The empress of ice cream

Carlo

The serving of an ice is the highlight of any gathering.

The Book of Ices

The ball was a success. Such a success; King Charles was once again the merry monarch, the prince of pleasure. Every night there were parties, masques, high-stakes card games, escapades and frivohty and wit. And it was France who had effected this. Once again, France was the epitome of all that was fashionable. French plays were shown at the Royal theatres; French dishes were served at every high-born table; French ices - which is to say, my ices - graced every dinner dance and ball. The nobility began feverishly building pineries, potagers and ice houses on their estates, and the great houses of England had their remod

elled in the style of French chateaux. Ceilings were painted as at Versailles, and every woman of quality clamoured for a salle des miroirs in which to sip her porcelain cups of the.

Only the common people were sullen and uneasy, wondering where it would end. Every last mechanic or servant could tell you what was happening in Europe: they clubbed together to buy the penny newspapers that were sold in taverns and coffee houses, and then sat together to discuss the news, grim-faced. Fouis wanted war, that much was clear. But would it be Spain or the Netherlands he swallowed up first? And if victory was inevitable, was it better to be his ally or his enemy? He had made alliances before, and then turned on his allies when it suited him.

Parliament ratified the Treaty of Paris, but the Treaty of Dover remained a secret known only to a handful.

Busy now, I bought a sedan chair to hurry me through the

crowds. I saw Hannah’s disapproving glances, and thought it was only at the extravagance. But then I saw her berate one of the bullies I had hired to carry it as a useless lump who was always in her way, and asked her what the problem was.

‘The problem is treating Englishmen as slaves and beasts of burden,’ she told me furiously. ‘Chairs like that weren’t seen in England before the king came back.’

‘Then it’s progress, surely?’

‘It’s men setting themselves up as better than other men.’

‘If my fortunes have risen,’ I pointed out, ‘Then yours have risen with them. Elias’s too.’ It was true: I was paying her an extra shilling a week, and Elias now had a smart uniform with which to accompany me to court.

She only muttered darkly, and turned back to whatever she was doing.

As for Louise, her star had risen even more than mine. Where the king was, she was, helping him to take his ease at the soirees and the parties, her clear French laugh cutting through the buzz of gossip and the musicians’ drums, her smile drawing every eye.

You would have thought, to look at her, that she was triumphant; that having coaxed the king from his mourning, she had done enough. But it was not so, and they only pressed her more than ever.