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 ruins, 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.