A gust of rain startled her. Aunt Beth was calling, holding the carriage door for her to climb out.
Seething Lane. They were here already. Deb climbed out, ducking against the rain. She peered across to the towering Customs House, with its impressive stone frontage, and over broad gravelled pathways and manicured gardens. Beyond stood the offices and dwellings of the Navy Board, the brick-built houses of Henry’s reign, and the offices themselves – a weight of masonry that blotted out the sky. She quailed before their bulk.
I will not be daunted, she thought to herself. By the time Deb had glanced around, Aunt Beth was already making strides towards the residences in the west wing of the Navy Buildings. Deb drew herself up tall, smoothed down her skirts, and trying not to run, hurried after her.
Chapter Three
JANE, A BROAD-FACED SERVANT girl with narrow curious eyes, took their cloaks and gloves and hurried away to fetch the lady of the house, Mrs Pepys, while Deb and her aunt waited in the gilded parlour. Despite its grandeur, the Pepyses’ residence was gloomy, it being on the north side of the Navy buildings and lacking the sun. The parlour was so full of rugs and furniture, ornaments and pictures that Deb dare not move for fear of knocking something over.
Deb looked down at how the rain had speckled her skirts, and hoped they did not appear too creased from the journey. Aunt Beth had insisted she wore her best-quality grey linen; a tight-fitting bodice with the stiff busk that pushed her chest up high, as was the fashion amongst ladies. A deep kerchief of clean muslin covered the exposed gooseflesh. Feeling a little nervous, Deb tucked the kerchief more securely into her bodice.
She couldn’t help staring round at the hotchpotch of pictures and engravings on the walls: square cattle staring morbidly out of a landscape; a limp-necked pheasant reclining on a bed of grapes; maps of foreign towns and Roman ruins. So, like her, Mr Pepys must like history. People’s houses were fascinating. They told you so much about a person. All the time the grey London drizzle outside spotted the sooted window with dabs of light.
On a table near the door, three leather-bound books were piled carelessly open, one on top of the other. Deb longed to go and lay them straight but did not dare. Next to them, a blue-patterned bowl of wizened fruit accounted for the slightly sweet, decaying smell. One of the apples was bruised and brown and sported a ruff of white mould. Deb fought the urge to pick it out and throw it away.
From somewhere above, whispered voices echoed in the silence. ‘This?’ ‘No, not this cap, that one! And my best gloves, the ones with the lace!’ Deb recognised what must be Mrs Pepys by her slight accent, its rolling French ‘r’s. Aunt Beth had told her Mrs Pepys had been brought up in France.
Aunt Beth pretended she had not heard, but it seemed Deb was not the only one who wanted to make a good impression. When Mrs Pepys eventually arrived, in a froth of yellow silk and ribbon, and wearing the lace gloves, she eyed Aunt Beth nervously. ‘Well, here you are at last!’ She clapped her hands together. It was a curiously childlike gesture.
Aunt Beth stood ramrod-tall, introduced Deb, and Deb was obliged to drop a polite curtsey. All the while Mrs Pepys flustered from chair to chair, not sure where to sit them down. Her gaze flicked from one to the other, seemingly at a loss how to proceed with the conversation. Not so Aunt Beth, who, to Deb’s embarrassment, took charge by detailing all the things Deb would not do – ‘No cooking, no emptying chamber pots, no lighting fires, no sweeping hearths. And absolutely no scrubbing floors.’ All, of course, were things she had been expected to do at Aunt Beth’s.
Mrs Pepys appeared somewhat taken aback at this list, her finger to her lower lip in consternation, but Aunt Beth was insistent. ‘A companion. That was what was agreed. Four shillings a week and her board. And half of that to come to me for the upkeep of her sister still at home. I think you will find Deborah satisfactory. The school always found her a godly child, and her behaviour exemplary.’
Deb looked down at her feet, squirming under the onslaught of her aunt’s praise. Aunt Beth’s usual word for her was ‘contrary’, but now suddenly she was ‘exemplary’.
But Mrs Pepys fiddled with the lace that fluttered at her throat. ‘Of course,’ she said, about nothing in particular. ‘Quite so.’
‘You’ll get a servant to bring Deborah’s trunk up, will you?’ Aunt Beth said.
‘Oh. Yes, I’ll see if I can find someone …’ Mrs Pepys stood and backed hastily out of the room, calling, ‘Will? Can you come?’
A fair-haired young man appeared at the door, nib in hand, collar immaculately starched, and much too neatly dressed to be a servant. He looked harassed at being interrupted.
‘Will, this is Miss Willet, who is to be part of our household,’ Mrs Pepys said, not meeting his eyes. ‘Would you bring her things please – to the upper chamber?’
‘Yes, yes. Pleased to meet you, Miss Willet. I’m the clerk, Master Hewer. I work with Mr Pepys. When I’m allowed to get on with it, that is.’ He sighed. ‘Show me your trunk and I’ll bring it up.’
Mrs Pepys beamed round the room in relief. ‘Our serving boy won’t manage it, you see. And anyway, he’s out with Sam.’
After the trunk had been fetched, Aunt Beth prodded Deb to follow Will up the two flights of stairs to her chamber. Aunt Beth dismissed him cursorily, which made him cover a smile with his hand. Deb smiled back, earning a frown from Aunt Beth.
Her own chamber! Deb was elated. Though she had liked sharing with Hester, their room at Aunt Beth’s had been small and oppressive, and she never got enough peace to read and study. Hester was always wanting to do something, couldn’t be still for two minutes.
Aunt Beth ran a finger over the panelling and examined it with a grimace of disapproval. ‘I’ll leave you then,’ she said. ‘Get yourself washed and ready to do your duty.’
‘Yes, Aunt Beth. Mrs Pepys seems …’ What? Mrs Pepys gave the impression of a person who could not make up her mind. Even her sleeves did not match her bodice. ‘She seems very pleasant,’ Deb finished.
Aunt Beth wagged her finger. ‘Mind your tongue. It is not your place to make judgements, Deborah. Pleasant or not, they are your employers, and you will behave accordingly. Make sure you please Mr Pepys.’
Deb held out her arms towards her aunt for an embrace, not because she felt affection, but because she supposed that, after lodging with her aunt for six whole years, something more was required. ‘Thank you, Aunt Beth. I mean for taking us in. For looking after Hester.’
Aunt Beth gave a snort. ‘I’d no choice, had I?’ She turned away from the embrace and lifted her skirts, ready to go downstairs. ‘If you want to give thanks, make your father proud of you,’ she said, turning on the landing to look over her shoulder.
Deb gritted her teeth, swallowed back a retort. To do that, she would have had to have been a boy, like her brothers. Her father, despite travelling all over the Low Countries these last six years overseeing his exports in wool, had shown no interest whatsoever in visiting his daughters.
‘Please, give my love to Hester,’ Deb called, hanging over the banister. ‘Tell her I’m thinking of her. Embrace her for me, won’t you, and tell her I’ll write?’ But Aunt Beth was gone and there was no reply.
Below her, in the hall, Aunt Beth’s thin, reedy voice made effusive farewells to Mrs Pepys. After the bang of the door, the clop of horses’ hooves, a jangle of harness, then silence. Deb exhaled, rushed to look out of the landing window.
The carriage was turning the corner, and her old life, along with Aunt Beth, was getting further away every minute. She did not know whether to be glad or sorry. But then she looked up, over the leaded rooftops towards the Tower, its grey stone peaks floating eerily in the mist.
A thrill ran through her. So much history there: queens uncrowned – old Henry’s Anne, Lady Jane Grey. And under it, the royal menagerie of lions and bears. She imagined the prowling of hungry wild beasts in the dark caverns behind those walls, wondered whether traitors in the dungeons heard th
em roar.
Chapter Four
IN THE UPSTAIRS DINING ROOM, Elisabeth Pepys paused over her household accounts, quill aloft. Should she ask Miss Willet to look over them? She baulked at the idea, for though she dare not admit it to her husband, she was in awe of her new maid. Miss Willet seemed altogether too self-possessed, too quiet. She was like a little owl. Those pale grey eyes watching her with sidelong glances; she couldn’t tell what the girl was thinking. What she thought of her.
Elisabeth squinted over to the silver mirror where she could see the reflection of Deb, who was behind her, wiping over the glassware in the cabinet. And that tight-laced gown she was wearing showed off her figure too closely, Elisabeth thought. It would have to be remedied. Of course, Elisabeth told herself, she was glad to have someone; it had taken her long enough to persuade Sam that she needed a proper companion, not just a common or garden maid-of-all-work. All the other navy wives had lady’s maids as companions, except, of course, Lord Bruncker’s doxy, Abigail Williams, and she certainly did not count.
It had seemed a fine idea to ask for someone well educated, someone befitting Sam’s new station in life as chief victualler of the navy, but the trouble was, this girl was extremely well brought up. Her aunt had made it clear she had standards, and the girl had certain expectations. There were things she should not be asked to do. So now, instead of scrubbing the kitchen grates with Jane, she was polishing glasses that did not really need polishing.
Elisabeth had looked forward to imposing the rules of her household herself, so she had been somewhat deflated to find that the aunt had already done it. When Elisabeth had told the girl ‘No followers’, Miss Willet had sat down with a long-suffering look, as if she might have to listen to a long list, and when Elisabeth could not think of anything further, she, the mistress, had been left standing like a fool.
Elisabeth brought her mind back to the household accounts, added up the column of figures again, and guessed at the answer, writing it with a flourish. She was aware that she was trying to impress the maid, a quite ridiculous state of affairs. Why, that morning she had felt obliged to get up and get dressed straight away, so Miss Willet could help her arrange her hair. There’d be no more lounging around her bedchamber in her nightgown as she had always been wont to do.
Just at that moment, Miss Willet glanced over her shoulder and caught Elisabeth’s face in the mirror, staring. Elisabeth gave her a faint smile. What duties could she give the girl without offending? She couldn’t polish glasses for ever. She turned. ‘You may stop that now, Miss Willet. I need some diversion. You can read to me.’
‘Very well, mistress.’ Miss Willet gave the glass she was cleaning another wipe and placed it exactly in its row in the cabinet.
Elisabeth sent her up to fetch one of the French romances from her chamber.
‘This?’ Miss Willet asked, from the doorway, holding it up by finger and thumb as if it was something no person of quality would ever want to read.
‘Yes,’ Elisabeth felt heat rise to her cheeks, ‘it is good, is it not, to have a change from the classics from time to time? What are you waiting for? Begin.’
To give the girl her due, she read the romance prettily enough, with no stumbling over any of the words. Yet somehow her prettiness, her poise and her calm manner only served to irritate Elisabeth the more. But Lord, she couldn’t get rid of her now, not after she had begged and begged Sam for just such a maid. To outside appearances, the well-educated Deborah Willet was exactly what a lady required. Added to that, Sam’s great friend Mr Batelier had recommended her. No, she’d have to pretend to Sam she was in control of this girl, when she felt quite plainly she was not.
Of course, Sam never noticed; he was already describing the new maid to Will Hewer and the clerks as ‘our pretty little girl’, or ‘our Deb’, in a proprietorial way, despite her only having been in the house less than a day. It was just that, instead of adding to her status, somehow having Deborah Willet in the house made Elisabeth feel smaller.
Anxious to impress, Deb followed her new mistress as she flitted vaguely here and there in a rustle of ribbon and taffeta, alighting on first one thing then another. First, it was polishing, then reading out loud, but then Mrs Pepys changed her mind again and said, ‘You’d better check over my accounts. The sooner you learn household management, the better.’
‘Certainly, mistress,’ Deb said, exhaling a sigh of relief. She hurried over to the writing desk, but one glance was enough to see the reckonings were in frightful disorder. Deb bit her lip and cautiously picked up a quill.
The balance bore no resemblance to the actual figures, and pence were written in the pound columns. Multiple scratchings out made the pages look like spiders had made nests there. Oh my, what was she to do? Surely Mrs Pepys could not think these were correct? Deb glanced at Elisabeth, but Elisabeth was now engrossed in her novel. Deb had not been given permission, but she could not resist setting the figures in order. She double-checked her calculations and rewrote the columns on a new page in her tidy, precise hand.
‘Beg pardon, Mrs Pepys, but would you like me to lay them out for you? In a double-entry system?’ she asked. ‘I could write out a balance table, then all we would need to do is fill it in week by week. It would be very efficient, and—’
Mrs Pepys appeared at her shoulder and, seeing Deb’s alterations, shut the book in front of Deb with enough of a snap to make a draught. ‘Mr Pepys is very particular. He likes the accounts the way I do them.’ She pushed the book under her arm and hurried away, heels clattering down the stairs to the kitchen. Deb could not help feeling a little hurt.
In the afternoon, Elisabeth handed Deb some crewel-work cushions to embroider, and Deb, hoping to please, stitched meticulously.
Elisabeth watched Deb sewing for about two turns of the hourglass. ‘You’re very neat,’ she said. But it sounded like an accusation. After only a few more moments, Mrs Pepys laid her embroidery to one side and picked up her romance, waved it at Deb. ‘What do you think of it?’
Deb swallowed hard. Aunt Beth had taught her they were vulgar things, full of coy heroines and panting hearts.
‘Such a lovely story,’ Mrs Pepys continued. ‘Don’t you think so?’
‘Yes,’ Deb said meekly, aware that this was the right answer, ‘very diverting.’
Mrs Pepys waited a moment, expecting more, but Deb could not supply it. She could think of nothing else good to say of it. Deb just held tight to the edges of her cuffs with her fingers. The atmosphere grew strained, but Deb did not know what to do to ease it. Elisabeth stood up with a heavy sigh and left the room without a word.
Deb sagged. She’d failed. She did not know how to make this sort of conversation. Aunt Beth never let them talk of anything frivolous like books or music. She gave an inward groan. Mrs Pepys did not like her. She was certain of it.
In the afternoon, Mrs Pepys took Deb to walk by the Thames. Before they set off, Deb gave herself a talking-to. She would win over Mrs Pepys if it was the last thing she did. The alternative was being reduced to a maid-of-all-work in some backwater of her aunt’s choosing. For Hester’s sake, she could not afford to fail.
Mrs Pepys seemed afraid to be silent and kept up a constant chatter and exclamation as if to impress upon Deb her immense knowledge of the city – so much so, that, by the time they returned, Deb’s head was throbbing with names and places, directions and distances. All the while Deb followed her with eager-eyed attention, nodding and agreeing to everything, and smiling until her face ached.
‘Pouf! You’ve worn me out,’ Mrs Pepys said. ‘Would you go down and ask Jane to bring us some warmed ale?’ She sank into a chair near the fire.
With relief, Deb hurried down to the kitchen, where Jane, the kitchen-maid, was pounding up parsley and butter in a mortar. ‘Mrs Pepys requests refreshment please,’ Deb said. ‘Warmed ale, if you have it.’
‘Oh, I’m glad you’ve come at last,’ Jane said, managing to make it sound as though Deb had kep
t away on purpose. ‘It will be good for the mistress to have proper company.’ She lifted the copper pan onto the fire and stirred it. ‘Mr Pepys is so frequently out, and my mistress will talk on and on. Sometimes it’s hard for me to get anything done once she starts.’
‘Will Mr Pepys be back again later?’ Deb asked, curious about her new employer, who had bustled in earlier for his hat, in a great draught, like a ship caught in the wind. She had caught only a glimpse of a dark periwig, a flapping cravat, and very white stockings beneath a russet-coloured coat.
‘I expect so. He’s gone back to the Navy Offices. He’s dining out today, but if I know him, he’ll soon search you out when he comes home.’
She sounded disapproving of him. Mr Pepys had chucked her under the chin as he passed, saying, ‘How are we, little Deb?’ But he was in a mighty hurry and, as it was a question that hadn’t needed an answer, he hadn’t lingered to hear one.
‘I shall look forward to that,’ Deb said.
‘Aye, well that’ll be short-lived. You’ll soon be doing what I do, dodging out of his way. Keep your wits about you, is all I’m saying. And she—’ Jane gestured with her head to the parlour, ‘she’s that mop-headed she don’t know the half of it, so don’t you go telling her.’
Deb did not reply; what did Jane mean? She distracted herself by taking the tray of heated wine through and setting it down next to Mrs Pepys.
‘Tomorrow I may shop for a new nightdress,’ Mrs Pepys said dreamily, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. ‘My others are simply in tatters, and my dear Mr Pepys hates to wait while I choose. I have a fancy for something of French silk, with that new lace, the point de Bretagne everyone’s talking of. We shall go together, and to tell truth, we shall be merrier without him.’
‘Thank you, Mistress Pepys,’ Deb said.
‘You may call me Elisabeth.’ She pronounced it the French way, with a long ‘E’, and bowed her head as if it was a great concession. ‘And I shall call you Deb, as my husband does. Do you like the theatre?’
Pleasing Mr. Pepys Page 2
