Pleasing Mr. Pepys

by Deborah Swift

  When he got home, Bart was in, roughly patching a pair of his trousers. He looked up as Jem joined him at the table.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Jem said. ‘I could go and talk to Mr Pepys again if you like.’

  ‘It won’t do much good. Like you said, he didn’t listen.’

  ‘But I don’t mind giving it another try.’

  Bart gave a grunt. ‘Don’t know why you’re suddenly taking such an interest. Earlier you couldn’t wait to drag me away. But talking’s getting us nowhere. If you really want to help, you can join us in the Black Bull on Tuesday. We’re thinking we’ll try and get a bigger demonstration together – make the King really sit up and take notice.’

  ‘I’d rather try Mr Pepys again first. He’s the one who pays you.’ He didn’t mention Miss Willet.

  ‘Suit yourself. Don’t suppose it can do any harm.’

  At Unthank’s the tailor’s, Elisabeth leaned against the cutting table to confide in her friend Mary Mercer, who had come with her to help her choose an eye-catching material for a new upper-skirt.

  ‘Sam’s in a terrible state. Mr Kelsey actually had the cheek to accuse him of stealing! Said he brought three wagonloads of prize goods into the warehouses at Greenwich after the battle of the Medway. As if Sam would do that – take goods for himself instead of sending them to the King.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ Mary murmured, paying little attention but fingering a piece of velvet brocade. ‘Who is Mr Kelsey?’

  ‘I told you last week. The commander of one of the fireships. Of course, Sam said it was all lies and tittle-tattle, that he wasn’t stealing anything, just storing it for safe keeping, but now he’s going to be called to give a report of himself. And he has to prepare another defence, even when he’s done nothing wrong.’

  Elisabeth said this with full indignation, but Mary merely looked up and raised her eyebrows. They both knew it would be no surprise if the accusations were true. Mary used to be a maid in their household and, like Elisabeth, Mary knew Mr Pepys’ weakness was resisting temptation, in whatever form it came.

  ‘He’s done nothing wrong,’ repeated Elisabeth, to convince them both.

  ‘Then he has nothing to fear,’ Mary said. ‘And anyway, your Sam was always a good persuader.’ She lifted the fabric to the light. ‘This would make a beautiful upper-skirt.’

  Elisabeth frowned. Mary did not seem to realise the seriousness of the situation. ‘It’s not just that, Mary. Sam’s convinced that the sailors are conspiring to revenge themselves on him for their lack of payment. Can you imagine! Yesterday, a great rabble of them besieged White Hall and spat at his feet. They narrowly avoided a riot. The King simply refuses to open his purse. I’m frightened to sleep in case they plunder us in the night.’

  ‘Oh dear, what a muddle. Still, at least you have your new lady’s maid at last. I’ve heard she’s quite the genteel young lady.’

  ‘She’s not like you, though, Mary. She’s too quiet. Never converses with me like you did. You were always my favourite. Come back to us, won’t you?’

  ‘You know I can’t. I’m far too busy helping mother in the shop. And Miss Willet is a gem. You’re fortunate to have found someone so lovely, everyone says so.’

  ***

  Mary’s words haunted Elisabeth all the way home in the carriage. She did not want everyone to think her lady’s maid was lovely. She knew she was jealous, but she could not help herself. Sam would keep on looking at Deb like a lovesick swain, and, when she’d taken him to task about it, he’d told her she’d been reading too many romances and it was all her imagination.

  Sam could be persistent, she knew. He’d refused to brook ‘no’ for an answer when he was courting her and had gone against all his parents’ advice in his ardent insistence on marrying her. This thought should have comforted her, but it did not. It made Elisabeth feel as though her innards glowed white-hot. What if he became as persistent with Deb? She would have to do something.

  Elisabeth went down to the kitchen and asked for a cloth to wipe the windows. ‘Don’t you be doing that,’ Jane said. ‘I’ll get to it soon as I’ve finished the tarts for lunch. Or give it to Deb to do.’

  But Elisabeth did not go. Instead, she leaned on the table and fiddled with the lappets on her cap. ‘What do you think of her, Jane? How’s she shaping up?’

  Jane gave her a guarded look, the one that meant she was assessing what was the right answer.

  ‘She’s a bit forward, isn’t she?’ Elisabeth continued.

  Jane grunted, non-committally, filled a cup from the butt by the back door, and went back to the pastry.

  ‘It’s always a risk, is it not, taking on new staff? They don’t always settle in,’ Elisabeth said. ‘You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if Deb did anything … improper?’

  Jane looked up again from her rolling pin, with a questioning look.

  ‘You could keep a bit more of an eye on her.’ Elisabeth traced her finger across the table before a sly glance from under her lashes. ‘That sort of loyalty would be very well rewarded.’

  Jane turned the pastry over on the table. She gave a brief nod. It was all that was needed to seal the unspoken contract between them.

  Chapter Twelve

  November

  DEB WAS SURE ELISABETH HAD no notion of what she did when her day’s work was over, squinting over Lord B’s documents by the light of a candle. Though it irked her, this copying meant she could pay for Hester’s music lessons. It still chafed her that Elisabeth refused to allow her two days off together so she could visit her sister, but she wrote nearly every day, and one of her greatest pleasures was Hester’s letters in return.

  Her copying nights were cut short, though, when Elisabeth arranged for dancing at home with her old dancing tutor. This made it awkward for Deb to retire early as she used to do. Worse, Deb was forced to dance with Mr Pepys, who held her too tight, and then she had to endure Elisabeth glowering her disapproval from the corner.

  On one such night after the dancing, Mr Pepys told her to come to his study, instead of the main chamber, so that he could carry on reading while she combed his hair before bed. Deb sagged. She suspected it was because in his own study he could behave the way his wife would never have approved of in their main chamber.

  Mr Pepys had taken to making comments as soon as Elisabeth was out of earshot, telling Deb how pretty she looked that day, or how the new slate-blue bodice from Unthank’s suited her, so Deb kept herself well out of reach as she prepared the bowl of water and comb.

  ‘My wife has no interest in the day’s news.’ Mr Pepys thrust the day’s newsbook away. ‘I can’t understand it. When I try to tell her about what’s happening at the Treasury, she just becomes irritable. What can a man do with such a wife?’

  There was no answer to that, so Deb just shook her head.

  ‘But you listen to me, don’t you, Deb?’ he said. ‘You always hear me out.’

  Yes, she thought, but to be fair, that’s because you pay me to listen. And I have little choice in the matter.

  ‘Now take these sailors and their pay.’ He picked up a letter and brandished it at her. ‘What am I to do? The King simply brushes me away.’

  She carried on preparing the water with the dried herbs as he paced back and forth, his lace cuffs flapping as he talked.

  ‘He will not listen to reason! He’s more concerned with who’s in his bed than what’s in his coffers. And the fact we’ve lost control – that we can’t keep the sailors down – is all over London.’ He grabbed a paper from the desk and thrust it in front of her. ‘Read this. “King’s army called to skirmish on Broad Street.”‘

  She took it from him and scanned the headlines. So much unrest. As if London had not endured enough: civil war; plague; fire – but its citizens must conjure more. The city had a fractious, bristling air, as if the very stones were unable to sleep easy.

  ‘And that annoying parson, Mr Wells, was back, too. I told him I’d send for the constable if he
didn’t leave me alone.’

  Heat rose to Deb’s cheeks at the mention of his name. She must have been out on an errand when he came. She couldn’t help a tinge of regret. She remembered his tawny eyes, how they seemed to see through her. Mr Pepys suddenly seemed older and fatter and more unattractive.

  ‘Shall I do your hair now?’ Deb was anxious to get the combing over and be out of his reach.

  He sighed and pulled off his wig. ‘Ah, Deb,’ he said, ‘my pretty peach. Come closer so I can have a little hug. I need one today.’

  Deb dodged his open arms and pressed him down into the chair by his velvet padded shoulders. ‘Later,’ she said, to placate him. ‘Let me do your head first.’ She dipped the comb in the aromatic herbal water and stroked it through the stubble of his hair, looking out for the tell-tale signs of nits.

  ‘How do you fancy another little outing to the theatre?’ he asked. ‘They are showing a new play at the Duke’s.’

  Deb thought quickly. The theatre was fast becoming an ordeal. ‘Elisabeth will be too busy this week, what with the alterations. The plasterers have turned everything to sixes and sevens.’

  ‘Of course, you’re quite right. It might take a few days to get it back shipshape. Oh, how I wish I had not used that phrase! The Navy Board is causing me a mighty amount of grief right now. There’s a man called Carkesse, an abject rogue if ever there was one. Things keep going missing – papers and books. Well, I threw him out of my office, caught him copying documents from my desk, no less, but of course he denies it. It’s created a proper stink.’

  Deb cringed, thought guiltily of Bruncker’s navy papers under her mattress upstairs.

  ‘As if that weren’t enough, the scoundrel’s accusing me – me! – of underhand dealings, of keeping goods that should go to the King. The cheek of it! Why, the whole thing could blow up into an even mightier scandal.’

  ‘So does he work for the Treasury?’

  ‘Until we can get rid of him. He’s a—’ He paused as she stepped away and examined the comb. ‘Have you done already?’

  Deb moved to the window, pushed open the shutter and brushed the flecks of black from the comb outside. Mr Pepys jumped up to follow her, still talking about the rogue in his office, but then he fell silent. Deb was not quite quick enough to get out of his reach. An arm slid around her waist and his lips fastened on to her neck.

  ‘Such a pretty poppet,’ he said, breathily. ‘You have quite besotted me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Mr Pepys.’

  He pushed her to arm’s length, offended. ‘I mean it. I’ve never been so captivated in my life. Here, feel my heart.’ He pressed her palm to his chest, and indeed his heart thudded under it.

  She dragged her hand away as if it were burned. She did not want to feel that, his blood pumping against her skin.

  ‘Come here.’ He wrapped his arms about her, but she wrenched away from him with a quick twist. ‘Deb, what’s the matter?’ He staggered clumsily towards her.

  ‘Isn’t that Elisabeth calling?’

  Mr Pepys paused an instant, tilted his head to listen. Deb grabbed the basin and fled the room.

  At the kitchen sink she rinsed the comb in cold water and struggled to decide what to do. Should she tell Elisabeth? She was sure to blame Deb, not her husband; that was always the way of it with masters and servants. Besides, Aunt Beth’s warnings rang in her ears. Any whiff of scandal and they would say, ‘Like mother, like daughter.’

  She closed her eyes. The image of her mother’s face still clutched at her heart. It sobered her; she was both drawn to continuing her search for her, and afraid of what she might unearth. Someone with her mother’s reputation could do nothing to help the difficulty with Mr Pepys.

  She tapped the comb on the sink, then sneaked away to her chamber to calm herself. She did not know how to avoid Mr Pepys. Abigail’s copying, still unfinished, caught her eye. She picked it up but set it down again. There was so much to do, it wore her out, and now this – Mr Pepys.

  Given the circumstances, it would be wise to continue cultivating her friendship with Abigail Williams. Maybe she should take that position in her big new house in White Hall, once it was finished. She wondered how long it would take, and whether Abigail would be prepared to take her sooner. It might be a step down, for though Abigail had been kind to her, she could not miss the disdain Elisabeth held for ‘Madam’ Williams. Mr Pepys, on the other hand, was well respected in society. Aunt Beth had insisted it was a privilege to be working for Mr Pepys. But it did not seem quite such a privilege when you were trapped behind his closed door.

  ***

  The next morning, another letter from Hester arrived, full of exclamations and chatter about her new activities: the crewelwork, the music lessons, the studies of the Psalms, and how she had a new friend, Lavinia.

  Deb warmed with pride. Hester’s handwriting was neater, and the way she expressed herself more mature – like a young lady. Deb’s money paid for all of this. How could she disappoint her now? So there was no question of leaving, not unless she was certain of alternative well-paid employment with Abigail. At the same time, she knew Mr Pepys would be looking for excuses to catch her alone every minute, and she could tell by Elisabeth’s watchful eyes that she was already alert to her husband’s intentions.

  If there was one thing she knew, it was that she must keep Hester at school. If Hester had to go back to Aunt Beth, her aunt would bully her into being a silent shadow of what she could be. She’d end up a skivvy, and Deb wanted more than that for her. Much more.

  Chapter Thirteen

  December

  FOR THE NEXT MONTH, DEB was cautious and lingered over getting Mrs Pepys up before going downstairs, so she did not have to deal with her master’s demands for company alone.

  The week before Christmas she woke to hear moans. When she went up, Elisabeth was clutching her jaw and rocking back and forth.

  ‘Toothache,’ Elisabeth groaned, and demanded a cold compress, despite the fact there was ice on the inside of the windows and it was bitter enough to freeze the ale in the jug. Deb hurried to the kitchen and she and Jane made up a muslin bag of sweet-straw and herbs to ease the pain. The toothache persisted through the day and it was only by giving Elisabeth quantities of brandy that they were able to finally get her to sleep as darkness fell.

  To Deb’s relief, Mr Pepys was busy and distracted with business and working late with the Navy Board that evening, so Deb spent her time catching up with copying Lord Bruncker’s notes for Abigail. Her chamber was bone-chillingly cold, but the week’s supply of coals was being used for Elisabeth’s fire, and she dare not light another in her chamber. She huddled in her cloak, with her fingers almost blue, cursing she had ever taken on Abigail’s work, but determined to get it done.

  The next day Elisabeth was no better and had to take to her bed again, leaving Deb and Jane to make all the mince and sweetmeat pies, and to fetch the dry foodstuffs for the Christmas dinner. As if she wasn’t busy enough, a messenger boy came with a note.

  “The tiring house, Duke’s Playhouse, four bells – A W”

  Deb screwed up the note and thrust it into the kitchen fire. There was no time for this today. It was the third time Abigail had done this, sent a message demanding Deb should meet her, with no concern for how inconvenient it might be, nor what she should tell Elisabeth. There was never any news from her notice, either, even though she had replaced the old one, which had got torn down.

  Whenever Abigail sent a message, Bruncker’s boy would only take a reply if Deb paid him, so she had to turn up as requested or be obliged to pay for a reply to decline. Abigail’s ‘few papers’ had turned into thicker bundles week by week, and her insistence on exactitude had started to feel almost threatening.

  Deb realised she was being manipulated, and resented it, but thought it wise to keep at least one other door open in case Mr Pepys should prove too awkward and she needed another position in a hurry. After the midday meal, she fetched her
folder and put it at the bottom of the basket, glad that at least she would not have to lie to Elisabeth, whose face was now so swollen she could do little but groan in bed, clutching the fresh compress.

  Deb skirted a pile of horse droppings as she went, lifting her skirts from the slippery cobbles. The weather was foggy, laced with a cold that sucked the warmth from her marrow, not the crisp white frosty Yuletide she longed for. Everyone seemed to have agues and colds, and the handkerchief peddlers and medicine men were out in force plying a brisk trade.

  She took a small diversion as she always did, to pass the makeshift church of St Gabriel’s on Fenchurch Street. She could not help being curious to see where Mr Wells was curate. She had passed the rough wooden church several times in the last few months hoping for a glimpse of him, but so far he had eluded her. Today, though, her heart gave a bound as she spotted him just tacking up a parchment to the church noticeboard. She watched him as he hammered in a nail, admiring his broad shoulders and his auburn hair caught back in a black sash. Did she dare? She decided to be bold; there was no harm in being friendly.

  ‘Season’s wishes to you, Mr Wells,’ she called, waving.

  He turned and his face lit up. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Willet. How are you?’

  ‘I’m well but Mrs Pepys is poorly.’ She explained about the toothache.

  ‘I’m done here, if you would like my protection from wild dogs or rampaging mobs.’

  She smiled, a little embarrassed, and found herself wishing she had put on a more becoming dress.

  ‘I’m just trying to gather a bit of a flock for the Christmas services,’ he said, pointing to his notice. ‘We can’t seem to keep a congregation now, no matter what we do, not with our draughty boathouse of a church. Such a shame. St Gabriel’s was a fine old building, dated back to the Normans, but since the fire, Dr Thurlow must make do with this pile of old timbers. That, or preach on top of the rubble.’