Pleasing Mr. Pepys

by Deborah Swift

  At St Paul’s yard, the booksellers and pamphleteers had begun to re-congregate in makeshift wooden shelters around the ruined crater of the church, so a throng of people had gathered there for the evening printing of the news-sheets. The weight of a hand on her shoulder made her whip round. It was Piet. How had he crept up on her like that? It put her at a disadvantage.

  ‘Well met.’ She greeted him with a calmness she did not feel. Even though she’d heard from her network of contacts that her cheating husband was dead, the sight of his pale-cheeked Dutch friend in his high fall-collar always turned her stomach.

  ‘Wait for me over there,’ she said to Poole, who melted away towards the crowd at the bookstalls. Piet took Abigail’s arm and guided her away from the area of St Paul’s and into a low-beamed tavern, where he led her to the darkest recess away from other drinkers. He settled his long frame into the seat, folding his stockinged legs under the table. Abigail marvelled at how such a tall man could still remain so inconspicuous.

  A girl appeared with a tray and Piet ordered ale for them both.

  ‘Well? You know why I’m here,’ he said. His voice held the barest trace of accent and was almost benign, but his pale, watchful eyes were as cold as oysters. ‘You’ve been suspiciously quiet.’

  ‘It’s harder lately, you know it is.’

  ‘So tell me,’ he said.

  ‘What did you expect? Your sneaky foxes destroyed the English fleet. Is it any wonder the Navy Board are on edge? Lord Bruncker trusts me, but I still need to be careful; keep up my usual activities, appear in a play every now and then. Not to, would arouse suspicion.’

  ‘We’ve been concerned,’ Piet said, examining his fingernails. ‘Lately we have not received a single transcript from you. Perhaps you are getting too old to be of use.’

  ‘I’ve survived this long because I am wily,’ she countered, ‘and I’ve made myself accepted. That can only be done over time. It takes time to build trust – you know that. I’m more use to you now than ever.’

  ‘Hmm. Yet you have sent us nothing from Bruncker’s office, or from Pepys’,’ Piet said. ‘You expect me to believe you; that you share a bed with a man from the Navy Treasury and yet you cannot tell us a single thing about how many ships they’ve commissioned? Or if another war fleet is being prepared?’

  ‘I told you – after the fiasco in the Medway, the English Navy can’t afford more ships.’

  ‘One of our other agents disagrees. He says that Charles only made peace to keep our warships in Dutch waters and stop the French occupying the Spanish Netherlands. That it’s a false peace. That he’s still rebuilding ships to come against us. We need to know if it’s true.’

  He placed one of his cool hands over hers on the table; she did her best not to recoil.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Bruncker is cheek by jowl with Pepys. He must know something. You should press him more, withdraw your favours. Or is the rumour true, that Bruncker looks elsewhere for a warm bed these days?’

  She pulled her hand away. ‘No. He’s with me nights. Your rumour is false.’ She would not let him glimpse how much his words had wounded her.

  ‘I need facts and figures. Proper writs of information.’

  ‘Lord, Piet, these are not petty politicians you speak of. Lord Bruncker’s no fool. He’s a man of fierce intelligence. Nothing escapes him. Do you really expect me to take chances?’

  ‘You can talk to him, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s obsessed, wants to play all night with his mechanical devices. When he’s not, he spends his evenings at the Royal Society, instead of working, and he doesn’t bring home as many documents as he used to.’

  ‘Pepys?’

  ‘Pepys is hard to get to. Though he is loose with the ladies, he fears to offend his navy friend by consorting with me.’

  The spiced ale arrived and Abigail picked up the horn spoon to stir it. She must rally her forces. She was defensive. Her neck was damp with sweat. Perhaps Piet was right, and she was too old to be doing this any more. Treason was a lucrative but dangerous business. She had a sudden yearning for peace, for a retreat in the country, lush green fields, soft grass. To get away from the stench of burning that still hung over the city.

  ‘If you can’t tempt billy-goat Pepys, you must be losing your appeal, my dear,’ Piet said.

  ‘Lord Bruncker seems well satisfied.’

  ‘Indeed. Something warns me that little liaison is altogether too comfortable.’ He raised his eyebrows at her.

  The spiced ale was bitter; she let the grainy liquid wash round her mouth. He was right, though she would not admit it. She had made the fatal error of every spy. She had let Lord Bruncker grow in her affection. It was hard not to like someone who professed his admiration for you every day, and with whom you shared a bed night after night. Lord B, besides being one of the great minds of London, was a very attractive man and she liked him. She did not dare think the word ‘love’.

  But if she ceased to use her position to gain intelligence for the Dutch, then Piet, or De Witt’s men, would finish her. De Witt was a wily politician and his Dutch intelligence service was second to none. Even our own, she thought bitterly. For twenty years she had navigated the dark underbelly of London, the networks of linkmen and forgers, plotters and double-dealers. Not to mention the trepanners; the men who would shoot a hole in your skull and be gone as quick as the wisp of smoke from their pistols.

  Piet watched her a moment over the rim of his cup. ‘So, you can’t get near Pepys himself. Sounds unlikely, given what I know of him. You have not managed to make a friend of Mrs Pepys?’

  ‘I am doing my best,’ she said, ‘but Mrs Pepys does not like me. She finds me too outspoken, and the fact I am Lord B’s mistress offends her stuffy Huguenot morality. Lord knows, I have tried numerous ways to befriend her, but she will have none of it.’

  ‘Well, you must find a way. It is two months since you copied us any useful documents. We need lists of armaments and cannon. The names and tonnage of the ships that are being rebuilt that might come against us. Which hulls are being refitted and whether new frigates are being built at Deptford or Chatham. De Witt’s advisers are suspicious of your sudden silence. The word is out that you might have been tempted to give information about our network to the King’s petticoat-men.’

  ‘I would never do that.’

  He shrugged. ‘The De Witts inform me that if we receive no profitable news from you this month, then I am to stop your purse. Of course, you understand what that means.’

  She knew. It was not just her purse that would be stopped. She had stopped Harrington’s mouth herself when he tried to bleat and run, and he wasn’t the first.

  There might be a way. A face sprang to mind – Elisabeth Pepys’ new maid, Miss Willet. She was someone who looked like she needed to find her way in the world. There was intelligence in her eyes, and self-possession. Educated, too. Did she have enough courage though to spy on her master? Abigail did not know. She sighed. It was a foolhardy notion. She put the idea aside.

  ‘Tell the De Witts that their concern is unfounded,’ she said. ‘I’ll let you have something by the end of the month.’ It was a promise she was uncertain she could keep.

  Piet saw it. ‘For your sake, I hope so. And Abigail, have a care. It does not pay to get close to your subjects. Lord Bruncker may indeed be the paragon you say he is, but remember, he is still your enemy. He is not your paymaster, the Dutch are. He would be the first to shout treason if you were discovered.’

  ‘You think I don’t know the risks? After all these years?’

  Piet raised his eyes from his cup to look at her. ‘I sincerely hope so.’

  ‘How long are you in London this time?’ she asked him, changing the subject, to try and lighten the mood.

  ‘I have other business here too, so a month or more before I go back to Holland.’ He gave her a penetrating stare, the stare of a bird of prey that made her throat tight. ‘There are a few … loose end
s. I must clear them up before I can return.’

  Something was wrong with the way he said those words. Her heart banged with fear. She suddenly understood with visceral certainty.

  Should she fail to produce what they wanted, he was to be her assassin.

  He rose and threw a smatter of coins onto the table before he pressed his steeple hat onto his head and strode away. She heard the jangle of the bell on the door and exhaled. She reached to gather the coins.

  Guilders. Dutch guilders. He was reminding her who paid her. Quickly, she scooped them out of sight, her face burning beneath the white powder.

  Chapter Six

  October

  FOR THE LAST TWO WEEKS DEB had barely had a single moment alone. She had been obliged to accompany Samuel and Elisabeth Pepys into the country to stay with Mr Pepys’ tedious relatives. The weather had been unremittingly wet and windy, and the whole expedition had made her mistress even more cross and difficult to please.

  On Deb’s return, the Pepyses’ house seemed even more disordered in contrast to life in the country. The household was chaotic; Elisabeth’s attention scattered. People came and went from Mr Pepys’ office at odd hours; his boy servant was in and out with messages meaning doors were opening and closing all day. It made Deb feel rickety, as if the ground was unstable beneath her feet. She longed to set everything neat and tidy, to keep it controlled, the way it had been at school, where tradition established the way everything was done. But here, new ideas jostled upon new ideas, one new thing piled upon another. New books, new decorations, new acquaintances.

  While Elisabeth dealt with her stack of correspondence, Deb sat down to write to Hester. At least that was one good thing about working for the Pepyses –Hester was at school at last, and her letters to Deb were full of enthusiasm for her new activities and the sheer relief of being away from Aunt Beth for most of the hours of the day.

  Deb hesitated, her pen dripping a blob of ink onto the paper. What could she tell Hester? Aunt Beth read all their letters. She did not dare tell Hester she was struggling to find common ground with Mrs Pepys, and besides, what if her mistress caught a glimpse of what she was writing? But Elisabeth was dreamily staring out of the window, quill feather pressed to her bottom lip.

  Actually, Deb mused, it was only Elisabeth who did not like her. Mr Pepys was worryingly familiar. A knock at the front door interrupted her thoughts. She went to answer it and found a messenger boy with a letter.

  She left him waiting at the door, and as she returned, Elisabeth held out her hand, ready to take the letter.

  ‘Beg pardon, mistress,’ Deb said, staring at her own name written in an elegant sloping hand. ‘It’s for me.’

  ‘You?’ Elisabeth frowned. ‘I thought you didn’t know anyone in London.’

  ‘I don’t.’ Deb opened it, then stared in surprise. ‘It’s from Mistress Williams. Mr Pepys agreed she could show me around the Duke’s Playhouse. She’s wanting to arrange a time.’

  ‘Oh, her.’ Mrs Pepys wrinkled her nose. ‘You must decline. Tell her we have too many engagements. She’s too late, anyway. Mrs Knepp and Miss Gwynn took us round the King’s only a few weeks ago. Surely that’s quite enough greasepaint and powder for any young woman.’

  Elisabeth stood and took the paper out of Deb’s hand, and before she could argue scrawled a few words of reply. ‘I’ve apologised and told her I can’t spare you this month.’

  Deb hid her disappointment. She had enjoyed the last tour, but, more than that, Mistress Williams intrigued her, and she was flattered that she had remembered her and asked for her personally.

  Mistress Williams, however, was not to be put off so easily. The next day she called at Seething Lane in person with Lord Bruncker at her side, so Elisabeth was cowed into agreement. After the pair had gone, Deb had to suffer Elisabeth’s disapproval, which hung over them all morning like a black cloud. So black, it was a wonder it did not stain the linen, Deb thought, as she kept her head down and hem-stitched pillowcases.

  ‘I suppose you will have to go, Deb,’ Elisabeth said eventually, ‘though I’d hoped you would accompany me to the Exchange tomorrow. But I know Sam won’t be pleased if we offend his Lordship.’

  ‘Will you come too?’

  ‘Absolument pas.‘ Elisabeth jerked as she stabbed the needle into her thumb. ‘Ouf! No, I shall go to my tailor’s. I need some new sleeves, and I have no wish to spend time with that trumped-up whore. And I beg you, close your ears to all her gossiping nonsense.’

  You’re a fine one to lecture me on gossip, thought Deb, considering what went on at Mr Unthank’s. The tailor’s was a place where well-to-do ladies like Elisabeth picked over the characters of everyone they knew, just as if they were unpicking seams.

  Deb hurried light-footed to the theatre through the grey streets, following a scribble of a map from Jane in the kitchen. She was jubilant, partly with excitement, and partly with the freedom of being out and about without her mistress. With Elisabeth, she always felt as if she was doing something wrong, and the harder she tried to make everything perfect, the more Elisabeth found fault in it.

  When she got to the theatre, Mistress Williams was full of smiles. ‘Miss Willet! Or may I call you Deb?’

  Mistress Williams was immaculately dressed as before, but this time in a green silk robe with scarlet trim, her waist nipped in so tight she looked as though she could barely breathe, and sporting a large expanse of white powdered flesh above the neckline. The doorman knew her and let them go through, threading through the benches until they stood gazing into the pit, where wooden stools had been set out for the musicians, each one with a candle-stand beside it.

  ‘How do you like it at the Pepyses’?’ asked Mistress Williams.

  ‘Well. Though it is all so different from Bromley. I am not quite used to the city yet, and the way of life. But it is very kind of Mrs Pepys to take me on.’

  ‘Kind? Oh, I think they have a very good bargain.’ Mistress Williams smiled and tilted her head to look quizzically at her. Deb blushed and cast her eyes aside and then up to the covered ceiling, where the small open hole designed to provide light, showed rainclouds looming above.

  ‘Keep your fingers crossed it stays fine. Come.’ Mistress Williams lifted up her skirts to reveal fine embroidered shoes. ‘Take care, these steps are steep.’

  Once on the stage they turned to look out over the greasy stubs of candles on the lip of the boards, and out into the rows of benches. The Duke’s theatre was a more modern building than the King’s. It had been recently converted from an old tennis court, with glittering gilded columns and embossed leather wall-hangings. The back of the stage was festooned with ropes and pulleys like a ship, and iron winding machines stood in the wings for winching scenery onto stage.

  It was a bigger playing space than the King’s and Deb imagined what it must be like when the seats were full, with all those eyes watching you. The thought of it was disconcerting.

  ‘And the Pepyses, do they pay you well?’

  Deb did not know how to reply. Talking about her employers behind their backs went against everything she had been taught. She did not know whether to take offence or brush it off.

  Mistress Williams let out a peal of laughter. ‘There now! I’ve made you feel uncomfortable already! It’s quite all right, you don’t have to tell me. I’m far too inquisitive for my own good; that I know.’

  ‘It’s generous of my mistress to spare me a few hours so I could come,’ Deb said tactfully.

  ‘Is that so? I’ll tell you what I think. I’ll wager Mistress Pepys is out of sorts about me bringing you here because she does not think me respectable. Am I right?’

  Deb twisted her hand in her shawl, not sure what to say.

  ‘Of course, she’s quite correct. An actress is not quite respectable. She sees too much, she begins to think of her own life as a play. And it is tempting to draw in other players to fill the roles you lack.’ Mistress Williams moved forward to show Deb the sliding
wings or shutters that changed the background, all most lifelike. ‘Look, the countryside brought right into town. Deceptive, aren’t they, the trees? Is it not well done?’

  Deb put out a hand to the painted canvas. ‘They’re beautiful. And it is such a clever device,’ she said. ‘That bridge reminds me of the countryside where I used to live, near Bristol.’

  ‘Are your family still there?’

  ‘No, I only lived there as a child. I loved it there. Such a contrast between the city and the wild countryside beyond. Our house was out of town though, on the edge of the moors. People used to come to us for the shooting …’ She tailed off. She should not bore Mistress Williams with her reminiscences.

  ‘Do you ever go back?’

  ‘No.’ She paused. ‘The house was sold. Recently my sister and I were brought up by my aunt in Bromley. Father moved to Bandon Bridge in Ireland with my brothers. He runs his export business from there.’ She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice. ‘We write. At least my brothers do.’

  ‘You have lost your mother, then?’

  Deb turned away, unable to give an answer.

  ‘Oh, dear. I can see there is a tale there. That was a perfect piece of stage business, your turning away, the hand lifted to the temple in melancholy. The language of the body. It told me that there is a mystery there that needs an answer. Come, let’s go down to the tiring house and you can tell me. You’ve made my day, my dear. I love a mystery.’

  She swept away down the steps, and Deb was forced to follow on behind. She hurried after Mistress Williams’s swishing green skirts, through the auditorium and to the tiring house where the ladies were to change for the evening performance. A handbill pinned to the wall told her it was to be a comedy by Dryden. As they squeezed past a rail of costumes, Deb saw that the doublets were stained with sweat and greasepaint round the necks. How Aunt Beth would frown if she could see those collars.