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roi
danced with you
three
times at a recent fête at St. Cloud, straining the bonds of decorum. Our aunt Anne
cannot have approved of that—is it true that her hold on the young king is slipping?
J’espère,
for she must be a suffocating burden for poor Louis, as she, like our mam, is always one to speak her mind. And what of Philippe, your very grand Monsieur—we hear of his extraordinary personal expenditures—700 livres for a wig,
mon Dieu.
Has his erratic behaviour become more predictable? Again,
j’espère.
Marriages, as I am learning, take time to settle into their rhythm.
Bonne chance!
    Know that I am faithfully your,
    Charles
    Note—
Can it be true that Louis has already spent five hundred thousand livres on his new palace? An unthinkable sum—although I have heard that his new gardener Le Nôtre is worth every sou. I have just engaged
another
Portuguese cook, ah the holy state of matrimony.

September 29—Michaelmas Day (sunny and warm)
    The Octopus has taken to pinching my bottom after he fills my basket. I have become adept at outmanoeuvring him, but I have to be quick. Exhausting. “You could…” Rose says.
    “No, I couldn’t,” I repeat firmly.
    Rose still undresses in the dark, regardless of whether I leave a candle burning or not.
Monday, November 24, 1662 (freezing!)
    “The world will end a week from tomorrow,” Rose informed me breathlessly, shedding her heavy muffler. It was one of her rare afternoons at home. “I just had it from a woman in the market,” she continued, hanging her icy mittens over the hearth rail. “Everyone is talking about it.”
    “What?” I asked distractedly. I was trying to stir the beef stew and read Mr. Pink’s column in the
Gazette
at the same time.
    “The end of the world, Ellen,” Rose repeated impatiently, “it is
next week
.”
    “What?”
I asked, alarmed, dropping the spoon. Eventually, I got the full story. A lunatic in Bedlam Hospital has prophesised this calamity, and he would be discredited but this same fanatic also foresaw the king’s blessed Restoration. How like Rose to deliver such news without preamble. Just in case the end is near, Rose and I and possibly Grandfather are going to church this evening.
Later (home with Grandfather)
    It was a good thing that Grandfather did not come, for the pews were overfull and he would have had nowhere to sit. Rose felt uncomfortable up front and preferred to stand near the door. Crowds make her nervous now that her reputation is growing. I squeezed in next to Mrs. Lake, the cheesemonger’s wife, who had obviously been eating garlic. Lots of garlic.
    Now at home: Grandfather and I are off to bed. We no longer wait up for them. There is no point. They do not return until dawn. What a quiet little household we have become.
Tuesday, December 2, 1662
    Relief. The lunatic was wrong. Nothing happened.
December 25—Christmas Day (rainy)
    All of us at home today. Mother baked Christmas pies. The neighbours devoured most of them and then got sticky sugar on all the door latches. I played my guitar—Rose is mystified as to why I do not learn a more fashionable instrument. “A guitar is so
provincial,
” she complained, sounding like the old Rose. I welcomed her criticism, as she has been so unnaturally quiet lately.

When We Celebrate My Birthday

Wednesday, January 7, 1663 (late—so sleepy)
    This evening I attended a rousing musical lecture at Gresham College with Duncan, Grandfather, and Dr. Genner, an old friend of Grandfather’s who looks just how you want a doctor to look: white beard, kindly expression, and walking stick. Rose did not come along as she is rarely at home now that she has started working for Madame Ross at her large and notorious establishment in equally notorious Lewkenor Lane. It is a step up of a kind, I suppose. Mother is angry that Rose no longer works exclusively for her, but cannot complain about the extra money. She has already found a girl to replace her.
    Rose was in the