in return for only having to make one shoe.

Brodrick has been making considerable preparations for Valentine's Day.  He has his eye on some beauty recently arrived at Court and is determined that he shall be the first person she sees on the fourteenth, thus becoming her amour.  The possibility of Brodrick being up in time to be anyone's Valentine is as likely as the Archbishop of Canterbury visiting Mecca, but there should be some entertainment in witnessing the attempt.

Copyright (C) Susanna Gregory 2008

Posted 19/02/2008 12:39:59 by Thomas Chaloner with 1 comments.