ABIGAIL WAS AT LORD BRUNCKER’S when the parcel came, addressed to her. She untied the string to reveal a white leather-bound book. Praise God. Pepys’ notes of transactions from the Treasury. Three days she’d waited and had almost given up. When it didn’t arrive as promised, she’d thought Deb Willet had let her down and that she would have to find another way to inveigle the information Piet needed.
It came with a tidily penned message.
“Lord Bruncker’s book. Begging your pardon for the delay, I’m afraid I could not get away sooner.
Your faithful servant,
Deborah Willet”
She ruminated a while. There was no doubt Deb could be useful. Having a little ‘friend’ in Pepys’ house was ideal. Deb was obviously a resourceful girl, but was she calm enough? Or bold enough? An accomplice would be a risk.
Abigail sat down at Lord Bruncker’s desk near the window and untied the white leather book. The writing was small and cramped together. Damn, her eyes were definitely getting worse. In frustration, she went to fetch Lord B’s magnifying lens and put her eye to it. After a few moments of close reading, she paused to let out her breath.
This would save her neck. It might as well be a chest of gold. She imagined Piet’s slightly wolfish smile when he realised its value to the De Witts. She flipped through the pages. All the minutes of past meetings in Pepys’ close hand – meticulously recorded details of discussions with his fellow navy officers such as Sir William Penn and Sir John Mennes. He had even set down old Penn’s stubborn refusal to order more timber for shipbuilding, along with caustic comments about Penn’s meanness. Rather amusing, but time-consuming. Nevertheless, she did not dare leave out these bits of extraneous information. Piet became suspicious if she failed to copy the documents exactly, word for word.
So he thinks I’m too old, does he? she thought. Piet had sent her three more guilders only a few days ago – his idea of a warning. We’ll see who’s too old. She would make Piet think each memorandum a separate paper, eke it out slowly, and wring maximum profit from it. By the time the noon sun streamed in at the window, she was copying feverishly, with the lens held up to one eye.
Lord B had told her Pepys’ house was having alterations, so she gambled that Pepys would not miss his book immediately, and if he did, he would assume he had mislaid it. She could even return it to him herself, eventually, pretend he had left it at Bruncker’s. As the light faded at the window, she lit a single candle, then another, then another. Grease dripped onto the table. Her hand was stiff with writing, so she clenched and unclenched her fingers before rolling and sealing the documents. She would deliver one of them to Piet’s man, Leo, tomorrow.
There was a noise from below, and she heard Poole greet someone at the door.
She thrust the white book down her bodice next to her bust and grabbing her parchments, bolted into the library. She seized the little wooden steps, and jumped up to reach the shelf where there were rolls just like these – Lord B’s engineering projects – diagrams of ships that had been gathering dust for years. She slotted her rolls neatly amongst them and leapt down. Just in time, for Lord B came bustling in, velvet cloak smelling of frost and the outdoors, his long nose red with cold.
‘What news?’ she asked him lightly, relieving him of his cloak.
‘An unholy mess, just as I feared. There’s to be an inquest into the last battle, to find out why that coward Albemarle was left with only half the fleet against the Dutch. Our best ships lost – the Loyal London, the Royal James and the Royal Oak. Hellfire, even the bloody names are enough to demoralise us all! The navy commissioners want to foist the whole of the blame on us.’
‘That’s nonsense. How can it be your fault? Prince Rupert went against orders and sailed off with half the fleet. The King says he was trying to prevent the French joining up with the Dutch, but I’m not so sure I believe that, do you?’
‘Whatever he was doing, it was a disaster. Weakened our defences, and now, of course, the whole bloody thing has nothing to do with the Prince. Oh no. It’s all our fault. And worse than sinking us, the Dutch had the cheek to tow away the Royal Charles. Rumour has it, she’s on bloody display! In some poxy harbour in Holland, as evidence of English stupidity. And of course the symbolism of it is not lost on his Royal Highness, who is mightily displeased.’ Lord B flung himself down in a chair, pulled off his wig and scratched his shaved head. ‘Infernal thing. It’s itching like the devil. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘No, better you’re comfortable. I’ll have Poole send it down to Childers. She’s better at men’s wigs than Poole. She can look over it later, check it for lice.’ She poured him a drink from a glass decanter and settled down in the chair opposite him. She wished he had not shaved his beautiful glossy dark hair, but he had insisted, said he could not bear to get grey and grizzled like Penn.
He sighed. ‘Oh God, Abigail, what am I to do? I might not survive it. They’re looking for a scapegoat.’
‘But it’s not your—’
‘We might need money for a lawyer. A bloody good one. Pepys and I both fear we might lose our positions, even our heads.’
‘Surely, it won’t come to that—’
‘It might. And I want to make sure you are properly provided for if anything should happen.’ He put his drink aside. ‘Marry me, won’t you? Let’s stop this ridiculous pretence and live together properly as man and wife. I know I’ve not always been faithful, but in the end it’s always you I want to come home to.’
The words made her dizzy. The agreement was on the tip of her tongue, the relief of it. But then she hesitated, suspicious. Money for a lawyer, was that what he was after? She pushed that uncharitable thought aside. The word ‘marriage’ must mean he was serious.
She hesitated, and he walked over, brought his hand to her face and stroked her cheek, his expression full of affection. ‘What do you say, my Queen Bee?’
He meant it. It made her freeze inside. She could not risk it. Risk him. She took him to a chair, bade him sit. Then she knelt at his feet, took one of his hands in her own, chafed it as she looked into his dear face. ‘I can’t, you know I can’t.’
‘But why not? I know in the beginning you were married, but Williams is dead, been dead the last five years. There’s no legal reason now why not.’
‘It would do you no good, B. I know what they say about me. I’m mistress material, not a fit wife for a man of your standing – a man only two finger widths distance from the King.’
‘Blow what people think. I don’t care what people think. We’ve lived together for years. And the King’s hardly a shining example of propriety, is he? Look at his flaunting of Countess Castlemaine. Besides, I only want you. You understand me, how I think. You don’t mind all my experiments, my research. Damn it, you know never to touch my papers, you know when to leave me alone. And there’s no other woman I could talk to of pendulums, or mechanics of ships, like I can with you. Pretty girls are all right in their way, but I need to come home to someone I can rely on, someone with a sharp mind between their ears, not chaff.’
Abigail shook her head. ‘You flatter me, my Lord. But I’m too old for change now. I’ve got used to my own little house, to being on my own. The theatre is a hard taskmaster. I need to learn my lines, and you know how you hate to hear me reciting them. I’d be a very annoying wife.’
A grunt from Lord B. ‘Damn it, you’re probably right. Give it up, the play-acting.’
‘We’re fine as we are, aren’t we? I can hardly join the men at your Royal Society meetings at Gresham College, can I? So I need to make my own entertainment, meet my theatre friends, do women’s things. And look at me,’ she brushed her hand over her fine lace collar, ‘I’d not be the sort of wife who’d want to ruin my hands running a big household. Come on, pass me that old sheep fleece of yours and I’ll go down and get Childers to fix it up before we go to the theatre. I need to see what the competition are up to.’
She did not wait for his reply b
ut plucked up the offending wig and took it downstairs to the kitchen, where Childers, Bruncker’s maid-of-all-work, was crimping a collar.
When she’d handed the periwig over, she paused on the stairs, leaned against the cool dark wall. Never had she imagined he would think of marriage. She had not expected to find him handsome, to even like him, when all this began. Piet had needed her eyes and ears in the Navy Office and she’d needed the money. But over time she had grown to admire B’s incisive mind and his unquenchable enthusiasm for the new. He in turn had been astonished that she could listen to his theories without boredom and could easily grasp the concepts that excited him. The fact she was hailed as one of the handsomest women in London was an added delight to him. And, as time went on, she’d found the monetary positions reversed – B had amassed more debts as his fortunes fell, and now he needed to borrow from her. The Dutch, on the other hand, paid her well.
But now her business with Piet was a runaway cart; she was powerless to stop it. If she did not keep feeding the Dutch information, then they would kill her. How much harder would it be trying to manage her clandestine contacts while actually living under the same roof as Lord B?
She pressed her back against the cold distemper, suddenly tired. If she were ever to be uncovered as an agent for the Dutch, it would be the gibbet not just for her, but for him too. Spying on B was a struggle; not because she could not pry his secrets from him, but because he trusted her so willingly.
And there was Joan. How could she possibly explain Joan?
He knew nothing of her, and, of course, she would not reveal her daughter to him. To do so would expose her heart as an entity that still lived and breathed. But every spy knew that to pander to the heart was dangerous. Like a caged bird, she dare not let it fly for fear of losing it completely.
‘Abigail?’ He was calling her.
She hovered a moment on the stairs in indecision. Time was running through the glass, her eyesight was getting worse, the speed of her responses slower. Agents rarely lasted beyond their thirties, and here was she, well into the next decade. But, maybe, if she could just manage a few more months, then maybe she could risk a flit in the night, somewhere safe, a long way from here. Maybe even the New World. But she would need to buy time to plan, and she would need cover.
Deb Willet could be the godsend she needed after all. Or, more likely, her last chance.
Chapter Ten
DEB WAS IN THE DOWNSTAIRS PARLOUR, hem-stitching a chemise and worrying about Mr Pepys. It was a damp stocking of a day, and the fire smoked and struggled in the hearth.
Elisabeth put her head around the door. ‘You’ll have to go out, Deb dear, we need another loaf, and the oven’s not hot enough yet for baking.’
‘Have we got company for dinner?’ Deb asked.
‘No, not today. Sam’s going to be at Lord Bruncker’s.’ Elisabeth sighed and came and sat down opposite her. ‘They’ve to explain to Parliament again why Chatham was undefended, how the Dutch sank our ships.’
Deb hid her relief that Mr Pepys would be out. ‘Is all that still going on, then?’ she asked.
‘Seems so. Parliament must go over it all with a nit comb trying to find someone to blame. Sam’s dining with Lord Bruncker to make a plan for their defence. Though the blessed Virgin herself knows how they’ll get anything done with that harlot Madam Williams at the table.’
‘Is she to dine with them, too?’ A twinge of guilt made Deb concentrate harder on her hemming.
‘She’s always there, sticks to Bruncker like goose-down. I don’t know how Sam can bear it. And what on earth can she know of the whole affair? A woman like that? I hope Sam’s all right,’ Elisabeth went on. ‘He was looking for a book he’d mislaid for hours last night, and he says his eyes are bothering him again. He wore his new spectacles last night, and now he’s even more convinced his eyesight is failing. Men. The least little thing and it’s blindness, or scrofula, or, God forbid, the plague.’
Deb could not help but laugh. In recent weeks, she and Elisabeth had grown more companionable, for when she was out and about in town, Elisabeth seemed to expand; she thrived on company, and was funny and engaging, and often far too outspoken. It made Deb warm to her. But once inside Seething Lane it was as if her husband drained all the joy of life from her.
‘Penny for them, Deb?’
‘Nothing,’ Deb said, ‘just thinking.’
‘But you’ve said hardly a word to me all morning! Take cheer, for heaven’s sake. It’s like looking at a wet winding sheet.’
‘Sorry, Elisabeth, I didn’t—’
‘You can run out and fetch the provisions. It will save Jane a task; I left my list with her in the kitchen. And a breath of fresh air might liven you up. And while you’re about it, why don’t you bring me more of that pink lining silk from the haberdashery?’
Elisabeth watched Deb from the corner of her eye, saw her fold the sewing into a precise, neat square before going downstairs. Everything Deb did was neat and unobtrusive. In fact, Deb was often so quiet going about the house you wouldn’t even know she was there.
Elisabeth let out a long sigh, put her needle and thread aside.
Of course, Sam knew she was there, there was no mistaking that; he looked for her first whenever he came home. It wasn’t really Deb’s fault, it was Sam. He tried not to let it show, but he just could not help himself. His eyes would slide to Deb and then he’d start boasting about all the important people he’d met, and Deb’s eyes would grow wide and round.
It made Elisabeth want to prick him hard with a bodkin.
She wondered if she dared to have a word with him, make sure he understood. It was one thing when he consorted with the tradespeople out of the house, she thought; she was quite prepared to ignore the terrible actress Mrs Knepp and the loose-laced bodices and even looser tongues of Doll Powell and Betty Martin. Nobody would take much notice of bawds like them, and besides, they were well away from Seething Lane and proper company.
But Deb was supposed to be her private domain; why, Deb was almost an extension of her person. She was growing a little fond of her too, now she’d understood that Deb’s aloofness was masking the fact she was shy. Woe betide Sam if he tried anything with her. A wife would not tolerate looking a fool in her own house.
Deb scanned the address of the haberdashers and realised it was close to where Abigail Williams lived. A note from her had arrived a week ago suggesting she call, but Deb hadn’t been able to get away, and another more insistent message had arrived that morning. She dared not hope it might be another reply to her notice. If she was quick, there’d be time to visit Abigail before finishing her errands.
The weak autumn sun glinted on the rippling surface of the Thames as she was punted upstream.
When she arrived at Abigail’s, she rapped hard at the door.
‘Who is it?’ Poole called, voice full of suspicion.
‘Miss Willet.’ She heard numerous bolts slide back, and Poole opened the door a mere crack. On seeing her, she stood aside without a word for Deb to enter.
Deb was faintly scandalised to find Abigail was not yet dressed, even though it was nearly eleven of the clock, but wore a faded peach-coloured robe which trailed as she walked so that Deb almost tripped over it. She greeted Deb effusively, like a long-lost friend.
‘Do you have news for me?’ Deb was eager.
‘No, I’m afraid not. I just wanted to have a little talk with you.’
‘There hasn’t been another reply?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Oh.’ Deb masked her disappointment by taking off her gloves. She wondered what was so important that it couldn’t wait.
Abigail interrupted her thoughts. ‘Did you go to White Harte Yard?’
‘Last week,’ Deb said, handing her gloves to Poole. ‘There’s nothing left, the yard was gutted, and there are still blackened flagstones where the hearths once were.’
‘Half of London’s the same.’ Abigail turned. ‘Some warme
d milk with brandy, if you can, Poole. Miss Willet looks cold to the bone.’ Her attention came back to Deb. ‘And did you find out anything?’
‘You were right. There was no trace of my mother or of Agnes. The tenant in the one remaining house had never even heard of my mother and could remember no women of their description. The whole area has been cleared. It’s staked out now for rebuilding. The note was just a hoax, designed to part you from your money. How can people be so calculating?’
Abigail shook her head in sympathy. ‘It is so sad what we have come to. Since the fire we have had such a rash of petty crime and theft. And who can blame them? People who have lost their homes and livelihoods will do anything to get a few pence. I, at least, had somewhere to go and a nest egg behind me. We must remember how lucky we are.’
Abigail made small talk about the state of the London streets until Poole returned with the drinks. They sat to sip them by the fire. The brandy fumes caught at the back of Deb’s throat and made her eyes water. She tried not to stare at Abigail’s face, which, without powder, was etched with fine lines. The crêpey skin of her neck was usually hidden by a neckerchief or fur collar.
‘Try not to be too disappointed. You have survived without her so far, haven’t you?’
‘It’s peculiar, but I never realised how much finding Mama meant to me, not until I saw White Harte Yard all burned down like that,’ she confessed. ‘It raised my hopes, made me think Mama must be out there somewhere, and I owe it to Hester, my sister, to try and find her.’
‘It’s only natural, but I wonder … whether it might be best to leave well alone.’ Abigail’s voice was all concern. ‘Come and sit here by me, and let me talk to you. I’d like to give you a little honest advice.’
Deb eased herself onto the stool next to the fireplace where Poole was now working a pair of bellows.
‘I don’t mean to make you despondent,’ Abigail said, ‘but you must consider the fact that you might never find her. Surely she would have sought you out herself if she wanted to see you? Besides, anything could have happened. She could have left London years and years ago and gone abroad. And, of course, the plague took many. The best advice I can give you is to forge a life for yourself nonetheless. Like you, I once had nothing, but now I have my own house, my own income. That is freedom.’
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