Thomas Chaloner's Blog

Restoration London
March

There are only a few days of Lent remaining.  The days of fasting are not as strictly observed as they were in Cromwell's day, and anyone eschewing a luxury too obviously is looked on as a Papist and therefore dangerous, possibly traitorous.  However, the King's proclamation that too many people were ignoring the prohibition of eating meat should not be seen as the Crown reverting to Catholicism.  He will need the skills of all sea-faring folk when we eventually have to fight the Dutch, and promoting the sale and consumption of fish ensures he has the loyalty of the fishermen.

Lord Clarendon, my employer, was not impressed by his cousin Brodrick loudly announcing his intention to give up drinking chocolate during Lent, considering such public avowals of abstinence from one so close to him a great awkwardness.  I know I am not alone in believing that Brodrick only follows a course of action if it is beneficial to himself.  In this case he must, like me, consider this beverage to be the creation of the Devil.  The King has made it fashionable by declaring it delightful, but he was obviously drunk when he tasted it.  It is thick, oily and bitter.  It will not survive this century, and the next generation will be fortunate never to know it.  Surgeon Wiseman disagrees, saying people will soon prefer it to ale, as there is nothing like it for "banishing malignant sharpnesses", whatever that means.  Sometimes I wonder if he is as competent as his demeanour suggests.

Brodrick has been keeping away from Court of late, not to avoid the drinking of chocolate, but to save himself from being continually ridiculed after he made such an ass of himself on St Valentine's Day.  He had spent some weeks researching the daily routine of a young woman attached to the household of Lord Halifax, and at the same time bothering his tailor over the completion of a new velvet doublet.  The latter preoccupation – created from the best Flemish velvet – was achieved, but his intention to be the first man Arabella Churchill should meet on the morning of February 14th failed abysmally.  He strutted through the maze of White Hall Palace, each mincing step timed to bring him to the entrance of the appropriate apartment at the exact moment when Arabella routinely appeared to fetch her mistress's breakfast, but the door was opened instead by Lord Halifax's widowed sister, a plain woman of considerable girth and blackened teeth who is renowned for her desperate search for a second husband.  The sight of Brodrick in his new finery sent her into a paroxysm of desire, and a hundred onlookers watched in delight as he fled from her entreaties to be his Valentine, losing his footing as he made his escape through the kitchens.  His fall upset one of the swill buckets, and his servant is now charged with finding a method of cleaning chicken fat from his expensive doublet.

I only heard of this episode the following day.  Bulteel, Lord Clarendon's secretary, and I had travelled to Woolwich to look into the suitability of Sir Rupert Spivy as a husband for the now obviously enceinte Ruby.  Bulteel was to discuss the monetary arrangements, while I was to quietly investigate his personal background.  I discovered that he has many debts, is rumoured to don a disguise and rob travellers on the London Road and, more pertinently for Ruby's future, has a wife.  All this took longer than we had wanted and were obliged to stay the night at an inn called the King's Head.  Had I been the owner of such a hostelry I would most certainly have changed its name, as the King dislikes anything which reminds him of his father's execution.  However, the shabbiness of the place demonstrated that it was not an establishment run by anyone with more than half a brain:  fleas in the bed, a floor so filthy the soles of our shoes were half ripped by walking across it, and a weak broth with mouldy bread as an apology for supper.  Unfortunately it could only offer one room, and I had to share a bed with Bulteel.  He has an outlandishly loud snore for so slight a man and, being unable to sleep, I rose early, finding some respite in the peaceful isolation of Woolwich, the sweet calls of mating birds allaying the memory of Bulteel's grunts.

As usual when I have been away overnight, my cat greeted my return with disdain.  She refused to acknowledge my presence, stalking away with her tail straight in the air if I tried to stroke her.  Hunger made her relent somewhat in the evening, although she scattered much of the food I set out for her, scratching me as I tried to gather it up.  By the following night she had forgiven my absence and nestled against my feet during the night.  The whole weary saga will occur the next time I am away from home.  Perhaps a tom cat would be an easier house-mate.  Or even a bird.

Another mission I was instructed to undertake for my Earl that week took me to the Guildhall, and there I had the fortunate opportunity of making myself known to the Lord Mayor.  He is still intent on introducing a tax on vehicles to reduce the congestion on the City's roads.  He explained his plans in some detail.  They include setting up a network of inspectors on each thoroughfare, who would be empowered to charge the driver of every coach or cart a daily fee.  I asked how a person was to prove they had already paid when they passed another inspector.  He looked at me with some annoyance, as though he had been gainsaid by a kitchen maid, then made an effort to draw in his impressive paunch as he changed the subject by informing me that intelligence had just been received from the Americas that New Amsterdam had altered its name to New York, and that in his opinion the place would become a city to rival London unless he solved the traffic problem in the immediate future.  This statement struck me as so illogical that I assume his appearance of sobriety is just an act.  It is worrying that a man with such peculiar views wields so much power.

The milder days and lighter afternoons have made the journeys to and from my lodgings more pleasurable than negotiating the streets in their winter mire.  Flower-sellers from the villages of Chelsey and Islington have ventured into the city, hawking small bunches of primroses or bluebells, their rough country faces and work-worn hands at odds with the delicacy of their offerings.  The shopkeepers are keeping longer hours, and this week the Royal Exchange was full of ladies fingering a shipment of silks just arrived from China.  The colours in the finely woven fabric are unlike any dyes used in the wool or linens which more usually clothe the capital's inhabitants.  They remind me more of the colours in the church windows as the lamps shine through at compline.

Earlier today Lord Clarendon confirmed that he has rejected Sir Rupert Spivy's suit for Ruby.  Lady Clarendon, a dour woman, whose past attractions are kept well hidden by her careless toilet, is now attempting to raise some sort of dowry for her wayward companion.  It has been easy to ignore her entreaties, though she has had more success with Brodrick.  Blackmail is how Thurloe described it.  However, until a father is found for Ruby's child, I will be forced to spend my time investigating the backgrounds of any passing bachelor rather than concentrating on the serious business of the day.

And all the while the King, his mistress and his entourage spend what little wealth this nation has left after the tribulations of the Commonwealth, paying no heed to the parlous state of our defences and the underlying decay of the kingdom.  Some of his courtiers are suggesting new ways of raising revenue, though a number of their proposals will be so unpopular as to threaten more civil unrest.  I cannot see that people will be prepared to pay for every hearth in their home, or see a levy on their children's toys.  They are unhappy enough already with the annual increases on the poll tax.  In the coffee houses there are rumours than each man's income will bear a charge, a notion which would surely drive any sane man from these shores.  Perhaps the Lord Mayor's opinion is not so perverse, and that New York will indeed become more powerful than London.

Copyright © Susanna Gregory 2008
Created in association with Hilary Hale

Posted 14/03/2008 16:19:34 by Thomas Chaloner with 1 comments.