I still haven’t heard from Father.

It is owing largely to that concern that I somewhat drifted through this week. Things at the office were quiet, largely thanks to the King adjourning Parliament on Tuesday.

I didn’t stay for the ceremony. I was curious to see how the King might resolve the conflict between the Commons and the Lords, the latter of whom are objecting to a Commons bill for their homes to be searched for seditious material (I wonder why?). Ultimately, I preferred to travel by water to dine with my Lady Sandwich at the Wardrobe – though I did greet His Majesty as he travelled by barge in the opposite direction.

There were notable moments. Sunday, our old friend Mrs Ramsey called around, and dined with us between church services. That evening, Elisabeth and I drank with Sir William Penn, who took Elisabeth back with him to meet his daughter Peg, recently returned from Ireland. Elisabeth was expecting a beauty, but reported to me that she is in fact a very plain girl.

Tuesday, I was involved a little in the business of England gaining Tangier as part of our Queen Catherine’s dowry. Perhaps I’ll be able to have more involvement in that one day.

More special to me in this time, though, was another chance meeting with manuscript illustrator Mr Salisbury, now so great in his profession that he is become excellent, and gets a great deal of money from it. He introduced me to his friend Mr Whore, a very ingenious fellow, and I enjoyed staying with them for several drinks at the Hercules Pillars.

Wednesday, I saw The Tamer Tamed for the second time, though this time at my favourite theatre on Vere Street. Happily, it was as well-acted as it had been last October.

And on Thursday, Elisabeth and I went to Walthamstowe with both Sir Williams and that “plain” daughter of Sir William Penn’s. There, at the home of our friend Mrs Brown, we had a merry afternoon over venison pie and plenty of gossip, and I passed six silver spoons to my godson.

I also overheard Mrs Brown’s nurse referring to Sir William Batten’s wife as “a man’s whore,” because she has her own estate from a previous marriage and so is not beholden to Sir William for her comings and goings. Elisabeth and I failed to find proof of these words, but from my own observations I believe that the story is too true.

Other than that, though, the week was mostly routine: singing lesson with Mr Goodgroome first thing every morning; off to the office; home for supper and bed.

Ah – but I finally had words with my mother, who I fear has lately been excitedly spending an inheritance from my Uncle Robert that simply doesn’t exist. I’d been putting off confronting her tattle, but I now came clean with her how things fell short of our expectations. Not easy, but necessary.

Mother has since gone to care for Aunt Fenner, who has fallen ill. Cousin Charles Glascoke is also ill, but is off to care for his brother John who is also ill. Illness abounds in our family at present!

My brother Tom gave me cause for consternation this week too. He is keen to follow in our father’s footsteps as a tailor, but only if father leaves him his house and business in London. I know not what to do with him.

So in some ways, I was glad to get away back to Cambridgeshire, where I am now. I timed my arrival by the assizes at Shire Hall in Cambridge, so I could be sure of meeting my cousin Roger for his counsel in the matters of my Uncle’s estate. That meant an overstay in Ware last night, to which I rode alongside a Quaker who regaled me with tales of how wicked he had been up until the past two years.

I had an early start to Barkway this morning, but my horse tired and I was wet with rain – so I was hugely grateful to the letter carrier who invited me to ride with him.

I hope this journey was an indicator of how things are to turn: long, arduous, but with interesting and helpful companions who get me comfortably to my destination in good time.

Still, as I said: I haven’t heard from Father all week. So I suppose the journey isn’t all over yet…

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. What one word sums up a concern you’ve had at the back of your mind all this week?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

As it was, this week began quite fairly in comparison to the last few. The Stankes prepared a fine Sunday dinner for father and me. That evening, the stepcousins came around, along with our mutual friend Mr Greene and our lawyer Mr Phillips, and we all began to argue – but, at last, we came to some agreement: that my aunt would quit the house in return for 10£.

Since I was to leave my father in Brampton to return to London the following day, that was a huge relief to both of us; he needed suffer her base hypocritical tricks no more. In that moment, it failed to cross my mind that this would leave him in that house alone save for the maid and our cousin Jane…

All other matters around the estate, though, were to be left to the law, which pleased us all, and we broke up pretty well satisfied. Indeed, that same evening I collected 20£ from a William Luffe for the surrender of land in Stirtloe as promised in my Uncle’s Will.

Though my return to London began early (around 4 a-clock), I stopped at Hatfield on the way back to meet a friend of Mr Eglin, my old Magdelene friend. This Mr Looker is gardener for the Earl of Salisbury, and he enabled and accompanied me to view the very beautiful vineyard, house, chapel with rare pictures, and above all the gardens – such as I never saw in all my life, nor so good flowers. Nor so great gooseberries! They were as big as nutmegs…!

The remainder of Monday is something of a blur, as I popped in on various friends and family to let them know I was back, including my Lady Sandwich and my mother. Fortunately, at home Elisabeth made the appearance that all things were as well as I could expect – and so, weary, I fell swiftly to bed.

It wasn’t until later in the week that, during one of our early morning conversations, Elisabeth revealed to me that our home was invaded during my absence, and our silver tankard stolen. This vexed me somewhat – less from the loss of the property, but more from Elisabeth’s admission that the theft was due to the negligence of my people to leave the door open.

My vexation didn’t last long, though, since I learned that the thief had also made off with my man Will Hewer’s cloak as well. Thanks to the thief having as poor a judgement of fashion, there is one less unsightly thing hanging in my hallway.

Speaking of cloaks, it was on Tuesday morning that I finally had a chance to clothe myself from my own wardrobe for mourning. I had a good chat with Mrs Michell, the bookseller’s wife, before dinner that day – but come the afternoon, finding myself unfit for business, I went to the Theatre Royal on Vere Street to watch Breneralt.

It seemed a good play, but ill-acted. Luckily, my need for distraction was still satiated – by the presence of Mrs Palmer, the King’s mistress, who sat before me. So I filled my eyes with her, which much pleased me.

I needed that pleasure to carry me through much of the family anguish which continued to follow me around. Uncle Wight continues to groan about my father not including him in his half-brother’s funeral (or maybe he’s groaning about not being included in the Will…). Mother also kept up a persistent tattle, so I felt I couldn’t stay at her home either.

Oh, and Pall – my sister Pall! It troubles me to hear how proud and idle she is grown. I am resolved not to keep her in our home much longer.

My cousin Thomas, once a magistrate, could give little extra light at all into my Uncle Robert’s estate, though he did believe my Uncle has 500£ to his name – a little more than my father and I have found thus far. I wrote to my father midweek, full of thoughts of the trouble we shall go through before we come to see what will remain to us of our expectations…

And so I continued to seek distractions. The Theatre Royal did not disappoint a second time: The Jovial Crew is as merry and the most innocent play that ever I saw, and was well-performed.

A greater distraction, though, was being back in the office. Ah, what a pleasure that was! To talk with persons of Quality, and to be in command!

Of course, I told them that the estate left me is 200£ a year in land, besides money. I wanted to put an esteem upon myself…

Oh, the delight to throwing myself back amongst the gossip of Westminster! And at such a controversial time, too: Parliament expected to adjourn for a few months, but has been hindered for a day or two. George Montagu told me that many envy Lord Chancellor Edward Hyde, in particular the Duke of Buckingham – but Sir Edward is unlikely to be undermined, not least because the King cannot be without him for his policy and service.

Of course, it was in throwing myself into this world anew that my vow was broken out of necessity. I met Mr Hill, a fellow of my old college, at the Pope’s Head Alley. He had women with him, and took me into the tavern there for wine. He then proceeded to gush forth about how this week saw a change to the whole state of England as to the Church: the King feels now forced to favour Presbytery, or else the City will leave him.

I doubted this news, especially coming from a Presbyterian such as Mr Hill. But perhaps there is some truth to it, given the great disorder in which I later found Parliament to be…

The finest distraction, though? Being among my Lady Sandwich’s household again. She shows my wife and me the wonderfullest favour in the world, in which I take great content. All today, my Lord’s birthday (but he of course away), we celebrated around Westminster and the Royal Wardrobe.

A Frenchman played this new instrument, I believe they call ‘the gittar’. He played it extremely well, but the instrument itself is but a bawble – I doubt it will catch on. Luckily, we had Captain Cooke call on us with a song or two – and without doubt, he hath the best manner of singing in the world.

We ended our delight just a few hours ago, after Elisabeth and I took my Lord’s daughters Jemima and Pall by water under the bridge to show them our home. We were all very merry.

And yet… I still have not heard back from my father, who, poor man, is still in Brampton all alone. It troubles me: Did he receive my letter and fall ill because of its contents? Have my stepcousins or my aunt reneged on their promises to hassle him no more?

Oh, for these concerns to be a thing of the past…!

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. What one word could you share right now to offer me hope, or humour… or both?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

The sights were glorious, though. We saw Portholme, purportedly England’s largest meadow, and the impressive construction works underway around my Lord’s manor at Hinchingbrooke.

I also made it into Cambridge early in the week, prompted by needing a haircut. I was up at 3 a-clock, at the barber’s by 7, and knocking on my brother John’s door at Christ’s College by 8, only to find the sloth in bed. Ah, it vexed me so – how can he ever hope to achieve all a Cambridge education has to offer if he isn’t up before sunrise? My elder brother John wouldn’t have succumbed to such slovenliness, had he not succumbed to sickness in his youth.

Still, I took the opportunity to visit some old sights of beauty – such as King’s College Chapel. In my time at Magdelene College – heavens, only 11 years ago – there had been but one chorister and no organ. Now the instrument is restored, and the scholars in their surplices are at the service in abundance! It would be my wish for everyone to have a chance to see and hear that very Chapel in all its resonant glory – though I suppose it would need some marvel of technology that would allow for audiences greater than the 600 or so that the Chapel has capacity for.

I also looked in on some old friends – Dr Fairbrother, Clement Sankey, Lewis Phillips, Dr Symcottes, Robert Ethell, John Davenport, and many more – and took them to either The Crown in Huntingdon or Rose Tavern in Cambridge.

At the latter, as luck would have it, we bumped into Mr Turner and his wife as well on Monday, they being come to settle their son at Trinity. And so, with good friends old and new, we were very merry, and I treated them as well as I could.

But alas, this was a dot of joy amid a canvass of discontent. My aunt continued in her base hypocritical tricks even when my father and I were abroad from the house – which we knew because my cousin Jane Perkin (of whom we’ve been making great use) and the maid did tell us every day – and of course my stepcousins Jasper and Tom persisted in their caveat against the Will.

In an attempt to resolve things amicably, I appealed to Sergeant Bernard, the Recorder of Huntingdon who resides at Brampton Manor, to host and preside over a meeting between Jasper and me. Our discourse was as fair as I could desire, but in the end Jasper would let no issue come of our discourse till his brother Tom would come.

Sir Bernard also advised me that a mortgage due on my Uncle Robert’s estate from one Richard Piggott will likely got to my Uncle Thomas as the heir-at-law, which broke my heart on the other side. What woes our family can bring us!

Ah, but speaking of family… I also paid a visit to my Great Uncle Talbot in Impington. Despite setting all alone, he was like a man out of the world. He can hardly see, but all things he does pretty livelily. Such an inspiration. Together with his son John, I felt buoyed up as I journeyed from there to Gravely to enquire for a surrender of my Uncle Robert’s in some of the copyholders’ hands there.

But alas, I heard of none, and so was again put in very great trouble of mind, and with a sad heart rode home to Brampton.

Things came to a head earlier today, when I found my father in Goody Goreham’s alehouse (once owned by my Uncle Robert, now owned by my father and I!) together with stepcousins Jasper and Tom. Our discourse was calm – but again, came to no issue.

How I despise the uncertainty! In all this, I have remained as cheerful as I can be in front of my father, for want of easing his troubles. And at least I can say that has been made somewhat easier with the help of the Stankes – Will and his wife Joan (or Goody), who have cared for our business in our absence. We think ourselves nothing but happy for having lighted upon them to be our caretakers; they are wonderful, joyful people.

Oh – and I am now pretty well again of my left hand. Lord, I am grateful for such small mercies.

Scold me not for desiring some more substantial ones?

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. What one word describes a small niggle that can often absorb your entire focus?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

We had spent the morning getting things like ribbons and gloves, and so then had to make shift to serve the great number of guests with what we had of wine and other things. The bill eventually came to 80£ or more – but at least we had several volunteers to assist with carrying him to the church.

Mr Taylor, the master of my old grammar school in Huntingdon, stepped forward to bury my Uncle. A rector from the nearby village of Eynesbury, my Lord’s chaplain John Turner, preached the sermon. He spoke not particularly of him anything, but that he was one so well-known for his honesty – “which speaks for itself above all that I could say for it,” he said. And so made a very good sermon.

Back at my Uncle’s house, we supped in silence before bed. Ah, but perhaps I should now say my father’s house – for that morning, my father and I had walked in the garden and read the Will.

At the time, I recall feeling nothing but gratitude to my Uncle. Though he gave me nothing till my father’s death, or at least very little, yet I was glad to see that he had done so well for us all. My father is to inherit the greater part of his estate, partly on trust for me – and in addition, I am to receive a 30£ annuity (after debts and legacies) for the lifetime of my Uncle Thomas, after which I shall receive even more of the estate.

“He hath done so well to his kindred,” I remember remarking to my father, and he agreed. Both of us had completely overlooked the one relation to whom my Uncle had given nothing:

His wife.

For this rest of this week, we were much troubled with my aunt’s base ugly humours. One of her sons, my stepcousin Jasper, once observed that she could be quite sullen and quiet for a time, then of a sudden she would be in a passion, decrying betrayal from everyone around her, and refusing any offer of assistance.

So she was now. And her discontent continued well into the night, sharing its symptoms with everyone else in the household.

At first, I thought this deep grief was for her much-loved husband. But I soon discovered it more likely due to the deep grievance between them before his death…

You see, as is the law, the estate of her first husband was to pass to my Uncle after their marriage. This would have left her sons from her first marriage unprovided for, and so she had entreated my Uncle to enter a bond of 200£ on her behalf that she could leave to her children.

My compassionate (and doubtlessly doting) Uncle had swiftly done so. But when it came to be calculated, my aunt’s first husband had left far more debt than estate, costing my Uncle over 300£ in addition to that bond.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, my Uncle felt he had been dealt with unworthily – yet still my aunt refused to relinquish the advantage of the bond. Thus my Uncle bequeathed nothing to her, except that his executors “be very civil to her in all respects – although she knows she hath done me much wrong.”

Now my aunt is feeling the loss – as are my stepcousins. And so Jasper and the other, Tom, have put in a caveat against the Will. Them being lawyers, I am troubled as to what this portends.

Ah, for the troubles to stop there! Alas, my Uncle’s papers were not so well sorted as I would have had them. I spent most of this week looking over them with my father, and even now it breaks my brains trying to understand them.

The result of all the confusion? We missed the surrenders of his copyhold land, without which the land could not come to my father and me as per my Uncle’s Will, but rather went to the heir-at-law – in other words, my Uncle Thomas, the elder of Uncle Robert’s two brothers.

This dispute will doubtless compound that of my stepcousins, and I can’t imagine when these troubles will be settled. What with all this, and the badness of the drink, the ill opinion I have of the meat, and the biting of the gnats by night… I am almost out of my wits with trouble.

Only… I appear the more contented. I would not have my father troubled.

I’ll try to end with a glimmer of light. The latter end of the week, Mr Phillips of Brampton, our attorney for this affair, returned home from London. He gave us the best counsel he could.

But for all that, we are not yet quiet in our minds…

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. If there could be only one word on your gravestone other than your name and lifespan, what would you wish it to be?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

Now I write to you from a bed far from home, my father snoring beside me, the stench of death still occasionally repulsing my nostrils on its way to the windows, and a feeling of…

…what? What am I feeling? Sadness? Gladness?

Maybe there’s a reason those feelings share a rhyme, so close they are in my heart right now.

In this semi-putrid haze, I can’t help but think of all the signs this week that pointed to how it would end. Even on the Lord’s Day, as I hummed to myself on a walk through Gray’s Inn, admiring the fine ladies beneath the hot sun, reflecting on how I had lately enjoyed a great expanse of money thanks to the responsibilities my Lord Sandwich had entrusted unto me, and resolving to make it up to see my poorly Uncle Robert after I was done getting things ready for the Queen’s upcoming journey to England… Even then was I meeting with the Duke of York to explain how our fleet had been unable to obey his orders the day before due to the direction of the wind.

A sign, you see, of how the real control is always in the hands of God and Nature.

This is the way the week toyed with me: moments of joy, but with an undercurrent of unease. On Tuesday, I went to the new theatre in Lincoln’s Inn, where Sir William Davenant has taken the bold approach of staging an opera, with all its machinery, in a small building once used for tennis.

The start was delayed due to a long wait for the King and his aunt – already an ominous portent – but the opening was indeed very fine and magnificent. Well-acted, too, but for a eunuch who was so much out of key that he was hissed off the stage.

Amongst the merriment, though, a board broke over our heads. A great deal of dust fell into the ladies’ necks and the men’s hair, and we made good sport of it – but looking back now, that moment had all the hallmarks of an omen.

Elisabeth was well again by midweek, only to join Lady Batten for the burial of John Lawson’s daughter. I couldn’t attend myself because of work, the schedule for which included dinner with my Lady Sandwich. My Lady was mourning her brother Sam, who died the day before of the spotted fever. That’s three omens so far.

Even my old favourite, the Theatre Royal on Vere Street, seemed on the road to ruin. I watched Thomas Killigrew’s tragicomedy Claracilla, which was well-acted – but this house, that used to be so thronged, was empty now Davenant’s opera had begun. A trend I believe will continue, unless they refurbish to accommodate machinery of painted scenery like that now found in Lincoln’s Inn.

By then, my father had sent word that Uncle Robert was by fits stupid, like a man that is drunk, and sometimes speechless. In an effort to cheer myself, I went to The Mitre with Uncle Wight – but he brought the tone down again by complaining about my father travelling to see Uncle Robert without him.

Ah, and that was wherein I encountered the most obvious omen: we happened upon Mr Batersby the apothecary. He had a great deal to say on my uncle’s condition. “I’ll lay my life,” he said, “that bleeding by leeches will cure him. Latch ‘em on his behind, that’s the place.”

It might have been sound advice. But in the moment, I felt sure my father and the doctors in Huntingdonshire would have everything under control, and I resolved not to meddle in it.

The very next day, my Uncle Robert was dead.

I was waked by a messenger this morning with the news. I instantly rose to let others know – in particular Uncle Wight, and of course my Lady, who observed with compassion my need to leave at once. Knowing the marshy lands to which I was headed, I bought myself some new boots from St Martin’s, and joined the messenger in his return coach about noon.

The journey to Brampton took around nine hours. Upon entering, I was immediately hit by the smell – my Uncle’s corpse was laid in a coffin, standing upon joint-stools in the chimney in the hall. How my father hadn’t already caused it to be taken from the house, I do not know – cared he not for the miasma, the stench of putrefaction infecting us all with the Plague?!

I set my Uncle forth in the yard, to be watched all night by two men. My aunt was already in bed, in a most nasty ugly pickle – it made me sick to see it. That she has lost one husband already might lead some to think she should be used to it by now. The strength of her grief regardless suggests she had great love for the most recently departed.

And so here I am, surrounded by sorrow, in the eerie peace of the Fenland countryside – and what is the only thing I can think of?

The Will! What is in the Will?!

Ah, I am so greedy to see it…! As I said at the start, I am of course sorry in some respect, but glad in another: my expectations…

Of course, I did not ask to see it. I shall wait till tomorrow. But sleep eludes me currently, kept at bay by my keen desire for the undercurrent of malaise to make way for pure happiness again.

That, and the fact that the auspices suggest it shan’t be so easy…

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. What one word could help you fall asleep in a time of simultaneous sorrow and excitement?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

My father is gone to Brampton to attend to my Uncle Robert, who we learned this week is taken with a dizziness in the head. My sister Pal fared similarly, and so stayed with our father most of this week.

Perhaps worst of all, Elisabeth has a sore belly, which is now grown dangerous – or so Dr Williams spent Monday telling us.

How do I know this occurred on Monday? Well, partly because that was the Midsummer holiday, of course. But also because that was the day the doctor, my father, and I dined at the Exchange, as I can tell from my copy of the receipt.

Even without that slip, though, I would surely remember our great wrangling with the master of the house over the bill, which seemed exceedingly high.

You know what we need? Dining establishments to provide a written list of all the meals they can offer along with the prices for each. Then we would know what we’re signing up for when we place an order. Perhaps I should suggest it to the more friendly house masters…

Ah, but it would never catch on. House masters will never give up the freedom to adjust their prices to the look of their patrons’ apparel. Maybe that was the problem last Monday: I have started wearing clothes befitting the social heights I’ve climbed. Maybe I should send back the beaver-fur hat I purchased for a whole 4£ 5s from Mr Holden.

That, though, would go against one of my guiding principles: To acquire a position, one must act as if one has already acquired said position.

Yes, I am distracting myself from the continuing moans of agony from my wife, as I have indeed been doing all week – largely with work, or else out with colleagues old or new, seeing plays (Johnson’s Bartholomew Fayre again), wrestling in the park, admiring the great store of gallant beauties walking through Gray’s Inn, and of course drinking – much drinking.

That’s not to say I haven’t been here for Elisabeth. I’ve managed to be home for bed every night, and even invited my friends to be entertained in our parlour one evening, for which Jane prepared a very gallant collation.

But let’s face it – there’s little I can do for her. I believe she has been entertained, though, through my pursuit of a new hobby: I have purchased singing lessons from Mr Goodgroome, the tutor recommended by my good friend and royal musician Humphrey Madge, for 20s per month.

I was home all yesterday morning practising the first song he has given me – ‘La Cruda La Bella’. Were it in English, I believe the first line would translate as, “Why are you leaving me, o cruel, o beautiful one?”

Elisabeth joked, “Because Mr Goodgroome only gave you one song to practice!”

At least, I think she joked. However she meant it, I gently reminded her of my guiding principle, which indeed I taught her in the music instruction I gave her…

Oo, speaking of which… Before my father set off to care for my uncle, I asked him to pass on the news that I have 600£ in ready money to buy land adjoining his in Brampton. In truth, I am not worth above 500£ – but I hope he may think me to be a greater saver than I am, and so consider me a sure home for his inheritance.

Well, he is ill. One must consider these things…

One last illness to mention is James Chetwind’s consumption, though it had not stopped him from joining us at the Bell Tavern in the Strand earlier today. I mention him largely because I need to remember in my prayers that the remedies Dr Williams has prescribed for Elisabeth do not have the same effect as the tobacco James has been urged to chew. He has grown fat because of it…

Ah, but he was in good spirits – which surely could not all have stemmed from the book of Laws of Ecclesiastical Politie that he so earnestly recommended to me. And yet, just a few weeks ago, he was fearful of death.

That’s the way to look at it. Remember: act as if one has already acquired said position.

With that philosophy, I’m sure Elisabeth, Pal, and Uncle Robert will be right as rain in just a couple of weeks.

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. What one word describes a fear of yours?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

But when the purser had still not arrived by the time I’d drunk the last drop of my morning draught, I asked my boy Will to look for him on the horizon. He returned with news that the King’s yacht had set forth with the Duke the night before.

The night before! It had probably left before the cloth arrived with me…!

Immediately, I was at a great loss what to do. Poor Will wore out his shoes as I sent him running up and down to investigate potential solutions. A carrier would only reach Deal on Wednesday. Water would be faster, but more expensive. Either meant trusting a stranger with 300£ of the finest materials.

Barely a week into the seeing of all things done in my Lord’s absence that he entrusted unto me so lovingly, and I was on the cusp of ruining it all.

In the end, I opted to send them by a hoy, whose sailor assured me he would get them to my Lord by the end of the very next day, not least because the wind was with them. The small sailing vessel was named Martha and Mary. With blessings from our Lord’s two most-favoured women, it would certainly arrive safely and on time, yes?

I’ll be honest. I didn’t check. I still haven’t. Right now, ignorance is bliss.

As if to honour that chosen state of mind, life bestowed plentiful instances of bliss upon me in the days that followed, including visits from two great old friends – Mr Carter (now a parson) and Mr Cole – who were each still of the old good humour that we were of at college and school respectively. I was very glad to see them.

On most of the other days, though, I had city friends to make merry with. One night, in fact, we sat and drank at Sir William Penn’s until 11 of the night!

Then there was Mrs Lambert, a beauty in oh so many regards. Elisabeth and I went by water on Tuesday to visit her husband, Captain Lambert, who proudly showed off their turret-garden – and we did indeed take great pleasure in that. But the fine needlework of Mrs Lambert was the best I ever saw in my life, and afterwards she gave us a very handsome treat: musique that she made upon the Harpsicon.

With a great deal of pleasure, we stayed with the Lamberts till 8 at night – a full three hours or so. But oh, the Lamberts have a pretty witty child that they keep in their house, and who grew quite attached to Elisabeth and me. She would not let us leave without her – and so she fell a-crying by the waterside when we had to depart, the darling.

I also got to enjoy Ben Johnson’s incomparable play that is The Alchemist, bought some exquisite green say for our parlour curtains (looks just like silk from the right angle), and had a jolly night at the Royal Exchange discussing the potential of purchasing a property in Brampton which would have expanded the estate I am to inherit there from my Uncle Robert (though in the end, I found it too much for me to buy).

The painful cold I’d been suffering since my foolish trip out with just one shirt last week finally subsided, and – oh! Oh, oh, oh! The painters are finished! Not only does our stairway look fresh and new, but our house is now clean after all this dirt and trouble, which was great content to me.

And yet…

In all my exchanges with friends and colleagues this week, I noticed that I am now become the most negligent man in the world as to the matter of news.

As a result, I can discuss none – and so while my friends make very much of me with their hospitality, I cannot reciprocate with the gossip that they have maybe come to expect of me.

So I am resolved to try harder. Fortune has placed me in the most fabulous circles – the son of a tailor regularly praying in the same chapel as the King! I should attempt to be in a better position to answer such questions as,

“How does the Duke of York feel about Princess Anne really?”

“What is the latest from Ireland?”

…and of course…

“So did Lord Sandwich receive that 300£-worth of material you sent him? Or is your head going to roll because it has gone astray…?”

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. What one word makes you wonder if you’re living your life right?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

In truth, of course, these details have no real connection – but I like to pretend they do. After all, Elisabeth looked very pretty in her outfit during our dinner with my Lord Sandwich on the Sunday at the start of this week, and ‘twas the very next day that my Lord took me aside to make a very special request…

…and now I am to be the chief manager of my Lord’s estate for the next year!

That’s right: he doth intrust me with the seeing of all things done in his absence. Sure, I shall receive orders from my Lord Chancellor and Edward Montagu – but my heart is above measure glad for the great respect my Lord clearly hath for me.

My Lord himself will be away on his most important mission since retrieving the King: retrieving our new Queen! I understand there is to be a rather large dowry paid to England in return for us sending our naval support to her native Portugal against their dealings with the Spanish – including trading privileges in the regions around North Africa and India.

Indeed, one of my Lord’s duties will be to secure free passage for our ships around that region, either by force or by negotiation. For his dealings with the Turks, he plans to offer 300£ of our finest cloth.

Given that Princess Catherine’s dowry also includes some 300,000£, we can spare that 300£ – and my Lord can spare the occasion of me earning something by it…

So it was that, with the help of my father (who, being a tailor, was the finest of advisors in the matter), I arranged for 300£ of cloth to be couriered by my William in readiness for the voyage: two pieces of scarlet, two of purple, two of blacks, and 50£ of linen.

The money is with me currently, after I collected it from Alderman Backwell’s earlier today. Oh, how mighty rich I felt carrying that coin back to my house!

Indeed, the whole week has been one of merriment – and not just the liquid kind I enjoyed with William Howe and Captain Rolt et al during raucous singing aboard the Dutch yacht to Greenwich.

When I took leave of my Lord from that same yacht, he gave me his hand – and as I set off in our little wherry not long later, he arranged for the crew to fire five guns in my honour.

I thought it was the greatest respect my Lord could do me, of which I was not a little proud. But then, come Friday, my Lord gave the order for me to receive his model of the Royal James, his flagship – a beautiful decoration – and… and…

Ah, forgive my hesitation – the joy doth make the words hard to write without a shudder of abundant delight:

…his triangle virginal!

The instrument hath such as exquisite sound! I’m sure I shall make much use of it.

My Lord’s family – my cousins all – also expanded my pride this week. My Lady Sandwich entertained me on Monday while my Lord was off accepting the invitation to be Master of Trinity House; and although my Lady had to beg her leave of me when persons of, let’s say, ‘greater condition’ arrived, I remained with her children for supper. We all got very merry, they professing to be mighty fond of me.

So it’s been a week of mirth. Wednesday morning, the bishops decreed a citywide fast to prevent the spread of disease following the bad weather. But the weather itself turned so quick that some church were receiving the same bishops’ proclamation that we should pray thanks for the fair weather in advance of the notice to fast!

That just went to show: something as droll as disease could never affect our fine city all that severely. God Himself seems to shine on it to prevent such a worry.

Ha – although, that said, part of my celebration involved pulling off my stockings and bathing my legs a great while in the Thames, which I had not done for years. While this was a cheerful way to spend the afternoon with Captain Ferrers, it was likely the cause of my painful cold the following day.

Nothing the warmth of bed and a good fart couldn’t ease, though. My spirits could not be dampened – not even knowing that, on Tuesday, I had to write to the Duke of York on behalf of my office for urgent funds, without which the Navy is losing men, and we officials are having to put up our own collateral to secure loans.

Nor even have my spirits been dampened by our needing to spend yet more time away from home for workmen – this time painters decorating our walls. In fact, this time Elisabeth and I spent a few nights with Sir Robert Slingsby, and when we were collected by my Lord on Thursday I overheard him thank Sir Robert for his kindness to me – to which Sir Robert answered much to my advantage…

Yes, it’s been a fine week all told. Father and Will have excelled themselves in arranging this cloth for me, and… would you believe it? The purser of the King’s Yacht stopped by for victuals earlier today, and I got him to promise stowage for the cloth… with him! On the King’s Yacht!

When that finest of ships arrives in Deal with the delivery for my Lord, how greater could his admiration for me climb?

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. What one word means ‘excitement’ to you?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

Elisabeth has always had a rather sensitive soul. I sometimes think she felt the pain of my Stone just as much as me, and that this was the reason for our ‘old difference’ (which I hate to remember).

So perhaps I should have been prepared for her susceptibility to malady right from the beginning of this week, when we fell into an argument over the beauty of the wife of James Pearse the surgeon.

Everyone, and I mean everyone, agrees that Mrs Pearse is a marvel, a walking Eden – everyone, that is, except Elisabeth. This disagreement meant we passed the last miles of our return from Portsmouth in silence, and perhaps prepared her body for sickness to take root.

We returned to find no more work done in our absence, about which I was greatly troubled. This meant sending Elisabeth back to my father’s, while I continued to oversee the workmen.

The very next day, Mr Creed and I carried out a string of errands for our Lord Sandwich, albeit often stopped in our way by the City’s trained bands of militia heading for the displays before the King and Duke in Hyde Park. The presence of the Duke seemed to confirm the reports that he was not too troubled by the loss of his son of 7 months, which must upset those who dislike the Duke (or, more accurately, his wife), who were pleased that the royal couple had cause to suffer.

To escape the traffic, Mr Creed took me to an Ordinary by the Old Exchange, where all the meals have a fixed price. We had very good cheer for our 18d a piece. The host and his wife sung and played so well that I stayed a great while, and drank a great deal of wine.

That was the end of my joys for the week – and it was only Tuesday.

The following night, amidst the great dirt produced by the workmen, my Elisabeth returned. She was apparently desperate for my affection, having had a foretooth extracted and feeling unwell.

I could hardly send her back, though I let her know how greatly it vexed me that she should bring her frail form into such a dirt-ridden place. Sure enough, the following day, her old pain had returned as well – her particularly harsh form of womankind’s regular affliction.

Her condition deteriorated fast from there, and remains poor as I write these words for you.

Elisabeth’s condition isn’t the root of all my melancholy this week. Uncle Robert wrote to ask my help purchasing a fiddle for his cousin Perkin the Miller, who is hoping to earn from performing for a group of dancing country girls while his mill is broken.

I was happy to help, of course. But it worries me that my uncle didn’t seem able to help his cousin himself. He is my Lord’s bailiff in Brampton, and at one time his income was so high that he could afford a clock. What could have afflicted him now, that he has not the wealth to support his family, and must ask it of me?

Then there’s my boy, Will. I begin to fear he will not take the counsel of his uncle, my friend Robert Blackborne, who tried to reassure me yesterday that his nephew would ever give me good service. Too oft have I recently caught Will with bad company.

So alas, all this has rather outweighed the joys of this week, including that afternoon of merriment at the Ordinary.

My Lord Chamberlain agreeing to provide a job for our cookmaid’s father, the old waterman Payne? Barely registered.

Sir George Carteret promising to pay the remainder of Mr Creed’s bill of some 1,035£, ensuring none of it falls to me? No cause for celebration – though actually, I did celebrate that one, meeting William Child in the street after and feeling so euphoric that I treated him to drinks at The Swan…

In particular, the workmen finally finishing their work today, and to a very good condition? That should have been cause for celebration, but it only resulted in greater angst.

Why? The stresses of the delayed finish and Elisabeth’s affliction had only gone and put me in such a state as to lose my bill for this quarter’s salary, and I had to rush to get a new one signed this morning.

Fortunately, Mr Hater still arrived with my salary this very evening. But full relief is still far from my mind, due in part to Elisabeth’s continued suffering – and in part to the expectation that a significant proportion of that salary may end up in a doctor’s pocket…

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. What one word sums up your thoughts on my week?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

I greatly needed a break. And, as is often the way, work provided one: a trip to Portsmouth, our finest dock outside of London, to sell provisions from old voyages and pay off the sailors from the same.

Yes, it would mean missing the reestablished May Day parades at Hyde Park for the second year running. But it gave me the chance to enjoy several sights of historic importance, while among the merriest of companies.

But could that really include… Elisabeth, my wife?! Having spent so long apart of late, I was not sure it was wise to bind ourselves to one another so constantly for an entire week – especially after my father taught me of some recent animosity between him and my mother…

Apparently mother is not letting father share her bed, having grown jealous of the ugly wench that lived there lately as their maid – and the fact that father showed the wench favour when mother expressed displeasure with her work.

Father has asked me to intercede with mother on his behalf, all of which troubles me very much. Since moving in together fully, Elisabeth and I have managed to avoid such jealous squabbles, despite the favour we’ve often shown to others.

Is that because our regular requirements to be apart ensure that the joys of reuniting overcome any upsets caused by our occasional sharings of affection beyond each other? And if so, would being closer result in similar jealousies as have befallen my parents?

Sir William Batten and Sir William Penn persuaded me otherwise. So it was that I sent for Elisabeth to join me at home on Monday night – where she had not lain a great while due to the works being done to our house – and the very next day, we set off to Portsmouth together.

With Mr Creed also, of course, my colleague in my cousin’s employ. Along the way, our coach also collected Mr Hayter and his wife. At first I thought the latter old, in her travelling mask – but when she came to remove it, she proved to be really rather pretty.

It quickly became a joyous voyage, with plentiful mirth and pleasurable meals at every stop – not least because Mr Creed considers himself a connoisseur. He can be exceedingly unmannerly with how he goes about it, but his refusal to dine on anything but the most epicure-like tastes did admittedly benefit us all.

Our first stop was in Petersfield, where we slept in the exact same room where lately lay the King himself last January.

At least, that’s what they told us. I suppose they could say that to all the guests…

We played bowls whilst drinking ourselves quite merry – though not so merry as to prevent us comfortably riding the rest of the way to Portsmouth. The coastal town seems to me a very pleasant and strong place, with its surrounding city wall, fortifications, and many burly men.

There we lay at the Red Lion Inn, the very same one where Haslerigg, Scott, and Walton held their council (and indeed the city) against Lord Lambert and his army, preparing the way for General Monck’s march from Scotland – an action which soon led to the King’s return.

Alas, those three heroes of the Restoration were also regicides, and so did not live to see last week’s celebrations. Killing the King’s father meant you lost more than just your ticket to the coronation – you lost your head too.

It wasn’t all pleasure, of course – Mr Creed and I had work to do. But now I reflect on it, even that was a delight. All the officers of the Yard showed me great respect, and I walked with them to the dock to see all the stores.

I was much pleased with the sight of the place, and took it upon myself to bring them all to dinner and treat them handsomely.

We saw The Montagu, and no finer ship could be named after my cousin (except that named after His Majesty, of course). And we saw the room where the Duke of Buckingham was killed by Felton, whose death sentence made him a martyr in most men’s eyes for doing away with that rogue.

Mr Creed told me he had spoken to the Mayor of Portsmouth, Mr Lardner, about getting me the freedom of the town – but alas, the Mayor was unwilling. Fair’s fair – I’m hardly a well-known personality.

Although, on our return voyage via the inn in Petersfield, Elisabeth and I were given a different room to the one we had on the journey down, which they told us was the exact same room where lately lay…?

…the Queen Mother herself, last January.

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. Where have you been for business, personal or employed, that turned out to be something of a pleasure trip?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

Of course it did. Quite literally: there was fair weather for the procession of the King’s going from the Tower to Whitehall on the Monday before his coronation, right until the King in his crown had gone out of the hall after dinner on the Wednesday.

At that point, it fell a-raining and thundering and lightening as I have not seen it do some years – and now many see this as a sign of God’s blessing. Personally I find it a foolery to take too much notice of such things – but let’s not forget that the earth quaked during the coronation of the King’s father…

That said, Charles I forewent a procession because of the Plague. I doubt any royal cavalcade before him was as magnificent as that of his son’s this week. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if such a glorious procession is never seen again.

I made sure to see as much of it as I could, going with Sir William Batten and my Lady Sandwich to Mr Young the Flagmaker’s in Cornhill – right next to the triumphant arch dedicated to my beloved Navy. From there we had an incredible view.

I had primped myself as fine as I could, finally donning the velvet coat I purchased last August. But it is impossible to relate the glory expressed in the clothes of those that rode this day – including my Lord Sandwich. Gold embroidery and diamonds were ordinary among them.

The Knights of the Bath were a brave sight of crimson robes, upstaged only by His Majesty. Then came the Dukes and the Barons, and then I think I saw the Bishops. If I’m right, the fact they were given such a prominent place may mean they will be called to the House of Lords before long…

Lord Monke, whose military might was so instrumental in reseating our King, here rode without a saddle after the King, and led in his hand a spare horse as a sign of his being Maister of the Horse.

But the King, in a most rich embroidered suit and cloak, looked the most noble. Both he and his brother, the Duke of York, took notice of us as they saw us at the window. How blessed we felt!

A fine company of soldiers followed next, all young comely men in white doublets, and another dressed all like Turks (I know not yet what they are for).

The houses around were hung with carpets, making a brave show – as indeed did many of the ladies at the windows. But the show was so glorious with gold and silver that we were barely able to look at it.

Could anything have been more special?

The coronation of course!

Determined to get the best view, I was up about 4 in the morning, and rushed to Westminster Abbey. With the favour of one Mr Cooper, an assistant to the Surveyor-General of the King’s Works, I got up into a great scaffold across the north end.

And there I waited till the King came in – at 11. Such a pleasure it was to see the Abbey raised in the middle, all covered with red, and a kind of chair they call a throne. Officers of all kinds were decked in red, including the very fiddlers!

The Dean and Bishops arrived in capes of gold, and after them the nobility – all in their Parliament robes, which was a most magnificent sight. Then the Duke and the King, the latter followed by my Lord Sandwich who carried his sceptre.

Ah, my Lord and cousin – what fabulous fate has befallen him! As Master of the Great Wardrobe, he is responsible for much of the King’s splendour. My Lord’s own clothes cost more than half the wealth I own. I am privileged to be both related to him and in the position of his man.

Even before he took the crown, the King’s head was very fine (no doubt helped by the lack of rain!). But once the ceremonies began, most of the Abbey could not see – not even I in my high place.

We only knew the crown was on his head when a great shout began. Then he came forth to the throne to take his oath, receiving blessings from Bishop Sheldon of London, and surrounded by his Lords – who had each donned their caps to mirror his Majesty’s crown!

Three times, Sir Edward Walker, the King of Arms, went to the three open places on the scaffold and proclaimed that if any one could show any reason why Charles Stuart should not be King of England, he should come and speak.

No-one spoke. I’m not surprised. I later saw Dymock, the King’s Champion, all in armour on horseback, who was to fight with any who dared challenge His Majesty’s place as the lawful King of England…

Towards the end, Lord Cornwallis flung special coronation medals of silver all around the Abbey – but in my place, I could not come by any. And there was so great a noise, I could make little of the music.

In the end, the need to piss drew me away before the ceremonies were all finished. But as I wandered round the Abbey, I had the chance to marvel at the fine hangings and scaffolds all the way. Many were full of ladies just as fine – including my wife.

I stayed near her until the King came through with all those who were in the cavalcade, and a most pleasant sight it was. The King bore his crown and his sceptre under a canopy held up by six silver staves, carried by Barons of the Cinqueports, little bells at every end.

At the far end, they sat at tables for a meal carried up by the Knights of the Bath. There the ceremonies continued – including Lord Albemarle going to the kitchen to eat a bit of the first dish that was to go to the King’s table!

I took a great deal of pleasure going up and down and looking upon the ladies, hearing the music (above all, the 24 violins), and feasting upon the rabbits and pullet from the Lords’ table shared with us by my Lord (though we ate at a nearby stall).

By 6, the meal was over. The royal entourage departed, then those raucous rains came, and from there the day was sheer revelry – and disorder. For example, the Barons returned from their table to their canopy, only to find it had been commandeered by the footmen!

Lord Albemarle dealt with it, apparently, having the footmen arrested. I doubt they’ll still have their jobs next week, if indeed they have their lives…

I found my wife with the beautiful Mrs Frankelyn, and I kissed them both. Together we went to our old neighbours, the Hunts of Axe Yard. The fireworks were called off because of the weather, of course, but the city had a light like a glory about it from all the bonfires. Oh, how beautiful London looks in the glow of flames! Dare I wish to see such a sight again one day?

I encouraged my wife and her pretty friend to lie together that night – which they both eagerly agreed to. As we travelled through the city, a great many men and women accosted us, and urged us to drink the King’s health – while kneeling on fagots.

This we all did, albeit a strange frolic! And oh, how the ladies did tipple…

Alas, I did not stay with my wife and her bedfellow. Instead, I went to the house of Mr Thornbury, yeoman of the King’s wine cellar – and there, with him, his wife, his sisters, and several others, we drank the King’s health so many times that, eventually, one gentleman fell down stark drunk and just lay there spewing. Then another. Then another…

I left for my Lord’s pretty well, feeling that the day had ended with joy everywhere. When I awoke, though, I found myself wet with my own spewing, and my head in a sad taking. Mr Creed took me out for a morning draught and some chocolate to settle my stomach.

Still. After all this, I can say I never need rush to see any future stately show for fear of missing out. I am sure never to see the like again in this world.

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. What event has, for you, been the best you’ve ever seen?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

Oh – and my wife! Goodness, how quickly I begin to take her for granted, once we are able to be familiar again! I forget that the Sunday at the start of this week was the first night we had lain together for some eight or ten days.

It was quite sweet, really. We were at my father’s, where she still resides while the works continue on our house. I had the impression she was enjoying the break from my company, but I did not want her to see my upset – so I pretended to be willing to return home earlier than I was.

At first, she let me depart without protest. But I got as far as Fleet Bridge before she caught up with me, poor wretch – in dark and the torrential rain, too – beseeching me to spend the night at my father’s with her.

This I was very glad to do! And I’ve managed to do so almost every other day since, though of course I’ve needed to spend the odd night at home to keep a check on the workmen…

That’s not least because, to my vexation, I clearly can’t trust Will to remain there every second I’m not. On Friday night, I returned to catch him returning late from staying abroad. Ah, and I had such high hopes for him as my man. Maybe he shan’t be with us as long as I’d intended?

Oh yes – “there”. Right now, I’m writing from John Creed’s lodging at Mr Ware’s, John and I having spent the first half of this last night drinking with Mrs Harper. The streets are just too wet and filthy to head home in this light.

They were also too filthy for me to see the Knights of the Bath being made by the King on Friday, which troubled me mightily. But I did manage to see Peter Mills’ triumphant arches nearing completion between Leadenhall Street and Fleet Street in readiness for the coronation procession – how fabulously fine that is to be!

And I also happened to be with my Lord Sandwich and Sir William Penn for dinner today, after which we went to see the King create several Earls and Barons – including my Lord Chancellor (as an Earl – much deserved) and Mr Crew (as a Baron – also much deserved, though he cunningly switched allegiances after the Civil War…).

Each new Earl was led to kneel before the King by heralds and five old Earls. The patent for their title was then read, and the King, bedecked in his Vest and Sword and Coronet, passed it to the new Earl, who then kissed the King’s hand before rising.

It was almost the same for the Barons, though they were accompanied by only three of the existing order. Each new Baron, though, was also girt with a Sword of their own before being taken to the King.

Think I would rather be a Baron…

Having been kept from the office on several instances by the weather, not a lot was achieved this week. In fact, it was only today that we met with the Duke of York to learn the secret destination of the ship being sent to disrupt the Dutch’s trade routes: Algier, not Goa.

In fact, trade disruption may not be the goal as we thought, since the prince conducted this meeting in his chambers (he is a very plain man in his night habit!), and there showed us two very fine chests covered with gold and Indian varnish that were given him by the East India Company of Holland.

What were Sir Penn and I thinking? A sensible nation would never start a trade war with an ally, would it, however great the rewards might be for seizing those routes.

I must have been swayed by the thoughts of Sir Penn – something I am resolved to avoid in future, as I had cause this week to see just how wayward that man can be…

He and I spent Thursday together, first at the Battens’, then a Church fundraiser, and finally a friend’s for wine (since the weather kept us from the pub). When we finally set off homeward, we were passed by two country fellows upon one horse.

I, without much ado, gave way. But Sir Penn would not, with the result that they stroked him as they passed. True, they gave him some high words – but Sir Penn, in a fury, went over and struck them off their horse!

That was without much honour in my mind. One could perhaps blame the amount of wine we had consumed to that point, but still – it was action I felt no compulsion to take, although similarly inebriated.

Clearly I need to trust my own mind more – whatever the weather…

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. Would you prefer to be an Earl, given large swathes of land to pass on to your kin, or a Baron, given a small piece of land to manage only within your lifetime… but also a Sword?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

I fear how I’d fair had I been required to use that weapon! The alarm was caused by five or six men who rode through the town without stopping at the order of the guard, and who may have fired off a shot or two – but luckily, by the time we got there, all was quiet.

Even so, ‘tis a sign of how unsettled things continue to be, despite the general favour the King seems to carry. Does my position working for my Lord, one of His Majesty’s closest friends, blind me to a discontent felt by the rest of the nation?

I tried not to think of it too much while stationed in Deptford, focusing instead upon my task of assisting the colonel with the distribution of troops – and distracting myself by admiring all the things of beauty there. The craftsmanship of the shipbuilders and cable coilers! The neat houses of the officers! The seamen exercising! The officers’ wives and daughters…!

Ah… You can see why I didn’t rush to return home! And indeed, it didn’t do my appetite for beauty any favour that I returned on Tuesday to discover Elizabeth away. She’d heard that Mrs Hunt was very ill, and had kindly elected to stay with her.

At least, I trust that was the reason she had elected to stay with our old neighbour, and not to revisit the French lodger who I caught kissing her the other week…

Small mercies, though: Elizabeth took my sister Pal with her. So although I was short of some beauty, at least I was spared some disgust as well.

I spent the rest of that day with Sir William Penn, who is also still very ill. Mr Coventry turned up while I was there, and he did express much kindness to me. I perceive, though, that none of our officers care much for one another. Am I right to keep in with them all as much as I can…?

Ack – you can see how my mind has been drawn in opposing directions this week, mayhap as a result of the tensions of the week prior.

This resulted in some indecision from me, such as when I called upon my Lady Sandwich on Wednesday. I found her gone to Chatham – but according to her servants, she had gone thinking to meet me there!

I was loath to follow her, having missed by own bed for all but one night – and still not having seen Elizabeth since my return. But then, while strolling in Westminster Hall, I chanced upon Mr Child, who claimed to have started out with my Lady but returned when his horse took ill.

Anticipating that this would leave my Lady even more troubled by my absence, I hastened after her. I mean, a sick horse, a sick Sir William, a sick Mrs Hunt… Sickness abounded around me! It had to be a sign that I should stay close to those who need me the most.

(To be fair, there has been news of recovery this week: my aunt, and also Princess Henrietta. Thank God the smallpox shan’t claim another of the King’s kin. Long may she live.)

My Lady confessed that I did cheer her immensely by catching up with her party. That night, we supped merry, and I spent the next day or so presenting her and her daughter Jem with a tour of the ships which took part in our Dutch voyage last year to restore the King.

My Lady took great pleasure to see all the rooms and hear me tell the stories of all that took place there. The officers then presented us with a handsome breakfast – and, as we toasted her husband’s health, they fired off guns in her honour.

The captains joined us for supper that evening, during which my Lady and I debated what is best for a man’s estate: leaving it all to his eldest son (which she is for), or rather to make all equal, as they do in Kent.

My Lady was surprised by my stance, given how I’ve personally benefited from being my father’s main heir above my brothers and sister. But concentrating the family’s wealth on my advancement has left me with the responsibility of attending to my entire family’s needs, which perhaps drains my resources more than if our father had supported us all equally…

Any which way, my Lady enjoyed the discourse, and it left the captains and I merry after we bade her goodnight. In fact, the captains joined me back at the inn – and even though the page and I slept in one bed while the captains slept in the other, we had very good mirth with our most abominable lodging.

I finally returned home to a full house on Friday – albeit a house in turmoil, because our monkey had managed to escape her cage. Ah, it vexed me that I had to beat the poor creature almost to death just so she could be held fast again. But was she not a proxy for London, which had recently been assaulted by fanatics, and I a proxy for the strong hand of the law restoring calm?

If so, my monkey should be pleased she faired better than the fifth monarchists, who were hanged and quartered earlier today.

Will I fair any better, though? After the criminals were despatched at Whitehall, I met with Sir George Carteret there, His Majesty’s Treasurer. We agreed that the Navy should not pay off the fleet, as the commissioners intend – but Sir George confided in me his suspicion that my colleague Thomas Hayter has been placed within my office to spy for the commissioners.

If so, it would indeed undermine both the Treasury and me. What could this mean for my standing – and my neck – in these unsettled times?

I intend to find out the truth…

My purse

I am most lately 295£ clear in my purse.

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours: a simple ‘For’ or ‘Against’ the idea of equality among heirs. Do you side with my Lady Sandwich or myself?

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Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

If you somehow missed it, then let me catch you up. As Sunday turned into Monday, the rogues known as the Fifth Monarchists up and killed six or seven officials, then fled to forests north of the City.

Our Lord Mayor, Sir Richard Brown, immediately gathered some 40,000 men to take arms against them (some say only 4,000, but I know Sir Richard’s sway…).

These Fifth Monarchists reckon the Kingdom of God is upon us. They believe the execution of Charles I was the final omen for this. Such is why one of their adherents, Major-General Thomas Harrison, helped organise that execution. And since Harrison was executed for regicide last October, that may have spurred the remaining fanatics into action.

More fool them, if you ask me, since if their goal was to kill our current King, Charles II, he’s been away from London this week seeing off his mother and sister in Portsmouth.

Not more fool them if they asked me, though. Yes, I wore my pistol about town this week like many a Londoner – but I lacked for powder, so could not have fired off more than a yelp had they set upon me…

Incidentally, the King was just as readily welcoming his mother and sister back, since Princess Henrietta seems to have contracted smallpox at the start of their voyage to France.

Being the third in her family to do so in the past year, having lost a brother and a sister to the illness in that time, maybe the auspices are in the Fifth Monarchists’ favour…?

No, I refuse to believe that – even though, for much of the week, they brought London to a standstill. Shops were closed, offices were empty, and you couldn’t pass a street without guards checking your person for signs of affiliation to the enemy.

But this is London. Yes, ordinary folk began bearing arms just in case. Yes, I had to stay with Aunt Wight to ease her mind while my Uncle went out for work.

But we’ve recently seen successive civil wars.

The theatres stayed open.

I saw two shows this week. The Silent Woman was by far the most bedazzling, with Kynaston simultaneously both the prettiest woman and the handsomest man in the building. The Widow not so much, not least because the women struggled to remember their lines…

The fanatics couldn’t halt the celebrations of Twelfth Night either. Elizabeth and I again enjoyed a feast at my cousin Strudwick’s. This time Elizabeth was crowned queen – a much more fitting monarch than my sister Pall last year, I’m pleased to say.

Now she works as our maid, of course, Pall remained at home with Jane and the boys. But Elizabeth and I returned to find them all rather merry courtesy of the young Davis lad from next door.

Well, if it is the end of days, it would have been most ungracious of me to punish them for their pleasures.

From the above, you may think I was being similarly frivolous. But in truth, at long last this week I received my salary from Mr Downing, in lieu of my procuring a stand-in clerk for him while I sailed with my Lord last May. This gave me a free 20£ for this week’s entertainment, leaving my purse still able to cope should Christ decide not to return this year.

Besides, some of my greatest pleasures this week required no passing of coin. One morning, with the fanatics still at large, Elizabeth and I lay very long in bed, pleasing one another in discourse. I spent many an evening plucking at my lute. And, as expected, Mr Coventry returned my Christmas gift with a very kind letter, meaning I can now add it to my collection – and some credit to my political capital…

In the end, the fanatics were easily rounded up. There were only 30 or so, despite their efforts leading us all to believe they numbered at least 500. That so few men should dare and do so much mischief is a thing that never was heard of.

Now, though, the King’s officers are keen to ensure it never shall be again, and I was among those sent to set guards in the King’s yards. So, if anything, the fanatics have done me a favour…

That is why I am ending this week writing to you from Deptford, where I have travelled with Colonel Slingsby to arrange the stationing of their troops.

On our first day here, we’ve already dined at the Globe, and I’m now lodged most royally. Never till now did I see the great authority of my position. All the captains of the fleet came to us cap in hand, and I’ve received so much respect and honour that I’m almost at a loss how to behave myself...

After all the week’s uncertainty, though, I am now most worried about Elizabeth – for the other day, I arrived to collect her from Mrs Hunt’s only to find her being kissed by the Frenchman who lodges there.

I did not much like it, but I said nothing to her. After all, I’m sure there could not be any hurt in it… Right?

My purse

I am most lately 302£ clear in my purse.

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. What one word sums up your reaction to the Fifth Monarchists?

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Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

Promptly drop it, and scatter the coins all over the floorboards. I’m sure I gathered up fewer than had dropped.

Oh Lord… Was this an omen for the rest of the year?

If the rest of that day was anything to go by, the Lord’s answer was… maybe. For upon that same Tuesday, I saw both ends of the spectrum of wealth.

At one end was the Duke of York, who Mr Moore and I spotted on our way to see Mr Pearse the purser. The Duke looked in the highest of spirits, wearing the richest of garments having just attended the baptism of his son William, and being on his way to reveal his wife to his mother Queen Mary for the first time.

And from what I hear, the Duke was right to be cheerful, for the Queen apparently received her new daughter-in-law with much respect and love – despite the secrecy with which she had entered the royal family…

I would have expected such finery and cheer to be with my cousin Thomas, too, who had invited Elizabeth and I to his house for dinner. Thom’s latest wife is the respectable Ursula of Kensington, who is extremely well-connected. Furthermore, their home was just two doors down from where the King was dining that very hour.

And yet, Thom’s dinner was a sorry, poor dinner for a man of his estate, there being nothing but ordinary meat in it. I can’t help but wonder if, like our bag at the office, his wealth had spilt and lost something of its lustre…

The remainder of the week didn’t clarify the Lord’s position on my prospects either. My Lord and cousin Sandwich is still seeking clarification on how the King is to pay his promised allowance of 4,000£, which could of course have an impact upon his ability to pay for my services.

But at the other extreme, I had the honour of visiting the Jewel Office in Whitehall to choose and collect my Lord’s New Year gift from the King. I chose a gilt tankard weighing 31 ounces and a half – a little over what was allowed, but I didn’t mind paying the difference, for I am forever graciously indebted to my Lord.

Auspices of wealth here, omens of strife there. What am I to make of this year?

Well, it can already be called a good year for women. Not only was the Duke’s wife well received by the Queen, but on Thursday I visited The Theatre Royal on Vere Street to watch Beggar’s Bush again – only this time, some of the players were actually women! The first I have seen on stage! Judging by the reaction of the crowd, they should not be the last.

My wife has also had a joyously busy start to the year, paying many a visit to our wealthy friends or else joining me for dinners with the same. And Sarah, my Lord’s housekeeper, kindly gifted Elizabeth a cat. What with our home being much troubled with mice, I am grateful that I shall see more of Sarah’s pussy this year.

Another girl beginning this year with blessings is of course my sister, Pall, for she finally received the honour of moving in with us last Wednesday. An honour which is entirely hers, I should add. I did not let her sit down to dinner with me for that first day, so that she would not expect it hereafter. The more distance I can keep between us, the better.

Actually, my sentiments there were not entirely fair. The honour is partially also Elizabeth’s, who was grateful for Pall’s help with various jobs around and about. Better blessed be my wife.

And beyond my household, it’s hard to feel melancholic, because there is still great spirit of the season in the streets, and people’s hearts. Just last Sunday, Westminster Abbey thronged with a great confusion of people there to hear the restored organ blasting out its carols.

That same day, the magnificent composer William Child was visiting my Lord, and kindly took the time to teach me some greater skill with my lute.

And only a few hours ago, the great Mr Tom Fuller himself, author and preacher himself, stopped by my Lord’s house specifically to see me – yes, me! He wanted a favour – my help securing passage to Jamaica for his friend Peter, who is keen to profit from the colonisation of that fertile land.

So, in that same spirit, I am minded to remain optimistic. 1661? I and my household – and my purse – are ready for you…

My purse

I am most lately 300£ clear in my purse.

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. What one word would you use to describe your prediction for the year ahead?

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Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

Looking back to where I was this time last year, I’m blessed that I can call myself one of those who have enjoyed an improvement of fortune. I now live in a house belonging to one of my employers, His Majesty’s Navy, because (I still get goosepimples to say it) I am one of their principal officers.

Moreover, my family has almost doubled in size! Though not, sad to say, a result of my nightly adventures with my wife Elizabeth. Still residing with the two of us is our maid Jane, but alongside her we now host her brother Wayneman, and the young Will Ewre.

We’re also expecting my sister Paulina to come and live with us soon, too – though her hagged presence may well ruin the chances of Elizabeth and I summoning the mood to sire any further additions to the family any time soon…

Outside of the house, 1661 looks vastly different to 1660 in many ways. Chief among them: we have a King! His Majesty is now fully settled, and loved by all.

Well – nearly all… Lord Lambert was against him a year ago, and lately frighted us with his plot to burn Whitehall and all within it – including the King and yours truly. The fright is not fully over.

The kingdom’s royalty continues to cause controversy in other areas, too, what with the revelation of the Duke of York’s secret marriage to my Lord Chancellor’s daughter. The Queen Mother is returning to France and taking Princess Henrietta with her – and so soon after the death of her other daughter, who some fondly think of as our first Princess Royal, while others prefer to grit their teeth and call her the Princess of Orange…

And meanwhile, the King dissolved Parliament on 29 December amid rumours that it grows factious. 1660 continues to echo all around us…

But I personally just cannot be melancholic. I remain in constant good health, and worth 300£ clear in money, with all my goods and debts paid – a most handsome and thriving condition.

1661 is to be a beneficial year for sure. Blessed be Almight God for it.

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. What one word would you use to describe your circumstances at the start of this New Year?

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Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you until then!

It could be forgiven if so, of course. This week, Christmas celebrations were legalised for the first time in 13 years.

But I felt the first tingle of festive excitement that Sunday morning at church, where we discovered that our pew had been adorned with the traditional Christmas decor: rosemary and bay.

Then later that same day, I received a seasonal gift – from my old college pal Charles Carter, no less! Of course he would remember Christmas, being now a minister up in Huntingdonshire.

And what a gift too: a turkey so huge it took Elizabeth and Jane into the afternoon to roast!

Alas, the exchanging of gifts is a tradition that I had hoped would be forgotten, since it is a very costly one. So I was keenly curious when Commissioner Pett visited our office on Monday morning with the story that he had sent an expensive gift to our naval stateman, William Coventry, and had it politely returned.

Of course Coventry would return it: he could not be accused of accepting bribes. But the offer of the gift would have given him reason to hold Pett in high esteem…

Immediately, I formed a plan: order the candlesticks from goldsmith Alderman Backwell that I’ve desired a while now, send them to Coventry as an expensive token of appreciation, earn the stateman’s highest regards… and then pop the candlesticks on my mantelpiece after he is forced by honour to politely refuse them! Genius!

That, to my mind, would be a better way to do Christmas gifting: buy for ourselves what we want or need, but show it to others so it has cause to bring us together for furtive conversation over the festive season.

Frustratingly, though, the candlesticks weren’t ready in time for my meeting with Coventry on the second day of Christmas. Still, we had plenty else to discuss – not least the untimely death of the Princess Royal on Christmas Eve.

It grieves me to know that our King will forever associate this recently liberated season of joy with the loss of his sister, especially since my Lady Sandwich told me the general belief is that her death would have been prevented had it not been for the doctors disagreeing over whatever ailed her.

Partially in mourning for the Princess, I spent most of Christmas Day itself alone in my chamber, playing on my lute and reading.

But try as I might, I just could not stay melancholy. The mirth of the season just would not let me.

For starters, the workmen who have cluttered my home near enough every day for the past few months? They finished and left on Christmas Eve, leaving our home so much better than it was before. So I could no longer feel rage for the hassle they’d put us through.

Then there was all the feasting with much and good company. On Christmas Day itself, we hosted my brother Tom, who kindly brought with him my gift for Elizabeth. It pleased me very well to see her wear her new mantle.

But the strangest delight of all appeared on the third day, while Elizabeth and I were guests of Sir William Batten. A strange lord arrived at the house by mistake, but managed to enter such a deep discourse with Sir Batten that we could not be rid of him.

In the end, the only solution seemed to involve plying him with drink after drink, until he could be sent away with little fuss.

However, I fear the drink affected me in a similar fashion. Back at home, Elizabeth was ill too. Our maid Jane pleased us dearly by running up and down for us throughout the night in her smock. Poor girl had to witness me vomiting into the basin.

I was mostly well again in the morning. But it seemed my body had forgotten the toll that can be taken by the excesses of Christmas – especially a Christmas combined with mourning.

But then, had it been mourning alone, this season could have brought nothing but despair. I guess that’s the real wonder of Christmas: it counters your pain with an incessant flow of joy.

We lose a Princess – but have friends and family to feast with.

We fall ill – but can be merry even with complete strangers.

We learn that my sister needs to stay with Elizabeth and me for a while –

…

Ah, of course: I have my lute. This week, I dealt with my melancholy by taking great pleasure in my instrument. Something tells me I’ll have plenty more need to hide in my music in the months ahead…

My purse

I am most lately 224£ clear in my purse.

In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. What one word would you use to describe your Christmas?

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Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!

Me, I lost something like 100l over these last few days – some half of my wealth – though not so much from thieves as from my wife.

She began, you see, to purchase furniture to fit our home here at Seething Lane, now that most of the workmen had finished.

So far, though, I must say that I am very well pleased with her choices. I also had an unplanned but delightful dinner with my father and uncle Wight on Monday, during which we discussed the hangings for our walls. Seems my purse shall hunger, but our fine home shall glut.

At least I don’t have to pay for the painters – their bills are the responsibility of the Navy Office, who own these dwellings. Otherwise I might be set back a further 50l! It is money well spent, though: the painters began on Monday and were out by Friday, their work done well and wonderfully. I am in great joy to see my house likely once again to be clean.

Ah, but I am bounteously lucky even just to have a home to call my own. My brother Tom stopped by on Tuesday, reporting that our father had banned him from returning there as punishment for his lying out of doors a day and a night.

My poor, unfinished brother. As I promised him, I went that very afternoon to advise our father to take him in again – at least in prudence, so Tom is less like to learn the way of being worse…

Outside of home, life is gradually moving again following the loss of Gloucester. Indeed, my Lord Sandwich and I were among those invited to meet the Duke of York at Whitehall on Wednesday, whereupon he proposed a corporation to mine for gold ore from some parts of Africa. However, 250l is the lowest share. My Lord kept his true thoughts from the prince, but confided in me that he was highly sceptical…

My Lord expects to return to sea before long, though. It’s only a week since he brought back the King’s sisters, but now he wished my help in gathering a fleet to fetch the Queen Mother, also from Holland. From what her royal children and my Lord hath told me of her, I expect Sir Ford’s hopes of a war with Holland will be much harder to incite once we relieve them of her…

This week, I also had the fortune of witnessing Dr Frewen being bestowed the Archbishopric of York in Henry VII’s Chapel. This was particularly noteworthy because of its attendance by several bishops, all in their regalia, who thus attracted the attention of the common folk in the street as they departed the holy place – though most looked upon them as strange creatures, few viewing them with any kind of love or respect.

I maintained my commitment to displaying my gratitude this week also. On Tuesday, I thanked Captain Clerke for his kindness to me during our voyage to Holland by taking him for a great meal at The Leg; and on Thursday, I gave a day of my hospitality to Lieutenant Lambert for his kindnesses when I took despatches to my Lord in the Baltic seas.

In fact, Lt Lambert joined me for the aforementioned transformation of Dr Frewen. He later did me a further honour by returning with me to my Lord’s, where he looked over one of my Lord’s model ships and used it to teach me many things about seafaring as I desired to understand.

I will likely do the same again for Major Hart sometime soon, since he advised me earlier this week on how to claim the arrears I am owed as secretary to my Lord’s regiment, and gave me the requisite oaths of supremacy and allegiance that may enable me so to do.

Who knows? Maybe I shall soon be able to purchase a share in the Duke of York’s Royal African Company myself? My Lord may be hesitant… but what do you think to it?

In return for the smiles you took from these words, you can support my time spent writing them for about the same you’d spend in a bookshop

Plus you’ll receive the warm glow that comes from knowing you’re supporting creative freedom. {:-)

My purse

I am most lately 127l clear in my purse.

The reader had just shared a prayer desiring God to imprint his word on the thumbs of our right hands and on the great toes of our right feet. The image was so hilarious that I couldn’t help but laugh out loud, though I kept it quiet.

The Lord heard me, though. And so, in the middle of Mr Rowe’s sermon, some plaster fell from the ceiling of the Abbey, just to the side of our pew. Thus narrowly avoiding an imprint on the right sides of our heads, we were all afeared, and hastened to leave.

I had a narrow miss of another kind that same afternoon, though: Diana did not come to our chosen meeting place according to our agreement. I am therefore still in the dark as to this “urgent business” she wished to discuss with me, but I was spared another week of thinking about it.

So it was that I resolved to practice more gratitude this week than I have been doing of late. My first opportunity was on Monday, which began with a family dinner at my cousin Scott’s. Joining my wife and me there were my uncle Fenner and my aunt, my father and mother, and many other cousins – including cousin Richard, whom I have not seen in the fourteen years since he returned from New England.

As well as tales of the Americas, I also found my cousin Judith to be surprisingly up for gossip, despite having recently buried her infant son. I suppose she, like me, wanted to balance a brush with the Reaper by focusing more keenly on the living.

That same afternoon, I went to the Temple Church where I met with Sir William Batten, and together we found the Solicitor-General’s chamber. There, Sir Henige Finch himself swore me in as a Justice of Peace.

This is an honour with which I find my mind mightily pleased – though I must confess to being wholly ignorant about the duty of a Justice of Peace. It seems to be something of a token title in respect of my role as a Principle Officer to the Navy – but happily, it also comes with an augmentation of my salary…

Alas, though, Secretary Nicholas was not around to confirm my new salary. So instead, Sir William and I popped into the Three Tuns and drank awhile. I’ll gladly swap disappointment for wine anytime.

This week I also enjoyed watching some dancing with my sometime friend “Monsieur L’impertinent”, aka Mr Butler (don’t ask how he earned his nickname…), as well as my first ever cup of ‘tea’ courtesy of the merchant Sir Ford (apparently it’s all the rage in China), and a day working with my Lord Sandwich on yet another commission to sea (he being this week returned from collecting the princesses from Holland).

Oo – speaking of Holland… While with us in the Privy Seal office, Sir Ford confided in me that he feels it in our kingdom’s best trade interests to have a peace with Spain, and instead make war with France and Holland.

Sir Ford talked like a man of great reason and experience, and I could understand how such an arrangement would satisfy mercantile interests, affecting access to and prices of goods etc. But really… War with Holland? So soon after our king and his sisters are returned from their generous hospitality? That would be ingracious, would it not?

And let’s not mention that they are somewhat better connected, nay wealthier than we are. Could our isolated shores withstand a war against a joint force of Holland and France…?

Luckily my mind was swiftly diverted from such ruminations by matters at home – and I don’t just mean the new boy’s first display of tardiness, which resulted in his first beating. Elisabeth made up our bed on the ground, due to the plasterers being at work in every room of our house.

Indeed, our house was in a most sad pickle throughout this week, and I spent most afternoons overseeing the workmen – to ensure they actually used the tools they had strewn all over the place.

But then, remembering my week’s commitment to focus on gratitude, I decided to give the workmen some drink on Friday afternoon. Together we got very merry…

My expression of gratitude seems to have done the trick, though – for, before the end of Saturday, our kitchen was so handsome that I did not think once of all the trouble we have been through to have it done.

Perhaps that’s the moral of this week: jest over scripture, plaster falls fast; appreciate those around you, plaster goes up faster…

In return for the smiles you took from these words, you can support my time spent writing them for about the same you’d spend in a bookshop

Plus you’ll receive the warm glow that comes from knowing you’re supporting creative freedom. {:-)

My purse

I am most lately 218l clear in my purse.

I paid the price for my merry mourning when I arrived at my Lord’s earlier today, and there vomited up all my breakfast. I’m still feeling queasy now.

If I’m honest, though, I’ve been feeling queasy all week, for which I can think of three likely reasons – chief among them, of course, the mourning of Gloucester. It is now the mode of all the ladies in town to wear their mourning clothes, and so the streets seem darker than usual.

That’s not just because of the colour, though – it’s also the price! I gave Elizabeth 15l to buy our mourning clothes at the start of the week, and she spent it all – but even that vast amount, a third of a typical week’s wages, did not allow her to return with a hatband or stockings or various other items!

Luckily, I was able to purchase the extra essentials before we met with many friends in The Mitre for our main meal of mourning on Wednesday. But Elizabeth was late to that because her tailor failed to appear on time – no doubt accepting a high offer for business elsewhere.

Honestly, how people aim to make money from national grief. It’s despicable.

Similarly with the second cause of my physical distress, I fear, though this time it was parliamentary officials seeking to line their purses by exploiting our military funding crisis. Sir Batten, Pen, Wayte and I all met with the Committee this week to appeal for the funds needed to afford the urgent disbanding of 25 ships, yet this was opposed by a Colonel Birch.

I found Birch to be very impertinent and troublesome – one letter easily switchable to a much more relevant name. The ill method he and his supporters propose for disbanding of the navy (and indeed the army) will cost the King more than if they have nothing to do with it, by reason of their delays and scrupulous enquiries into the accounts – and yet they promise Parliament to save them a great deal of money!

Honestly… Will such exorbitant bureaucracy ever end? Maybe in 300 years or so…

Speaking of exorbitance, though, we did put on a grand State welcome this week for the Spanish Ambassador, the Prince de Ligne. I was fortunate enough to see it – all 16 coaches drawn by fine black horses, the Prince given a coach to ride comparable to that of the King’s.

I heard the Prince was most impressed and grateful for the display. Perhaps our good King is closer to ending the disagreements between our nations than we have ever been…?

That hasn’t been the only example of exuberance this week I’ve seen either. Work on the new Pall Mall is progressing pleasantly; they have even built a river into it.

Ah, but that reminds me of the third reason for my week’s nagging discontent: the sluggishness of the workmen in my house. Even having me there watching over them several mornings of this week did not harry them along.

Can I blame them? Or is it that the national mourning for Gloucester has slowed the country’s pace? After all, there has been little to do at the office this week for me, too…

But no, that can’t be true for all. This week also saw the arrival of Wayneman, brother to our maid Jane, who is come to replace the thief William as our new boy. He impressed me finely within a day, quickly learning from his sister how to prepare me for bed – even though, with the sickness brought on from last night’s debauch, I was not in my best state.

I even heard the boy read, which he doth pretty well. On top of that, I find him a pretty well-looked boy. I think he will please me.

Ah… I began this entry with talk of mourning, but found a way to write of new beginnings too – the Ambassador, the Mall, the boy… Why, then, do I still feel a wretched sense of foreboding? I can’t still be nauseous from last night?

Mmmmmaybe it has something to do with the brief encounters I’ve had with Miss Diana this week. On both occasions, she expressed a desire to speak with me urgently, for business apporting to our… meeting in Axe Yard the other week.

Over the gate of my Lord’s neighbours earlier this afternoon, she and I made an arrangement to meet and speak tomorrow afternoon. I dread to think what this urgent news may be…

In return for the smiles you took from these words, you can support my time spent writing them for about the same you’d spend in a bookshop

Plus you’ll receive the warm glow that comes from knowing you’re supporting creative freedom. {:-)

My purse

I am most lately 240l clear in my purse.