She set off in the direction of Thames Street, but after two hundred yards and a quick look over her shoulder, she took a side street and doubled back.
Meanwhile, Abigail had risen at her house in Whetstone Park, and the remains of her breakfast lay on a tray on the table in the window. She wondered how long it would take Deb Willet to come. She’d had to check if Deb had put the notice up. She had removed it, of course. It would not do for her protégé to be running off to find her kin instead of living at the Pepyses’ where she could be most useful.
She felt faintly guilty about removing it, and dashing Deb’s hopes, but she was used to ignoring that type of sensation. They were just feelings, of no substance, and of no import to anyone else. Only actions really had any importance.
She sat down to forge a letter, forming the characters carefully in a childish print. Forgery was a skill she had learned. She did not bother to blot it but just folded it into a square and watched the blob of cheap brown sealing wax sizzle under the taper. Then she wrote Deb’s name and her own address on the outside in the same uneducated hand. She positioned it carefully on the side table and admired it a moment. A dead end – an excuse to bring Deb Willet running; that was all.
Abigail thought of the portrait Deb had shown her at the theatre. Deb would be horrified to think her mother was the spit of one of the women from the whorehouses on Lukenor Lane. The thought of prim, respectable Deb going there made her smile. Just went to show, portraits were wholly unreliable. Painters changed the nose if it was too big, made heavy brows lighter; flattered their sitter.
Abigail shivered, drew her wrap closer round her shoulders, and thrust aside the troubling thoughts of the stews on the south bank. Memories of Lukenor Lane dragged with them the whole sorry business of Joan. And her daughter’s predicament hurt. She’d tried everything to get her out of Clement’s Yard, but Joan wouldn’t listen to her. Called her an interfering bitch. But Abigail knew if she didn’t do something to help her soon, it would be too late.
Hope for Joan was the only thing that kept her going. She’d go again tonight, take her the money for the new physic. That part was easy. Persuading her to take it was another matter. The thought made her weary. God help her, she hoped Deb Willet would be easier to persuade than Joan ever was.
A rap at the door. Blazes, the girl was here already. She hoped Deb would have remembered to bring the white book. Lord B had told her Pepys kept his memoranda there, and she was counting on it. Without it, without a sniff of information to keep that snake Piet Groedecker satisfied, hers would be an even shorter road ahead than Joan’s.
Deb looked up at the peeling door and checked Abigail’s address again. Surprisingly, Abigail’s house was an old-fashioned Elizabethan building in an unlikely and unassuming street of warehouses and tradesmen. The windows were dirty and the shutters in ill-repair. Aware of her servant status, Deb decided she’d better go around to the back entrance. A pale, rather slatternly maid eyed her through a crack in the door, then kept her waiting in the rain on the doorstep while she called for her mistress.
‘Oh, but my dear, you are drenched to the bone,’ Abigail exclaimed when Deb was finally ushered in and up the back stairs. Abigail pulled Deb’s cloak off her shoulders and handed it, dripping, to the maid, signalling her to leave them. ‘Come along in and get dry.’
She led Deb into a large chamber, where a fireplace flanked by two wooden chairs framed a meagre fire. The room was lofty, on the first floor, with tall windows overlooking the street. It was almost empty in comparison with Seething Lane. There was barely a stick of furniture, no personal possessions at all. No paintings, or rugs or books. Nothing on the mantelpiece. A cobweb swung from one of the shutters. It occurred to Deb that you’d never guess it was a wealthy woman’s house, though Abigail was immaculately coiffed as usual, her face artfully rouged.
Abigail seemed to read Deb’s thoughts, for she said, ‘Do sit. I’m afraid it’s not very comfortable here. My other lodgings and all my possessions were lost in the fire, and I’m afraid I must make do with this until my new house in White Hall is ready. And of course I’m so often at Lord B’s that I can almost bear its discomforts.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear it,’ Deb said. ‘It must have been terrible.’ She sat next to the hearth on the wooden chair that Abigail indicated and spread out the hem of her skirts, which were still soaked from the rain.
‘Have you brought my Lord’s book?’ Abigail asked.
Deb clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh my word! I forgot. I’m so sorry, it’s just that I was—’
‘But I was relying on it. What will I tell his Lordship now?’
Deb was mortified. Abigail had been so kind, and now she had offended her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated. ‘I’ll find it as soon as I get home and get it delivered to you. Don’t worry. I’ll wrap it well against the rain.’
‘Will I write a note to remind you?’ Her tone was faintly accusatory.
‘No. I promise. I’m not usually forgetful. It was just that Elisabeth—’
‘He’s been fretting over that book all week, almost drove me mad.’
‘I know, I’m sorry,’ Deb said miserably.
Abigail paced the room, her green skirts swishing on the wooden boards. Deb’s sleeves were steaming embarrassingly in the heat. She took a deep breath. ‘Might I look at the message now, the one that came addressed to me?’
Abigail turned back from the window. ‘Oh, that. Yes. I have it here.’ She crossed to a writing desk and fetched a square of folded paper.
A stab of dismay. This was certainly not her mother’s handwriting. Deb ran her thumb over the seal, disappointed to see a plain nub of brown wax, with no impression of a signet ring or fob.
‘You’d better open it.’
‘I’m afraid to,’ Deb admitted. ‘What if it says she’s dead, or that she doesn’t want to know me?’
‘I’m sure it won’t say that.’ Abigail reached to pat her arm with a sympathetic expression. ‘Would you like me to open it for you?’
‘No, no. It’s all right, I’ll do it.’ Deb was still smarting from the fact that Abigail was angry with her. She turned her back to her and slid her finger under the seal until she felt it crack. She unfolded the stiff paper and smoothed it on her lap. Only five words.
“WHITE HARTE YARD
DRURY LANE”
It was just an address. No note. Deb turned the paper over and over in her hands, hoping for the name of who sent it, or some other clue. She looked up. Abigail was watching her expression intently.
‘It’s an address,’ Deb said.
‘Let me see.’
Deb handed her the note. Abigail looked it over and shook her head. ‘I’m afraid it’s not going to be much use to you, Deb. If I’m not mistaken, that’s one of the streets that was lost in the fire.’
‘But why would anyone send me a message with that address unless it means something?’
‘I don’t know. There are all sorts of charlatans around,’ Abigail said. ‘Maybe the messenger just hoped for the tip for delivering it. I did give him a penny because I was so glad, for your sake, to see a reply.’
‘Oh.’ Deb felt tears prick her eyes. ‘Yes, I suppose that could be it.’ The disappointment was sharp enough to make her crumple in her seat.
Abigail stood and came over to hug her. ‘I know, it’s a blow, and hard to have your expectations dashed like that,’ she said.
Deb leaned in to her, feeling the whalebone of Abigail’s corsets press against her cheek.
A cool hand came down to rest on her head. ‘You mustn’t give up hope,’ Abigail murmured, ‘perhaps we will hear better news before long. You can come over again soon, to tell me what you’ve found and to see if there’s been anything further.’
Deb moved out of Abigail’s embrace. ‘I’ll go to White Harte Yard. You never know, there might be something there. I can ask who lived there, at least.’
‘Of course, if you think you should,’ Ab
igail said lightly. ‘But I wouldn’t bother. I think the whole area has been cleared by now for rebuilding.’
‘Still, I can ask. It won’t do any harm.’ Outside, a church bell tolled the hour. Two o’clock! Deb was seized with a sudden panic. What if Elisabeth should decide to go home from Unthank’s early?
Deb stood up. ‘Sorry, Mistress … Abigail, but I can’t stay. I must hurry back to Seething Lane. It’s a fair step, and I only risked coming because of the letter.’
‘Must you go? It is so cheering to have young company, and I know we will be great friends. And I so looked forward to our little chat.’ Abigail still had hold of her hand between hers, and now she pressed it tight. ‘You must come back soon, very soon.’
‘Of course, but—’
‘Promise me you will.’
‘Beg pardon, Abigail, but I must go. Elisabeth thinks I’m ill. I told her I was going home. If she gets there before me, I’ll be in trouble.’ Deb withdrew her hand and made to leave, but Abigail followed.
‘Then, if you really insist, I’ll call you a carriage.’
‘Oh no, I can’t afford one. I’ll have to run.’
Abigail picked up a handbell and shook it, and the strident noise made Deb wince. The pale-faced servant appeared.
‘Ah, Poole. Miss Willet is unwell.’ Abigail gave a conspiratorial glance to Deb. ‘Call for a hackney carriage for her, would you?’
When it arrived, Abigail paid the driver and leaned in to talk to Deb through the window. ‘You’ll bring me Lord Bruncker’s book later today, won’t you? I do like to mother him a little. Shall I write that reminder?’
‘No need. I won’t forget.’
Abigail pressed her again not to divulge Lord Bruncker’s forgetfulness to Mr Pepys, and then said, ‘I’ll be waiting for Lord Bruncker tonight at his Navy Chambers. The sign of the compass. It’s only a step from the Pepyses’. Bring it over to his house between four and six. Before he arrives.’ She kissed Deb on both cheeks, in a drift of lavender powder.
Deb almost breathed a sigh of relief to be away. Abigail was overpowering. And such a mighty fuss about a book! Lord Bruncker must certainly be a very forgetful man.
The horses clip-clopped their way back through the city. Deb sat on the edge of the seat, willing them to hurry. When she got back to Seething Lane she opened the Pepyses’ front door without a sound and crept inside, relieved to see no hat or packages on the side table and no sign of Elisabeth.
Mindful of Elisabeth’s instructions, she hurried through to the kitchen to remind Jane to polish the silver. Jane was sitting darning one of her woollen gloves, chatting to a neighbour’s coachman, and one of Mr Pepys’ clerks, Tom Edwards. She was not happy to be reminded of the cleaning.
She scowled at Deb. ‘I’ll do them later. There’s plenty of time. Mr Pepys told me that after he dined he meant to meet you both at the theatre. So master and mistress won’t be back until after four.’
The coachman and Tom tipped their hats to them both and retreated out of the back door.
‘You look hot,’ Jane said.
‘I came home because I’m not feeling well.’ The lie made Deb blush even more.
‘I wondered why you’d come back. Can I fetch you anything?’
‘No, I think I’ll lie down.’ Deb wanted to look at the letter again, the address that had come to Abigail’s house. But then she remembered Lord Bruncker’s book.
She made a search of the main chamber but could not see a book bound in white there, although there were several of Mr Pepys’ books lying on a stool near the window. Perhaps the book had been packed away. The Pepyses were planning alterations to the windows, so quite a few volumes had been put in baskets already.
She made a hasty search of the rest of the house but could find nothing. Finally, she creaked open the door into Mr Pepys’ closet that he called his ‘study’. It was dim in there, even in the day, with a fusty smell of wood and paper. Deb realised that this was the scent that Mr Pepys carried round with him, the smell of his study. She liked it, the aroma of learning.
She tiptoed, because he had never invited her into this room where he worked, and she felt like an intruder. She ran her finger along a row of leather-bound volumes, housed in shelves built for the purpose, unable to resist the lure of so many books, but she found nothing white.
Elisabeth never offered her anything of substance to read, but at night Deb sometimes kidnapped one of the master’s books if he left them lying in the main chamber. She drifted over to Mr Pepys’ desk. A sheaf of untidy papers lay in a pile. She could not read them immediately; they seemed to be written in some sort of code, all squiggles and curls. Just the odd name was legible to her. She was curious though; she loved a puzzle. But she noticed they were not lying flat so she lifted a corner to see what lay underneath.
The white leather book was right there, under Mr Pepys’ papers. It was a wonder he had not spotted it and returned it to Lord Bruncker himself.
Deb extracted it, feeling a little guilty. Mr Pepys would not like her being in his office without his permission, she was certain, but Abigail Williams had been so kind to her, she wanted to return the favour. And she couldn’t help feeling flattered to be taken up by Abigail Williams, the consort of the most famous mathematician in London.
She scanned the room again. There were no other books with a white binding, so this must be it. A slim red ribbon held the two end pages together.
She was about to untie it when the front door slammed and a voice echoed up from the hall. ‘Deb?’
Elisabeth, calling her.
Deb’s stomach seemed to drop like a bucket down a well. She left the office door ajar and, hitching up her skirts, ran for the stairs to her room. Two minutes later she was in bed with the book tucked underneath her bottom, the covers up to her chin.
Elisabeth’s voice drifted up. ‘Ah, there you are, Jane. I was on my way to the playhouse but Mary Mercer told me Betterton’s not back and that dreadful Mr Young is to take his role, so I came home. I told Sam he will have to endure it on his own – I simply could not sit through another performance like the last one. How is Deb?’
‘Gone to bed, mistress.’ Jane’s voice sounded sour.
‘Oh la. I hope she’s not going to be a sickly maid. I can’t keep her if she goes on ailing.’
A little while later she heard Elisabeth’s footsteps on the stairs and lay with her eyes tight shut as she heard the latch lift and the door open. Elisabeth must have been satisfied Deb was asleep because it closed again softly and her footsteps trotted away downstairs. Deb waited another half-hour in bed before she dared get up.
When she went down to the kitchen, Jane said acidly, ‘So you’ve recovered, have you? Now all the polishing’s done.’ Deb did not dare fetch anything from the larder, though she was hungry. After all, she was supposed to be unwell.
Elisabeth was too busy sorting out books of samples for new drapes to pay her much heed, so Deb risked asking if she could step out again for some air. ‘It might help me feel better,’ she lied.
‘It’s late for a maid to be walking the streets on her own. It will soon be dark,’ Elisabeth said, laying aside the samples.
‘Just a few minutes,’ Deb said. ‘I feel in need of some air.’ It was almost six and she’d promised Abigail she would take the book to Bruncker’s.
‘No. If you are well enough to walk, you are well enough to play cards with me. You are supposed to be keeping me company.’ Elisabeth was suddenly petulant. ‘It’s not as if you are really ill. You will have to learn to cope with these women’s ailments, Deb, if you are ever to run a household of your own. You don’t see me taking to my bed every month, do you?’
‘No, Elisabeth. I’m sorry.’ Deb was chastened, though Elisabeth took to her bed with women’s ailments often enough. Lord Bruncker would just have to wait for his book, though it worried her that she was letting Abigail down.
‘The cards, Deb.’ Elisabeth’s voice broke into her thoughts.
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Guiltily, Deb leapt to fetch them.
That evening, while Elisabeth was in the kitchen, Mr Pepys came and sat down opposite her in Elisabeth’s chair, his serving boy following behind him as usual like a dog.
After a moment or two, he dismissed the boy. ‘Those are neat stitches, Deb,’ he said, leaning forward to look at the bodice she was sewing.
‘It will do,’ she said.
‘Is that the bodice you were wearing the day you came?’
‘You have a good memory, sir.’
‘It suited you very well. Showed off your slim waist.’
‘Mrs Pepys thought it too tight,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m letting it out.’
As she looked up, he caught her eye and reached over to press his hand on her leg. ‘Not too much, I hope,’ he said. ‘I like to see it close-fitting, to see your shape. You have a fine figure, little Deb, don’t hide it.’
She felt herself blush, confused by his compliment. It was uncomfortable to be talked of that way. Uncomfortable, but not unpleasant. His hand on her knee was hot through her skirts. He stroked her thigh three times, in a fatherly way, as though he was stroking a cat, then removed his hand. She exhaled, took up the needle again, thought how much younger he might look without his ridiculous wig.
As she stitched she was aware of him staring at her, the noise of his breath loud above the crackling fire. It was odd for him to be so silent. The quiet spoke louder than if there was another person in the room. She concentrated on pressing the needle through the linen with her thimble. A few moments later Mr Pepys leaned towards her, put his hand on her leg again, began to stroke her thigh. Higher.
Shocked, she looked up at him. His eyes were questioning. Should she ask him not to? She opened her mouth to speak, but the noise of Elisabeth’s shoes trotting up from downstairs made him leap up in any case and rush over to the window, where he stood as Elisabeth chattered on about flour and dried peas, quite oblivious to the prominent bulge in her husband’s breeches.
Chapter Nine
Pleasing Mr. Pepys Page 7