Just then, Lavinia and her father arrived and Deb and Hester were forced to put on brave faces as Lavinia chattered on about her new viol, which even now was being loaded carefully into the waiting carriage by a liveried servant.
Deb reached out to hug Hester, and in her anxiety held her too tight, so that Hester pushed her away as if she was embarrassing her.
‘I’ll write in a few days,’ Hester said. ‘But I meant it, about coming to London. You always told me families should stick together. And I’ve missed you so much. But look at me, Deb. I’m grown now, and you can’t keep me at school for ever. Once the New Year is over, I’ll be looking for a position near you in the city, with your blessing or without it.’
Act Three
1669
Chapter Forty
January
NEW YEAR’S DAY, and everyone was going to church. Deb had chosen St Olave’s, the navy church, deliberately, but she had to be cautious. The Pepyses would be sitting upstairs, in the carved wooden boxes reserved for senior staff of the Navy Board, but she was still careful not to go in until the last minute and then to sit downstairs, at the back behind a pillar, in her nondescript grey dress, her bonnet pulled carefully down low over her eyes and her hair tucked up out of sight.
She fixed her eyes on the monument to the side of her, a painted wooden altar carved with armorial insignia, and their skulls nestling together like plums in a bowl of fruit. On the altar, the carving of the rich merchant stared solemnly at his wooden wife, over coffins of their children. She thought of her mother then, wondered what had become of her, if she ever thought of her and Hester. It was a bitter thought, and she swallowed it back.
Just for a moment she wished that, instead of here, she’d dared to go to the little wooden church where Jem preached. She remembered his eyes searching her out, the special look he gave her. Did he still look out for her? She hoped so. But there was no point thinking of him; she had left the straight and narrow path for one of sin and shadow. She was in Abigail’s pay now, though it was little enough, just food and board, and a few coppers for fares. Only when she supplied information would she get paid more. Besides, only a few weeks ago, Abigail had threatened to send every trepanning-man in London after her, unless she made a new navy contact, and Deb knew Abigail well enough to believe it.
Deb scanned the crowd in desperation, looking for any of the clerks. Up until now she had prevaricated, fearing to come into contact with Mr Pepys. But Mr Pepys had kept to his word, and had left her alone, and Abigail was insistent she should cultivate someone else from the navy who might spill the information she needed into a woman’s ear.
Just before the service began, a great crowd of people pushed their way in, and she had to shuffle along the bench to let them sit. She recognised one of the workers from the Navy Offices at the end of the row. It was Hal Crawley, from Pepys’ office. He had been to Seething Lane for dinner on a few occasions, and had sat next to her and breathed unpleasantly down her neck. He pulled his cap off his greasy hair and sat with bowed head. He would be worth a try.
She watched him covertly, saw his leg twitch restlessly as the parson began preaching about the new year and the renewal that Jesus brought. So, not an overly religious man then, just paying lip-service. Something about her gaze must have alerted him, and he raised his pale blue eyes to hers, before they moved down to her chest and then back again to her face. He recognised her, dipped his head.
One of his friends nudged him and whispered something, and she forced herself to smile back brightly, to meet his eyes. At the end of the service, as she went out, she almost bumped into Elisabeth, flurrying out of the door in a billow of velvet cloak. Deb shot backwards into the gloom again, but only just in time, for the portly figure of Mr Pepys was close behind, his hand reaching for his wife’s shoulder to propel her out into the light. How it gave her heart a cold ache to see them.
‘Not going to wish Pepys the compliments of the season then? Miss Willet, is it not?’
She started, dragged her eyes away from Mr Pepys’ back. Crawley was hanging back at the church door, his hat in his hand, revealing a greasy rim where it had been on his head. His words were polite, but his manner suggestive.
‘A Happy New Year to you, Mr Crawley,’ she said, with a small curtsey. So he was interested.
‘Aye, I hope for a better one, with no more trouble from the Dutch.’
‘They certainly caused a deal of trouble for you in the Navy Offices,’ she said, attempting a smile.
‘Terrible. Lost most of our ships,’ he said. ‘And money still owed on them for the building. Could take years to replace them.’ He sucked on his teeth, ready to complain more, but she interrupted him.
‘That has always fascinated me, the building of ships.’
He narrowed his eyes, laughed. ‘A strange passion for a woman.’
‘It’s working for Mr Pepys,’ she said earnestly, trying to convince him. ‘He talked of it often, and it made me interested. The craftsmanship of it. I’d love to see a ship being built. Mr Pepys is always talking of the docks at Chatham.’
‘But I heard you’ve left the Pepyses’. Did it not suit you?’
‘Unfortunately Mrs Pepys decided she did not need a lady’s companion after all.’
‘Or perhaps Mr Pepys found you a little too interesting.’ He smirked slightly, and it made her want to kick him hard where it would hurt. She quelled the urge and instead put on a pleasant face and tried again to turn the conversation to the docks. She put on her little girl voice. ‘It is a shame because Mr Pepys had promised to take me to see the ships, and I’ve always wanted to see a ship up close like that—’
‘A promise was it? Well, we can’t have you disappointed, can we? I’ll take you, one day, if you like.’
‘I’m free tomorrow. My master Dr Allbarn has given me a day’s leave with it being New Year and all.’ She snatched the chance while she could. But he frowned. She could almost read his suspicion. Young women probably never behaved in this way towards him.
She tried another tack, made her tone casual. ‘But Will Hewer said he might take me sometime, so perhaps …’
‘As it happens, I’m free tomorrow too,’ he said. He glanced over her shoulder to where Pepys was chatting with some other solidly built citizens, their breath steaming round them in the freezing air. ‘Though there’s not much to see, and it will be mighty bitter out there on the water for such a long journey. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I took you to see some entertainment? A play, or some music? Somewhere warm?’
The thought of being inside, pressed up too close to Mr Crawley, was not one she relished. But this was business. She repeated her desire to see the docks. After a little cajoling, he agreed to take her out to take a tour of the yards. ‘Nine bells then, at the Old Swan Stairs,’ he said. ‘We’ll take a wherry.’
The next morning was another dismal and cold day, the sort that leaches away your heat from the inside out. She had dressed warmly, but, more importantly, modestly. She was treading on a knife-edge inviting any sort of intimacy with Crawley, but Abigail’s words had hit home. Unless she could supply the right information, she would simply be another missing woman – one that vanished into thin air, one that no one could ever trace.
Crawley was waiting at the wherry dressed in a too-shiny coat and breeches under a thick woollen cloak, with his face scrubbed red and his chin shaved raw except for his wisp of a beard. He had a cold and kept blowing noisily into his kerchief. On the journey he insisted on paying and then on sitting close to her so that he could take hold of her arm at the least opportunity, to point out sights, or to shield her from spray whenever another craft came too near. He kept up a tedious commentary on types of watercraft, but she feigned bright-eyed interest. At one point, he said, ‘Your hands must be frozen, let me hold them,’ and she had to let her cold hands sit between his warm moist ones. It was all she could do not to shudder.
The trip downriver took most of the day, by which
time her teeth were chattering and she was wondering why she had ever thought it a good idea. But at Gillingham Water they disembarked at Queen Stairs, and Crawley steered her towards the fortified gatehouse. She tottered slightly because her feet were numb and her legs stiff, but Crawley used it as an excuse to drape an arm about her shoulder.
He had his navy papers ready, but the gatekeeper recognised him. ‘Mr Crawley. Raw day, ain’t it? This your missus?’ he asked.
‘Not yet,’ Crawley said, giving her a coy look, ‘but I have hopes.’
She smiled with tight-closed lips, folded her arms across her chest. Not unless I’m six foot under, she thought.
Once through the gates, Deb really did take an interest. She let Crawley’s commentary wash over her, determined to commit the layout to memory. She made an imaginary map of everywhere they walked, past the mast ponds where timbers were soaking under a thin sheet of ice, past the sailmakers’ sheds, the wheelwright’s shop and the block and tackle makers.
Crawley stood her inside one of the covered slipways, where an enormous hulk of a ship was sitting in dry dock waiting to be fitted out with cannon and sail. ‘What’s this one called?’ she asked.
‘It’s a refit of the “Duke of Something”. A forty-nine gunner.’ She watched the men hammering and splicing wooden pegs. ‘But the biggest one’s in Portsmouth, so I’ve heard. I wouldn’t mind seeing her. A hundred cannon. That would give the Dutch something to stick between their teeth.’
‘Indeed, yes,’ she said.
Just then one of the shipwrights appeared to greet them, a cheerful man with a brown twill apron over his woollen winter doublet.
‘How fares it?’ Crawley asked.
The shipwright talked about how work had been held up through lack of funds. ‘But we’ve just heard there’s money for cannon now. Blooming nuisance, too. Foreman wants everything finished before the inspectors come, and it will be a rush. That’s why we’re all here now when we could be at home with our families enjoying a New Year dinner. Still, truth be told, I’d rather be here than cooped up at home.’
Deb perked up. ‘How long before it’s inspected?’
‘What do you reckon, Crawley?’ the shipwright asked.
‘A fortnight, I’d guess.’
The shipwright turned to Deb. ‘They come regular, see, about every six weeks. Men from the Navy Offices.’ He gave a disparaging glance to Crawley. ‘Supposed to make sure she’s seaworthy before they arm her.’
‘I see. How do they tell?’
‘They don’t.’ He laughed. ‘Useless buggers, making a nuisance of themselves, upsetting our routine. They stand here in their fancy clothes, and most of them don’t know a mizzen from a mainmast. But we have to kowtow to them while they say “Carry on, men”.’ He spat in disgust. ‘Crawley’ll tell you. He has to write up the notes.’
‘Is that right?’ She looked at Crawley with new interest. ‘It must be a painstaking task. Do they ever find anything?’
Crawley shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable. ‘It’s mostly just routine.’
‘They tell us to change this or that, but we take no notice. It’s a fiddle, that’s what it is.’
‘What day of the week?’ asked Deb.
‘Dunno. Mondays, I think. They go to sup afterwards at the Three Tuns. Why do they do it, send those dusty old men from the offices, Mennes, Huyton—?’
‘Come on, Miss Willet,’ Crawley said firmly. ‘Let’s leave the man to his work.’
‘But I’m interested. It’s fascinating.’
‘Hush up, won’t you? D’you want to make a fool of me?’ Crawley dug his fingers in her arm. She nodded to the man, and let Crawley lead her away. That was enough. She had something to give Abigail. She suggested they should make ready to leave on the next boat.
‘But you haven’t seen the carpentry shop where they do the fitting out. If you like ships, that’s the most interesting part of all.’
So she was obliged to follow him. Everywhere they went the men stared at her; a woman in the yards was deemed an entertainment, as this was almost exclusively the domain of men. The only other women they had seen were in the hemp house and the ropery where the sails were sewn and the rope-ends plaited off, and when she went in there, the scathing but envious look on the women’s faces was even harder to bear.
She endured the stares and the catcalls as she passed, but the effect was to make Crawley ever more puffed-up and pleased with himself, until, as they came out of the ropery, he pulled her towards him and fastened his wet lips over hers. She was taken by surprise and it was a moment before she could free herself and push him off.
‘Mr Crawley!’
He pressed her back against the wall and tried again, but this time she was ready for him and dodged out of his way.
‘What’s the matter?’ His expression was offended. ‘You like me, don’t you?’
‘Please, not so quick,’ she said, gasping at the air and moving quickly to put a bale of rope between them.
He raised his arms in a gesture of frustration. ‘What? It was only a little kiss.’
‘You are too forward, Mr Crawley,’ she said frostily. ‘I shall walk back to the wherry by myself now, if you try to take advantage.’ Outrage suited her purposes now. She had seen what she wanted to see. She would remember enough to pacify Abigail. ‘Now, escort me properly as a gentleman should.’ She held out her arm.
He was cowed by her imperious manner, something she had learned from Abigail. If you acted as if you were a lady, then people believed you to be one. And she might need him again. He was her only contact in the navy, and she would try to keep him sweet if her stomach could stand it.
When she got back on dry land she reassured Crawley she would meet him at church the following Thursday, then went the long route home, in the deepening dusk, determined he should not know where she lived. It was second nature now to check behind her, check the hair on the door, keep watchful.
Once inside Abigail’s house, she lit the candles, and fearing she might forget if she didn’t pen it down, drew up a map of the docks. Carefully, over three sheets of vellum, she marked out the names of the ships, what all the buildings were, and where there were the King’s men on guard. She placed arrows where there were unfenced areas, or places where it would be easy to go unnoticed, and where an unskilled labourer would be able to blend in without arousing suspicion. She inked a picture of where the site of Upnor Castle was, complete with its turrets, and where the reels for the chain lay that were to hinder ships passing up the channel. She had not been told what the information was for, though she guessed it was for the Dutch. She put that out of mind. It was probably better if she did not know.
Deb rubbed her hand over her face in weariness, when it was done. Abigail would thank her, for the plan was detailed and clear. The outing with Crawley had served her well. She’d need to do this over and over, she realised – use men to get what she needed. It wasn’t so much now that she valued her chastity, but that she could not bear the deception. Crawley had thought she liked him, and even a sorry whelp of a man like him must have his own hopes and dreams.
She went to look out of the window, and there saw a man and his wife following the link-boy’s lantern, strolling arm in arm, intent on each other’s conversation. It was a life that was forbidden to her now. Nobody would be able to be close to her; she could not risk her own neck, and she could not risk theirs. She pressed her forehead against the icy glass, closed her eyes. It hit her like a punch to the guts.
She had sentenced herself to a life of loneliness.
A moment later, a hackney carriage drew up, its lamps glowing like eyes in the dark street. The driver alighted to open the door for Abigail to climb out. The sight of her initially filled Deb with the desire to smash something. Without her, she would never have got into this situation; she would still have been at Mr Pepys’ house, curled up by the parlour fire, talking about chemises and the right width for ribbon with Elisabeth. She pressed
her balled fists against the glass. But then she saw Abigail’s furtive look behind her, a sharp, suspicious glance up and down the street. In the dull glow of the carriage lamps, Abigail’s features were haggard but she drew herself up, gave imperious orders to the driver to take the carriage away. In that moment, Deb understood.
She sank into a chair, head in her hands. Abigail did what she did because she had no choice.
It was as if she was looking in a mirror. Abigail’s life was her life, her life as she would be in another twenty years. If, like her, she could actually manage to survive.
Chapter Forty-one
ABIGAIL WAS PLACATED by the maps of the dockyard, and encouraged Deb to see more of Crawley, a prospect which Deb found wholly unappealing. Next to Crawley, the memory of Samuel Pepys seemed courteous, fatherly, even endearing. Every day, Deb did as Abigail suggested, wound a single imperceptible hair around the door and shutters. She led a secretive, ghost-like life now, mostly locked inside Abigail’s chambers. She went out only to buy food, to carry messages, or deliver documents to the post. And at Abigail’s insistence – to meet Crawley.
In the daytime, the warehouses in the street below hummed with activity; they were used for storage by a tannery and its associated trades. There was a saddlery, a vellum maker, a furrier. They made goods for export, and bales of furs and boxes of parchment were stored there. On the rare occasions she went out, nobody paid her any mind; she tried not to draw attention to herself, and kept a maid’s demeanour in her grey homespun and dark cloak.
One night at dusk, after she had been to buy new parchment, she returned home to see that the hair on the door was broken. She was sure Abigail was still at Bruncker’s. She stood a moment in the dark vestibule staring at it. The door must still be locked; after all, she had the key. Could it be Abigail back already? But Abigail would have replaced the hair. No candlelight shone at Abigail’s window.
She did not know what to do, whether to run away, or wait to see if anyone was there. She put her ear close to the door, straining to hear any sound from within, but could hear nothing. Perhaps the hair had just broken by itself. The wind, maybe. But she knew that was unlikely. She waited another few minutes, before taking courage. If it was a burglar, she would give them a chance to get away. She put the key in the lock, but was shocked to feel that it was unlocked already.
Pleasing Mr. Pepys Page 26
