Pleasing Mr. Pepys

by Deborah Swift

  ‘Yes, Elisabeth. I mean, no.’

  Elisabeth hesitated, as if she was about to speak, but then was silent.

  ‘Sorry if I inconvenienced you,’ Deb curtseyed, but her hand was clenched around the quill. She made an effort to relax it.

  Elisabeth took one last reluctant look at the table. ‘Blow it out then.’

  Deb snuffed the candle as she asked, but too hastily and wax spilled onto the table and the paper. Elisabeth’s own light retreated from the room, leaving Deb to undress in darkness and shadow. She sat down on the bed and wiped her sweating palms on the woollen blanket. That had been close. What if Elisabeth had seen what she was doing?

  She lifted the mattress and thrust the copied documents hastily out of sight. In the dark she heard her breath panting, sharp and shallow in the silent room.

  Chapter Twenty

  IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT before Deb thought it was safe to return Mr Pepys’ diary to his chamber. She hoped he would not look back over the pages and notice the splashes of wax, prayed he’d be too busy to read back over old entries. But as she crept along the hall to his office, the knocking of her heart was so loud she felt sure Elisabeth must hear it.

  Later, she lay tense and still, unable to sleep. It was what Abigail had wanted, and the King would be pleased he had been proved correct, but it would surely mean arrest and possibly imprisonment for Mr Pepys. And only yesterday he had come home in a great gust of good humour, saying that he was the toast of Parliament with a speech he had made about the Medway affair. He was vindicated of all misdeeds, he had told them all. Then he had demanded the best wine and even kissed Elisabeth soundly on the cheek.

  In Deb’s excitement at her discoveries in his diary, she had not considered the consequences for him and Elisabeth, and for herself, too. She had not thought to find anything, and now she had, she was in a quandary. What would happen to Elisabeth if Sam was arrested? Traitors were executed or consigned to the Tower. Could she really condemn them to that kind of fate? And if the Pepyses were arrested, then she would have no employment, and when they found out she’d spied on him, no one would ever trust her again.

  This thought made her throw off the covers and jump out of bed. She stared out of the window at the looming dark bulk of the Tower, imagining how Elisabeth might feel if her husband were to be incarcerated there, locked up behind that mass of masonry as a traitor. Even though Mr Pepys was an incorrigible philanderer, and Elisabeth was a gossip who drove her to distraction, could she bring them to such a fate? Below, she heard the faint sound of Samuel’s comfortable snores, as he slept, unaware of her copying, oblivious to what lurked just around the corner.

  She was on the brink of a scandal, and if Mr Pepys were to be arrested, and anything was to happen to her, Hester would need someone else to look to her welfare. She could not leave her to Aunt Beth. She would have to redouble her efforts to find her mother.

  ‘Mama?’ The thought was a call. She waited a moment feeling for an answer, but heard only the faint, lonely cry of geese flying down the Thames.

  The next day Deb spent the morning helping Jane beat the rugs, so she hurried upstairs at midday to change into a clean chemise. As soon as she entered her room she sensed someone else had been there. Deb was precise with how she laid out her things, but now the ink bottle and pen were askew on the lid of her writing slope. She frowned, lifted them and opened the lid. Her letters from Hester were on the left, not the right.

  Elisabeth. The thought made Deb go cold. So Elisabeth had her suspicions – she had been here and was reading Deb’s letters.

  Of course she should have expected it – she had heard of employers reading a maidservant’s mail often enough. In a panic she threw up the mattress, but exhaled when she saw the papers from Mr Pepys’ diary were still there waiting to go to Abigail. She would have to get rid of them, would never be able to leave them unattended in her room.

  She tried to remember what was in Hester’s letters. Nothing to give Elisabeth concern, she was sure. She had been careful always to speak well of the Pepyses. Yet it was a warning. Her heart pattered fast in her chest. She took out all the letters and read them again just to make sure.

  That afternoon, Deb begged an old pillowcase from Jane, cut it in half, and sewed it sturdily to the inside of her petticoat to make a flapped pocket. Thank goodness she was a woman. The bag fitted closely next to her legs where nobody would detect it. She slid all the papers close inside, where she could keep them near. There were few advantages to being female, but this was surely one, that nobody would see the papers under her voluminous skirts.

  Later that day, after they’d been to the King’s playhouse with the Mercers to see The Spanish Gypsy, she took Abigail the copies from Mr Pepys’ diary. But she was not a fool. She’d decided to leave out the pages that referred to corruption in the navy, and carefully kept back random pages to give the impression Mr Pepys did not write his diary every day. She had to search hard to find pages that were innocent of insults to the King or Members of Parliament.

  If her plan worked, to hide the worst in the diary, she could stay on at the Pepyses’ house and Abigail would keep paying her for more information. To do anything else would be like igniting a keg of gunpowder –she could not predict what would happen, nor who would be hit by the blast. Pepys knew so many people, people who relied on him for their livelihood. No, far better to keep things as they were. Though she could not help a frisson of fear. What she was doing was dangerous – to deceive a King.

  Abigail took the papers as if they were as holy as the Bible of King James himself.

  ‘Is this all there is?’ she asked.

  Deb told her there was more, but it was disorganised and would take time to copy. She kept her face closed, and the incriminating parts of the diary she kept tied under her skirts, though it felt unclean to be walking around with Mr Pepys’ intimate thoughts just there. She told herself she would get used to it. They were nothing of substance – only words, that was all.

  Bart knew Jem would be horrified if he knew where he was, wedged into a dark corner of a private room in The Grecian coffee house, about to meet with a notorious Dutchman who went by the alias of Mr Johnson. Those in the know said his name was actually Piet, but woe betide anyone who used it. Bart poured a dark stream of ale into his tankard and passed the jug to the portly and well-upholstered figure of Graceman next to him. Opposite, sat Skinner, a weaselly man in his fifties with a determined face.

  Skinner, whom he recognised from earlier plots against the King, was a secret powder expert; formerly one of Cromwell’s aides, he was an expert in firearms, although he had spent the years after the interregnum masquerading as a blacksmith. Graceman, however, was an unknown quantity – a newly appointed trustee at the gunpowder mill. He wore the dark-suited doublet of a petty official and looked down his nose at Bart. God willing, Bart would be able to take good news back to the sailors, that the King’s days were numbered.

  ‘For sabotage at Chatham to work, we need much better plans,’ Graceman said, puffing out his chest with an air of authority, ‘proper organisation.’

  ‘Yes,’ Skinner said. ‘Can’t get near the wharf at all at the moment, it’s too well guarded. We need a rabbit hole, some way of getting in. Any ideas, Wells?’

  ‘Not sure I can help,’ Bart said. ‘I’m only a midshipman. I’ve never been inside the yards.’

  Just then, the door to the private room swung open and the Dutch naval commander Cornelis Tromp greeted them with a brief bow. ‘Gentlemen.’

  Two lackeys followed behind, dragging a large iron-bound trunk through the door. Puffing, they set it down under the table.

  Skinner stood to offer the thickset Dutchman his chair, and to fetch one for Tromp’s companion, a man so tall he had to remove his hat to get under the beams. This must be Johnson. He was a man with no distinguishing features except for pale eyes and a pent-up power that was so palpable it made Bart instinctively shrink away.

  ‘I ha
ve the latest intelligence from my contact,’ Johnson said. His English was excellent, with only a hint of an accent. ‘Copies of the minutes of the Navy Board.’ He patted the leather satchel by his side. ‘The English strategy seems to have been less of a strategy and more of a … what you say? Blind man’s bluff. But the main point is, gentlemen, there’s a warship being refitted at Chatham, and there are still defences at sea.’ He drew out the papers and set them on the table.

  ‘Excellent,’ Tromp said without even glancing at them. ‘Chance of a skirmish then?’

  ‘No. That’s not the aim,’ Skinner said, impatiently. ‘I was clear about that from the beginning. We want to avoid fighting on the water at all costs. It’s essential to channel all men to the city, not have them distracted by petty fighting. We need the sheer numbers of men if our rebellion against the Crown is to stand any chance of success. Your job is to avoid the defences, not engage with them, and to give transport to our men from Ireland. Nothing more.’

  ‘Hear hear,’ Graceman said. ‘But I’m telling you, the scheme can’t fail. I’ve the promise of five hundred more for our cause in Wexford Bay.’

  That many? Bart was surprised. He did not know they had so much support in Ireland.

  ‘Good man. There’s enough coin in there to arm them,’ Tromp said, kicking the trunk with his boot.

  ‘If your plan is sound enough to warrant it,’ Johnson said.

  Skinner rolled out a map and traced the route for Tromp and Johnson with his finger. ‘From your ships we can row our men up the river. We’ll supply the diversion, here at the docks – a big explosion in the yard. Make it look like sabotage by the Dutch, but of course you’ll be clear away by then. It will be a feather in your cap, too. The diversion will send the King’s army there in a panic, and, with luck, leave the city undefended.’

  ‘Won’t the docks be guarded?’ Tromp asked, leaning in.

  ‘The King’s men are stationed all around the docks, here, here and here,’ Bart said, pointing. ‘They’re nervous, as well they might be. The Admiralty thought your fleet might fire the yards on our last outing, so they’ve set a guard.’

  ‘Looks like we were right to wait, Tromp,’ Johnson said. ‘This way, we get the English to sneak into their own yards and blow up their own ships.’

  Tromp guffawed. ‘True enough. Blast them to kingdom come, won’t you, Skinner! Then they’ll have no time to make good again, and the trade routes will be ours again.’

  Bart shifted in his seat. Having the Dutch laugh at them was more uncomfortable than he had bargained for. His English soul rebelled. But he reminded himself it was for a good cause. This would upset the peace treaty signed with the Dutch at Breda, and no mistake. Mind, it was all a sham anyway. The idea of peace seemed to have made no difference at all to the King – or to Tromp or the Dutch.

  ‘Sounds like a good enough bargain,’ Tromp said, pulling on his moustache. ‘You blow up your own ships, and we’ll bring your rebels in by night. A neat trick, but a shame. I would have preferred a proper dogfight.’

  ‘But you’ll stick with our agreement?’ Skinner leaned forward.

  Tromp sighed. ‘You have my word. We’ll fetch your troops from Wexford and offload them in the Thames. Then we’ll simply lower the boats and sail away. If you wait an hour for your troops to row up-river, and then fire the yard, the King’s men will be too busy to come after us.’

  ‘And there is the advantage, too, of surprise,’ Johnson said, coolly. ‘Nobody will care whether it was the Dutch or the French, or even papists that blew up the ship once the city is overrun by rebels.’

  ‘We’ve waited years for this! And God knows, it can’t come soon enough,’ Skinner said. ‘Graceman’s done wonders. He’s rallied the rebels from the north as well as the Irish.’

  Graceman smirked, waved away the compliment, took another puff of his pipe.

  ‘Lord, but it would be something sweet to see that second royal head dangling over the gate like his father.’ Tromp thumped his hand down, so that the ale cups jumped on the table.

  ‘Sssh. Have a care,’ warned Johnson, leaning over the map. ‘Remember where we are. We’re not in Antwerp now, and people will hear us.’

  ‘We’re getting ahead of ourselves,’ Skinner said tersely, going to close the door. ‘One thing at a time. We need well-drawn maps of the city, plans of the docks in advance, positions of the guards, intelligence as to which ships are still defending the Medway, and how best to deal with them.’

  ‘Skinner’s right. It all takes time,’ Bart said. ‘The word from Chatham is that the building of new ships has been delayed. They can’t get the wood – the navy’s run out of money.’

  ‘It’s important to choose the right moment,’ Skinner said. ‘We don’t want to waste this chance – timing’s everything.’

  ‘Have you no mole in the Navy Office to tell us what’s going on?’Graceman asked.

  ‘Yes, a woman. Code name “Allbarn”. But she’s getting a little old and unreliable,’ Johnson said. ‘I can’t remove her, though, not until we have a replacement. A clerk called Carkesse has been working undercover for us for a while, and we thought he might step up to it, but he’s turned out to be a proper touchpaper –more of a liability than an asset.’

  ‘A man. Might be better,’ Graceman said.

  ‘Not necessarily. A man can’t get access to the behind-closed-doors intelligence like a woman can,’ Johnson said. ‘And it’s not so easy to find another woman with enough wit. But I’ve got someone else in mind, and I’ll see what I can do.’

  Tromp looked appraisingly at Johnson. ‘We need details about the sea defences or the deal’s off, and none of you will see my gold to fund this rebellion.’

  ‘I’ve said, I’ll replace her.’

  ‘Good man.’ Tromp seemed reassured.

  Johnson’s face betrayed nothing, but the atmosphere of tension in the room did not lessen. Bart suddenly understood that in this business of double-dealing, Johnson was the one who had manoeuvred the two sides together, and no doubt he was being paid by both parties. You had to be as cool and slippery as water to play both sides this way. And ruthless. Mind, he wouldn’t like to be in Johnson’s shoes if anything went wrong. The rebels needed the Dutch to bring in the supporters from Ireland, and the Dutch needed the rebels to put a hole in the new English warship, and, once the King was deposed, the lucrative guaranteed trade routes.

  It was a good plot. If only it came off.

  ‘Same time on Tuesday,’ Skinner said, and all parties stood to shake hands on it.

  Bart threw on his cloak ready to go back to his lodgings where Jem would be waiting with his supper. The thought of Jem, his broad open face, pricked his conscience. Why had he got to have a brother in the church? It made him feel like he was always under the eye of God, as if he should continually look over his shoulder.

  No matter how much he tried to get him to understand, Jem had never really grasped that if you were a sailor, solidarity between men was the most important thing. That sailors worked as a team, and what one wanted, they’d all fight for. Bart strode out into the night, pondering his brother’s sheltered life at university and in the church, and why it was that Jem simply couldn’t understand the frustrations of the common man.

  The weather was bitter, and ice crunched in the puddles as he walked. Strange to think the city would soon be theirs and they’d be free of the tyranny of the Crown. Unease did not leave him though. Tromp and Johnson were hard men, and he’d taken a dislike to Graceman, despite Skinner’s opinion, which seemed to be that the sun shone out of his arse.

  Graceman was an oily customer; he’d seen his type before. He’d appeared from nowhere, yet he soon became Skinner’s right-hand man. No doubt it was because Graceman had been taken on as foreman at the gunpowder mill, and Skinner had manoeuvred his way in there under his employ. It was unhealthy, Bart thought, this mutual back-scratching.

  He stepped around a ladder that was propped up against one
of the new houses. Like all sailors he was superstitious. This morning a swinging bucket hanging from a gantry had nearly knocked him flat. It had shocked him, made him aware of his own mortality. He had felt a prayer squeeze out of his lips, with the realisation that his life was so fragile and easily crushed.

  He looked up at the light in Jem’s lodgings. A stabbing anger rose in his chest at the thought of Jem, blithely unaware, safe in his own little castle, with God on his side, sure of his salvation in the next world, when he had never really lived in this one.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  DEB HAD ALREADY BEEN to the King’s Post Office to ask if there was a London mailing address for an Eliza Willet, and a grumpy, harassed-looking clerk had shooed her away with a ‘no’. Now, in desperation, she went back, picked an open-faced old man, and asked politely if he’d look again. Tutting, he disappeared into the ledger room, and after a wait of a quarter hour, he returned, empty-handed.

  ‘No luck?’ she asked.

  ‘Worse. Bridewell,’ the man said, sucking on his teeth and shaking his head. ‘I’ll write it down.’

  He pushed the paper over the counter towards her, then retreated.

  When Deb got back to Seething Lane, she held out the paper to Jane and asked her if she knew where it was. Jane crossed herself, said that it was the poorhouse, and not to mention it again. It was bad luck to even talk of it.

  She was still reeling from this, the idea that her mother might be somewhere like that, when she was faced with more bad news. Sickness and plague had struck the west of the city, and Elisabeth feared another summer of death and disease, like the one before last. Mr Pepys had given his permission for his wife to escape to the country.