December comes, and brings with it a frost so severe, that it seems like a judgement. Trees split as if lightning-struck. All the exotica, the plants, fish and fowl in the gardens of the Palaces and the great houses perish almost immediately; then the native species follow everywhere else: the deer and cattle perish for want of food, and the poor for want of fuel. Even the seas are so locked up with ice that no vessel can stir out of the country, or in; foreign trade, like the frozen rivers, slows to a stop. In the towns, there is no water to be had from the pipes or engines, so that the brewers, and many other tradesmen besides, find they cannot work.
But while the cold is disastrous for so many, there is still money to be made for those that have the opportunity, and especially if they trade in any kind of fuel, for fuel is become dearer than anyone could have imagined, so dear that great contributions must be made in order to preserve the lives of such poor as remain. In London, sea-coal is all of a sudden so valuable that Lady Churchill says one might think that every coal merchant living had become an alchemist, and turned all his stock into gold – an analogy which, Lady Clarendon contends, does not hold together quite, for whereas men are inclined to hoard gold, they are compelled rather, on account of the extremity of the weather, to burn the sea-coal as soon as they have it. The pedantic Countess is quite correct: London is so filled with the fuliginous smoke of the sea-coal, which the cold air hinders from rising, that anyone who ventures out of his house can scarcely see, or breathe. Anne is ever fearful lest the smoke from the town should drift towards Whitehall, and smother her asthmatic Prince.
There are others, besides the coal-merchants, who are doing well out of the frost. The Thames has congealed to such a degree that a whole ox might be roasted on it without melting the ice, and there is as much and as many different kinds of trade being plied upon the water as you might find in the City proper. By the time the royal party visit, on the last day of January, there is a street running all the way across the Thames from Temple steps to Southwark; it is named Temple Street, and is considered a great wonder. Along it and around it a continual fair has risen up; there are shops selling all manner of commodities, from wine and roast beef to plate and earthenware; there are coffee houses, where you might sit down by a charcoal fire and have a dish of coffee, chocolate or tea. There are all kinds of amusements: bull- and bear-baiting, dancing and fiddling, ninepins, football; there is even a whirling-chair, or car, which is tied to a stake in the ice by a long rope, and drawn about by several strong men, as fast as they can manage. The car is full of silly girls screaming, and clinging to their sweethearts, who have purchased the ride for just that purpose.
‘Look at those fellows there!’ exclaims the Duchess, looking out through the glass of the carriage door, ‘they are as strong as oxen. Perhaps we should have had the coachmen pull us onto the ice themselves, and let the horses rest!’
‘And the watermen to help them,’ says the Queen, ‘they have wanted employment these past few weeks.’
Anne considers this. ‘It is a good notion. I am surprised that the horses are not slipping more, and it is dreadful to think what may happen if one of them were to slip and fall – they would pull the other three down with them, and the carriage besides.’
The Duchess and the Queen exchange glances, and Anne sees that she has missed a jest again. All the same, she knows that she is right to have said what she said.
‘I know that you were speaking in jest, but it is a thing that is being done – the men that are used to plying the river are dragging goods and people across by rope instead—’
‘Though they swear in the usual way,’ says the Duchess.
‘—and I think there is good reason to worry about the horses – I am truly anxious about whether it is safe to drive them out onto the ice.’
The Queen reaches over and Anne feels, through the layers of Muscovy sable, the ghost of a reassuring pat. ‘And you are truly anxious about the cold, too. And the jolting of the carriage when it goes. And whether you might have too much exercise or too little . . .’
‘What Her Majesty is saying,’ says the Duchess, ‘is that a lady in your condition is wont to vex herself over every little thing.’
‘I do know that, Ma’am – but I find all the same I cannot hinder myself from it.’
‘How many months is it now?’ the Queen asks. ‘Five? Six?’
‘Five, by my reckoning. And Dr Scarborough agrees.’
‘So has he given you his speech about the apples?’ asks the Duchess.
‘Apples, Madam? No. Ought I not to eat them?’
‘Ah, then he has not. There is a piece of wisdom from the ancients, that he likes to give to ladies with child about this time, which is that she should consider the child in her matrix as like the apple that ripens on the tree: the stem is weak in those first weeks – it has yet to establish itself fully – and weak again in the final weeks, as the apple readies itself to drop, but in between these times – and this applies to you as you are here and now – the stem is strong and firm and none but the most violent storm can loosen it.’
‘I wish I had heard that speech from a physician,’ says the Queen, ‘but alas, I was never with child for long enough.’
They are all quiet for a moment, and in that moment there is a sadness in the carriage that agrees with the cold.
‘I see I have discomforted you both – forgive me; I should not indulge myself this way.’
Now the Duchess takes a gloved hand out of her own furs and places it for a moment on the Queen’s shoulder. It is not forward of her: they are old allies, old friends.
‘Do not trouble yourself, Ma’am – it is so easy to fall into this kind of melancholy, especially when there is before us –’ she glances at Anne – ‘when ladies are everywhere and always with child.’
The Duchess has herself recently miscarried, while Catherine Sedley has presented the Duke with a healthy son.
Suddenly Anne feels herself to be obscurely, helplessly at fault. It is a tremendous relief when the carriage door opens and the King comes in, cheerful, only half cut, and ready to divert the ladies.
‘Look!’ he cries. ‘Here is a thing you will not find every day,’ and he hands the Queen a quarto sheet of Dutch paper, with a printed border and writing on it. ‘You see there?’ he points to the card, and reads, “Printed by G. Croom, on the ICE” – on the ice! An ingenious notion!’
‘I’ll say it’s ingenious,’ says the Duke’s voice, from just outside. ‘The rascal’s making five pounds a day out of it.’
The King ignores him, and then passes the card to Anne, suggesting that she read it out aloud. The writing is in capital letters, so it is not too difficult:
CHARLES, KING.
JAMES, DUKE.
KATHERINE, QUEEN.
MARY, DUTCHESS.
ANN, PRINCESSE.
GEORGE, PRINCE.
HANS IN KELDER.
‘Well?’ Anne is not sure what to say. ‘Those are the names of our party – but who is Hans? Is there a coachman called Hans?’ The King is convulsed with laughter; the Duke too. Their wives are not. ‘Hans in Kelder,’ says the Queen, rather stiffly, ‘is a vulgar term for—’ ‘Oh, my niece does not mind a good jest,’ says the King. ‘It is German, dear, for “Jack in the Cellar!”’ ‘Oh!’ says Anne, and does not know whether she should laugh or blush.