Pleasing Mr. Pepys

by Deborah Swift

  The man had a point. Their own countrymen had changed sides because the Dutch, unlike the English Navy, would pay. Jem blamed the King. The man had never learned to be civilised, spending all that time hiding abroad in foul company. The country was all at sixes and sevens because of him. What use was he, squandering their taxes on wine and mistresses while the country starved? Good hard-working men like his brother shouldn’t need to beg.

  Jem sighed and gestured to Bolton, who was eyeing his plate of bread and cheese hungrily. ‘Go ahead. There’s more in the larder. Fill your pockets if you must.’

  Bolton grabbed the tranche of bread and gobbled it down. He and the other sailors hesitated only a moment before they made for the door to the larder.

  Jem shook his head at his brother and sighed. ‘All right, I suppose I’ll have to try, or lose my larder every night. Tell me what you want me to do.’

  The next day was fine, and Jem caught a ferry up to Old Swan Stairs and walked to the Navy Offices. He liked to walk, bouncing along, inhaling the aroma of the city; seeing what new buildings had gone up since he last passed by. He loved the bitter aroma of boiling hops as he passed the brewery, the salt-sea smell of fish at a roadside stall, and the tang of the ever-present brackish Thames.

  To Jem’s frustration, when he got to Seething Lane, Mr Pepys had just gone out. Crawley, an acquaintance from Cambridge whom he had always found insufferable, recognised Jem’s voice at the door and sauntered over, running his hand back over his thin greasy hair.

  ‘You after Pepys? He’s never in.’ Crawley looked Jem up and down with a supercilious smile. ‘But he’s probably gone for his dinner. He’s ruled by his stomach. Sometimes if we’re busy we all descend on his house and carry on working so he can eat and work at the same time. Those of us who get an invitation, of course.’

  ‘Damn. Does he live nearby?’

  ‘Only a few steps. Across the yard, and it’s the third door round the corner.’ Crawley pointed out the directions with an ink-stained finger. ‘If you keep your eyes open you might meet Mrs Pepys’ new companion,’ he said. ‘I caught a glimpse of her last week. God’s teeth, what a looker!’ He blew as if blowing on something hot. ‘And old Pepys is delighted with her. Apparently she’s very well educated – schooled at one of those new places for girls – though of course that won’t stop old Pepys trying to give her a bit more of an education.’ He winked.

  Jem felt immediately sorry for Pepys’ girl, but he took his leave of Crawley and hurried on his way. He was jittery with apprehension about speaking to someone so high up as Mr Pepys, and wanted to get the whole thing over with. He rapped hard on the knocker and the door swung open.

  ‘Oh! Not you,’ the girl said.

  Jem took a step back as she mumbled an apology. He was face to face with the owner of the little black dog, the girl who’d shouted at him. Her face was flushed, and she looked at him warily with her big grey eyes.

  He realised he was staring and whipped off his hat. ‘How’s your dog?’ he blurted.

  ‘She’s not mine, she’s Mrs Pepys’ dog. I was just walking her. Actually, she’s recovered well. We put brandy on the wounds.’ She lowered her gaze. ‘Pardon my rudeness last time we met. It was very good of you to come to our rescue.’

  ‘You looked a bit overwhelmed. I’m used to dogs, so I thought I’d—’

  ‘Who is it, Deb?’ A female voice from inside.

  ‘Who shall I say?’The girl raised her eyebrows in question.

  ‘Jeremiah Wells,’ Jem answered. ‘Assistant to Dr Thurlow. I know Mr Pepys’ clerk, Crawley. I’m after Mr Pepys.’

  ‘A Mr Wells,’ the girl called back in a loud, clear voice.

  ‘Pouf! If he wants Sam, tell him he’s not here yet,’ came the impatient reply. ‘He’d a meeting with Lord Bruncker this morning. You’d better take him back to the offices. And whatever he wants, tell him he’d better not hold him up. Our dinner will be spoilt if Sam’s not here directly.’

  ‘Sorry.’ The girl exchanged a sympathetic glance with Jem. ‘That was my mistress,’ she said. ‘We’d better see if we can find Mr Pepys at Lord Bruncker’s.’ She set off at a brisk walk across the courtyard to the other wing. Jem followed, admiring her straight back under its laced bodice, and the way her brown wavy hair was so thick it was escaping from the back of her cap. Up some stairs they went, with her quiet as a mouse, just her leather shoes tap-tapping on the steps and a tantalising glimpse of a slender ankle.

  She listened at a big oak door a moment, and then turned, nodded her head, mouthing, ‘He’s inside all right. With Lord Bruncker. I can hear his voice. Would you like me to knock and introduce you, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No need.’

  ‘Mr Pepys can be a bit crotchety until he’s had his dinner,’ the girl leaned in to whisper to him, and smiled. Perhaps she was trying to make up for the dog incident.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Jem said. ‘I need to get him on my side. Maybe I should have brought him a muffin to stave off his hunger.’ He grinned. ‘No good trying to get a man’s attention if his stomach’s grumbling, is it? And I won’t keep him long, I promise. By the way, I’m pleased to meet you, Miss …?’

  ‘Willet. Deborah Willet.’ She smiled and dipped her head. ‘Tell Mr Pepys to come along as soon as he can, won’t you? Mrs Pepys gets all of a bother if he keeps her waiting. And it’s pigeon pie, his favourite.’

  ‘Sounds very tempting.’ He caught her eye, and suddenly his words seemed a bit too forward. Miss Willet fled and he watched her as she whisked downstairs, all flurrying skirts, as if she couldn’t get away quick enough.

  Jem took a moment to stare out of the window where she was just crossing the courtyard. Miss Willet. So that was her name. She looked so fresh and innocent in her clean blue dress and white neckerchief. He remembered Crawley’s words and wished he could save her, keep her somehow from old Pepys’ attentions.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Elisabeth tutted and shook her head.

  ‘Do pay attention, dear,’ Mr Pepys said, through a mouthful of soused herring. ‘I told you. You know, Dr Thurlow, vicar of St Gabriel’s, one of the ones lost in the fire. They’ve a temporary shed up now, for the congregation. His assistant came, one Mr Wells. Trying to get me to pay off the sailors’ tickets.’

  Deb was taken aback. Mr Wells had not looked in the least like a man of the church when he was grappling with that huge dog.

  ‘It was damned awkward to be put on the spot like that,’ Mr Pepys said.

  ‘If the sailors were really starving, then surely the Treasury would give you permission to pay them,’ Elisabeth said.

  Mr Pepys was glum. He wiped his mouth. ‘Not a bean. Can’t even get near Clarendon, let alone the King. I tried my best, had a word with Penn, but he was mighty bad-tempered as usual. It’s his gout. Anyway, trouble’s brewing, he says. The commissioners fear a riot, and as usual they’re trying to lay it all at our door. The sailors are plotting to seize their dues from the Navy Offices, so the rumour goes. We may have to go and bury our gold again, wife.’

  Elisabeth stood, threw down her napkin. ‘Then you must do something, Sam. None of this is your fault! You must persuade the King!’

  Mr Pepys laughed at her good-humouredly. ‘Don’t you think I’ve been trying?’

  ‘So what about Mr Wells?’ Deb ventured. ‘What did you tell him?’ She was curious.

  ‘Mr Wells?’ Elisabeth looked puzzled.

  ‘Dr Thurlow’s curate,’ Deb said.

  ‘Oh, never mind Mr Wells,’ Elisabeth said, flapping her hand. ‘What about us?’

  ‘He’d not go, you know, not until I’d listened to maudlin stories about starving children and women who have to pawn their petticoats for a day’s bread.’ He looked down sadly at his empty plate, speared himself a cut of cold meat. ‘Trouble is, he’s not the first, and it’s becoming tiresome. Any more and I’ll have to send for the constable to cool them off in the gaol. Can’t do that with parsons though.
’

  ‘Best place for them,’ Elisabeth said.

  ‘Bruncker and I agreed we’d try to find a trickle of money somehow, keep them off our backs, but it’s like squeezing a dry sponge, there’s nothing in the navy coffers.’ He held up his hands, ‘What a to-do. But I don’t want my ladies worrying about my business. Come, we’ll go to that new play at the Duke’s, The Coffee House. We need cheering.’

  ‘I’ve heard it’s an insipid little play,’ Elisabeth grumbled.

  ‘Best judge that for ourselves, hey, our Deb?’ Mr Pepys said. ‘Anyway, the King and the Duke of York will be there.’

  The King! Deb was entranced by the idea of seeing actual royalty, but going to a play had become awkward. Mr Pepys would insist on wedging himself between her and Elisabeth, and then ignoring his wife for the whole performance. The prickle of trouble was brewing and Deb did not want to be the cause of it. But if Mr Pepys insisted on her company, there was precious little she could do about it. Sure enough, when they got to the theatre, Mr Pepys ushered Deb in first. When his wife did not follow, he was forced to go back for her.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he hissed in Elisabeth’s ear.

  ‘We should sit in front of her,’ Elisabeth said. ‘It’s not right for my maid to be on the same row as us.’

  ‘But we’ve always sat together.’ Mr Pepys waggled his head in protest.

  ‘I tell you, I’m not sitting down unless she is behind.’

  ‘Just go on in, we’re holding everyone up, and you’re making a spectacle of yourself.’ Mr Pepys was flustered, and he tried to push his wife ahead of him.

  But Elisabeth refused to sit in the same row. Deb could hear the whispered argument, and her ears felt as if they were on fire.

  ‘It’s not me, Sam, it’s you! Do you think I can’t see what you’re doing? Making a fool of yourself … with her?’

  Her raised voice caused Deb to turn away. She felt guilty, even though she had done nothing wrong. But a few moments later Elisabeth sat down next to her with a great fuss, rearranging her skirts, cracking open her fan and fidgeting. Deb glanced sideways at Elisabeth’s face to see it was blotched the colour of a beetroot. Mr Pepys was on her other side with an expression like stone.

  The King and his party were late, and they had to wait for the play to begin. Mr Pepys did not make his usual jokes, or tell them about the players. Instead, he sat rigidly, and when the play finally started he did not laugh once, which was most unlike him. And when Deb tried to smile at Elisabeth, she lifted her nose and twisted her body away.

  Deb could not concentrate. The tension in the air told her that Elisabeth deemed her to be as much at fault as her husband. When they were coming out they paused to get a glimpse of the King, but they had missed him and instead Abigail Williams stepped out to greet them. Elisabeth glowered at her husband and swept past, deliberately ignoring her. Mr Pepys muttered a hasty apology and hurried after.

  ‘Oh dear me, is it something I said?’ Abigail Williams asked, smiling.

  Deb could not help smiling back. It was such a relief after the frosty atmosphere in the theatre. ‘Good day to you, Mistress Williams.’

  ‘Pepys is always at the plays, so I thought I might see you here. That’s why I didn’t send a message,’ Abigail said. ‘There has been a reply to your notice.’

  ‘Already?’Deb’s hand came to her chest as if to still the jerk of her heart. She ignored the people pushing past her; she could not move. ‘Who from?’

  ‘I didn’t open it. It didn’t seem right. But I’ll be at home all day tomorrow if you can get away. But better not mention it to Elisabeth. As you can probably see, she doesn’t much care for me.’

  A message, and so soon! Deb could scarcely believe it. But how would she be able to escape her duties with Elisabeth?

  ‘And I wondered if you might do me a favour, too,’ Abigail went on smoothly. ‘Lord B left his notebook at your house. He forgot it last time he was there. I wondered if you’d bring it over when you come.’

  Deb hardly heard her. ‘What was the handwriting on the letter like?’

  ‘That? I didn’t really notice.’

  ‘Then it can’t be from my mother; she had a beautiful hand. People used to remark on it, she always used to—’

  ‘Maybe it’s from the maid then. The book Lord Bruncker left behind is a small volume – bound in white calfskin.’

  ‘Oh.’ Deb masked her disappointment. ‘But you’re right, it could be from the maid, Agnes. But I haven’t seen Agnes for years. I don’t know if we’d know each other now.’ Deb’s mind raced.

  Abigail laid a hand on her arm and bent to look into her face. ‘Lord Bruncker’s book with the white leather binding – you won’t forget it, will you?’ Abigail shook Deb’s arm impatiently.

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘And best say nothing to Mr Pepys. Dear Lord B is anxious he should not appear too forgetful. He’s worried he’ll be taken for a fool. You won’t say anything to embarrass him, will you?’

  Deb dragged her thoughts back to Abigail’s request. ‘No, I promise. I’m just surprised to be hearing something from my notice so soon. I’ll come as soon as I can. Thank you, Mistress Williams—’

  ‘Abigail,’ she said firmly.

  Mr Pepys bustled up, looking agitated. ‘There you are! What on earth are you doing? We thought you’d got lost. Come along, Elisabeth’s waiting for you.’

  ‘My fault, Samuel,’ Abigail said. ‘We were just discussing the play. Drab, wasn’t it? The Duke’s players aren’t the same animal at all, now Betterton’s sick.’

  ‘Never seen a worse play in my life.’ Mr Pepys took Deb by the arm and hurried her away.

  As Deb passed under the archway, she turned to wave to Abigail. She was strangely motionless, watching Deb go. Something about her cold vigilance made the hairs stand up on the back of Deb’s neck, but then Abigail smiled and lifted her hand, and the moment melted away.

  Chapter Eight

  DEB WAS UP AT FIRST LIGHT, leaning out of her window, and gazing across the grey London rooftops, which were silvered with rain. The fact that there was a reply to her notice filled her with trepidation. What if it really was from her mother? What would she say? Would Mama even recognise her now she was grown?

  And she did not know how she could manage to get away, especially as Elisabeth was insistent that they should go to Unthank’s again to have Deb’s day dresses altered.

  After she had helped Elisabeth to dress, and crimped her side curls with the heated tongs, Elisabeth fixed her with a disapproving look. ‘You are almost bursting out of that bodice,’ she said.

  Deb was embarrassed at how tight her clothes had become, and how much it made men stare. Especially Mr Pepys. She was surprised to have put on weight, since she was always busy and spent half the day picking up things Elisabeth had dropped. Gloves, hats, hairpins – they all were scattered willy-nilly in her wake. If she were ever lost, you’d have no trouble finding her, Deb thought.

  Despite Deb’s protestations that she did not need new clothes, a carriage was summoned and they put up their hoods and set off to Unthank’s. The tailor’s was a small cramped shop that smelled of wool and velvet and the sweat of Mr Unthank’s underarms. Once out of her wet cloak, Deb fidgeted and held her breath as he lifted up her arms to measure around her chest and waist.

  ‘Something not too showy,’ Elisabeth said. ‘Navy, or perhaps a dull blue.’ A bolt of embossed sky-coloured cloth was thrown onto the table. ‘No, no. Far too grand. Something darker.’

  More rolls were brought, and Elisabeth exclaimed over their shade and texture, and asked prices, but Deb, who privately thought them all ugly, was silent. To think, the letter was waiting for her at Abigail’s, and she had to be here fussing over cloth and trimmings. It made her restless, and she fidgeted with her cuffs. Once the cloth for Deb was chosen, a slate-blue worsted, Elisabeth asked Mr Unthank to bring her some bolder colours for her own new petticoat. A silk of a bilious green was th
rown out onto the cutting table, but Deb kept looking to the window, desperate to escape.

  ‘What’s the matter, Deb?’ Elisabeth asked. ‘You look a little peaky.’

  Deb seized on this chance. ‘Sorry, Elisabeth, I don’t feel well.’

  Elisabeth paused with a card of braiding in her hand and flapped it at her. ‘When did this come on?’

  ‘Just this morning.’

  Elisabeth leaned to whisper in her ear. ‘Is it your monthlies?’

  Deb dipped her head as if embarrassed.

  ‘Oh, poor Deb. I know how that feels. You look quite pale. I’ll get Mr Unthank to call a carriage to take us home.’

  ‘No, no. I’d much rather walk. The fresh air will do me good.’

  ‘Oh la! You can’t possibly walk if you’re unwell.’

  ‘I can,’ Deb said desperately. ‘It’s just what I need. And then you can call on Mary Mercer at the linen shop too, as you’d planned. I don’t want to spoil your day.’

  Elisabeth and Mary Mercer were very close. Mary used to work in Mrs Pepys’ household a few years ago. Deb gambled that Elisabeth would prefer an afternoon talking with Mary, gossiping about the court and putting the world to rights, than accompanying Deb home.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure.’ Elisabeth shrugged, but still looked doubtful.

  ‘Quite.’ Deb willed her to agree. ‘I’ll walk straight down Thames Street to Seething Lane.’

  Elisabeth sighed. ‘Very well. I suppose so. Mr Pepys will be out for dinner today at Broad Street, so if you’re going back, you might as well make sure Jane polishes the cutlery like I asked her to.’

  ‘Yes, Elisabeth.’

  Deb gave a brief curtsey to Mr Unthank, tweaked her cloak from the hook and launched herself into the fresh air. She didn’t like to deceive Elisabeth this way, not now Elisabeth seemed to be warming to her a little more. She told herself it would just be the once.