Restoration

it was difficult to believe that it was I who was thinking them.

I gave the wet-nurse some money.

'How long until she can be weaned?' I asked as I left the room.

'A good year, Sir,' she said. 'I do not let any of them go until then.' She smiled and lightly tapped her breasts, as if showing me riches of which she was modestly proud. Behind her, two of her girls, both with pretty ringlets, smiled and giggled at me and then dropped each a little cheeky curtsey. I bowed to them, feeling my face flush.

As I trotted back to Cheapside on Danseuse, I thought what an unlooked-for pleasure it would be for me to have a pretty daughter. I imagined hiring for her a maid, who would wash her petticoats and curl her red hair into ringlets. But then I remembered that Margaret appeared to have my features (not the straight, thin nose and dark eyes of her mother) and so she would never be pretty. Indeed, she would probably be categorically ugly and so come to the only future that these times allow to ugly women – unless they be famously rich – which is a future of loneliness and low estate. So I began to consider how I might prevent this, by getting for her teachers of music and teachers of petit point and scholars who would guide her not only through the poetry of Dryden but through the work of all the great poets from the beginning of time, so that her accomplishments and her wisdom would get her a kind husband if her face did not.

For some while, as I rode, my thoughts turned upon Margaret's future and upon the great unfairness in society (once noted by me at an autopsy at Whittlesea) which allows men to prosper by many means and women by one means only. Until I turned into Cheapside, I felt most vexed, on behalf of my daughter, at the great unkindness and stupidity of this, but then the sight of my plaque upon the door drove everything from my mind but the expectation that, during my absence, an answer to my letter to the King had arrived. I dismounted and hurried in. There was nothing for me.

'Why do you ask?' said Frances Elizabeth. 'Are you waiting for some news?'

'No,' I replied, 'it is only that my apothecary said he would send word when a curative I asked him to prepare for me was ready. He lacked some of the essential ingredients…'

I do not remember how many days passed before a letter arrived. What I remember is that time began to move very slowly once more and that I spent a great deal of it imagining myself grown old and the King grown old, and in all the years that passed no answer ever came, yet my expectation that it would did not diminish and so all that filled my life was a waiting that never ended.

I became very prone to error. A patient came to me with a pain in his gut that I diagnosed as a bleeding. I performed a 'sympathetic phlebotomy' to stop the haemorrhage, but a day later he returned and showed me an iron nail brought up out of his stomach by means of a vomit, prescribed by a rival physician. My diagnosis had been so faulty as to put the man's life in danger. He made me take the nail in my hand and advised: 'Put it where you can see it each day, so you are reminded of your error- that this mistake will drive out others.'

I did as he advised, being very chastened by this incident of the nail (though how a man could come to swallow such a thing I could not fathom, unless his wife or his cook had wished him harm and concealed the object in a pie). But this did not prevent me from making other, smaller errors and from becoming very forgetful and absent-minded, so that, during this time, I won not a single game of Rummy, lost my purse in a tavern, stuck my eye with a quill pen, fell off Danseuse when she shied at a pigeon in the street, missed a Tuesday afternoon (thus incurring a fierce slap to my face from Rosie Pierpoint) and began to fall behind with this, my story – as if I understood at last that I was not truly the author of it, but that every twist and turn in it had been set down by the King.

And indeed, the next episode in it had his controlling hand upon it: he invited me to supper! He did not acknowledge my letter so many times perfected, nor make any reference to its contents. His note was short and curt. It read thus:

Merivel,

Why do you not sup with us upon Sunday Next? We shall expect you here at our chambers at nine o 'clock.

Charles R.

I received it on the morning of Monday, the twenty-seventh of August, towards ten o'clock. I was in the middle of cauterising a thigh wound when it was brought in to me and I burned my hand with the cauterising iron in my haste to break the familiar seal. And then, when I had read it, my next thought was the thought of a vain man: that I had no outfit fine enough to wear.

The tailor I went to was an old friend of my father's. He made the suit in five days out of affection for him, not for me. The material I chose was silk and the colour navy blue, braided with cream. It was neither fussy nor gaudy and I was most pleased with my choice.

I then went to a shoemaker and ordered a pair of shoes with heels modestly high and buckles of pewter, burnished to resemble silver. Thence to a milliner's in Crofter Lane. The hat I commanded was black with two soft blue plumes upon it.

And so to my wigmaker. He looked at me long. He had not seen me for many months. 'Sir Robert,' he said, 'if I had not known it was you, I would not have known it was you,' which puzzling sentence made me laugh and it was in my laughter that he recognised me, for then he said, 'But now I see you. Now I see that the change in you is not entire.'

He is very fond of sack. He likes to pour himself and his clients a good few thimblefuls of it while he measures their heads and displays his different styles and quality of wig for them to see. So we sat down together in his shop and he talked about the world ('for the world, though seeming big to some, is of course very little, is it not, Sir Robert, being really no larger than the shadow cast by the Palace of Whitehall?'), and who had found favour and who was out and what were the fashions of the summer, and I learned from him that the King had a new mistress called Mrs Stewart who outweighed all the others in beauty. 'And they say,' said the wigmaker, 'that his old loves are gone from his mind to make room for this new one, even Lady Castlemaine herself.'

'And my wife?'

'Ah, your wife, Sir Robert. There is a mystery! For she has not been seen anywhere for some time and the gossip goes 'either she is a-bed with child or else she is a-bed with Sir Fancy Newlove or else she is a-bed weeping', but I can tell you that no one seem's to know for certain which kind or condition of bed she is in!'

It was almost suppertime when I left the wigmaker's shop, with the hot sun beginning to go down. I walked- home slowly, leading Danseuse by the bridle, and what came to my mind were some words of Sir Joshua Clemence, that to get the King's love he believed his daughter would sacrifice everything and everyone in the world, including her mother and father. I sighed as I remembered them and the voice of quiet resignation in which he had uttered them.

These moments I will not forget until I die:

I am not left to wait in the Stone Gallery. I am shown into the Royal apartments as soon as I announce myself to the guards.

I enter the familiar rooms. Though it is a stifling evening, a fire is burning in the grate of the first chamber.

William Chiffinch, the King's most trusted servant, bows to me and tells me that His Majesty, being very hungry on a whim, has begun his supper which he has ordered to be served in the small room where all the clocks are kept.

I follow Chiffinch and, as we near the room, which is no bigger than a closet, I hear once again the riotous ticking and jangling of time, by which the King is so fascinated and moved.

I go in. The King is wearing a cream-coloured coat, but tied around his neck is a scarlet dinner napkin.

Though I am sweating and my heartbeat is as noisy as any of the clocks, when I see the dinner napkin I smile. And so it is my smile that the King first sees when he lifts his eyes from the chicken leg he is devouring. And it is as if this smile of mine has some magical property to it, for the King lays down the chicken leg and stares at me