‘I’ll not give up yet. Someone might still reply to my notice.’
‘Of course,’ Abigail said smoothly, ‘and naturally I will send for you the moment I hear anything more. But you must be realistic, make other plans in case nobody replies.’
‘I know it sounds fanciful, but I get these strange prickling sensations, as if she’s thinking of me. I know she’s still alive, I can just feel it.’ Deb gripped her skirts, tried not to let her emotion show. ‘But I’m older now, and I need to face up to it, to know why she left. What happened to her, and where she is now. I think I can bear it, to know the truth. It was a man, I guess, from my aunt’s hints, and my father’s anger. But how could she do that? Just walk out on her children without a word?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know. But love – well, it can send a person to madness.’
‘I shall never fall in love.’
Abigail smiled. ‘Don’t tempt Mistress Fate! The trick is to keep your head. It strikes where it will, like lightning, and mostly with little thought for our convenience. But love or no love, you don’t want to be serving Elisabeth Pepys for ever, do you?’
Poole, who was still mending the fire, turned to stare at her.
‘That will do, Poole,’ Abigail said sharply.
Poole backed away under Abigail’s glare and shut the door behind her.
‘My beauty may fade,’ Abigail said, ‘but my pocket is well lined. A woman must make use of her assets while they last. I know you are still young, but it is never too early to put a little money aside. Besides, Deb dear, you have a quick mind, just as I do. Your intelligence is wasted as a lady’s maid. How would you like to work for me?’
‘Is that why you sent for me?’ She was confused. ‘But I don’t—’
Abigail held out a hand to stay her words. ‘Tell me the essential skills a lady’s maid needs?’ Deb was about to speak when Abigail threw her arms dramatically wide. ‘Flattering your mistress, am I right? “Oh, mistress, you look perfectly radiant!” Nodding your head like a simpleton at every word she says. Talking of nothing of substance while wielding a hairbrush – something any fool could do.’ Abigail patted her side-curls, pushed out her bottom lip, and suddenly she looked exactly like Mrs Pepys. “Deb, pass me the crimping iron!”‘
Deb could not help smiling, despite herself.
‘I know, I’m wicked! But do you see? Youth is always the first requirement in a lady’s maid, not scholarship. When you get older and less … how can I say … decorative, they’ll replace you. But I’m prepared to help you, to push you forward in society, give you something of consequence to do. Something that will use your learning and education.’
Deb was intrigued. ‘I’m flattered. But I don’t see how I can … I am already working for Mrs Pepys.’
‘You would not need to leave the Pepyses. This would be a little side-business.’
‘How so?’
‘I noticed what a good hand you write. I could urgently use a scribe. Someone to make copies of navy documents. Lord Bruncker likes to have duplicates of his office papers, and then have them bound up in ledgers for future reference. As you have probably gathered, he is often forgetful. He’s always misplacing his things. I used to be happy to do it, but my eyes are not as young as they were. It’s a strain, all these papers.’
So after all that, it was only copying. Not really anything that required much skill, and Mrs Pepys already kept her busy enough. Deb opened her mouth to refuse, but Abigail jumped in.
‘Do say you will. My eyes suffer so.’ She put her hand to her forehead. Deb caught the sudden impression of someone small and frail. Deb had always thought Abigail had a backbone of iron.
Deb wavered. Perhaps Abigail was older than she appeared.
‘It is only a few things,’ Abigail said, ‘but they need to be copied exactly. Like all navy documents, one or two are in cipher, but that need not concern you. You won’t need to translate, just copy. It’s such dull stuff that I used to regularly fall asleep reading it. But your eyes are young and strong. Do say you’ll help me. It’s only a little favour, for me and Lord B, as friends do for each other.’
Abigail smiled entreatingly at her, and Deb remembered Abigail’s kindness in taking her under her wing and letting her use her address on the notice. She would do her this favour in return. After all, she was fortunate, was she not, to have the patronage of this grande dame? Besides, the idea of the cipher had piqued her curiosity; she loved anything that played with words or numbers.
‘Beg pardon, Abigail,’ she said. ‘Of course I’m happy to help you. I didn’t realise your eyes were so bad.’
‘It comes and it goes,’ Abigail said, shrugging. She stood and walked purposefully to the desk. ‘The first copying will be from this document.’ She opened a drawer, pulled out a paper and handed it to Deb.
Deb glanced down at it. It was a letter from Mr Mennes to Lord Bruncker, about a forthcoming Navy Board meeting, but fortunately not in code. She could read every word. There was an official stamp at the top of the paper.
‘But you must keep quiet about it, not a word to Mr Pepys, for he and Lord B do not always see eye to eye on navy business.’
Deb swallowed. Keeping anything secret in the Pepys house would be almost impossible.
Abigail was still speaking. ‘Can you let me have the copy by Friday?’
‘I don’t know if I can manage it by then … I mean, if I’ve to keep it out of Mr Pepys’ sight, then—’
‘Discretion is part of our bargain. I am only asking you, my dear, because I’m sure you are absolutely trustworthy.’
‘I’m really not sure …’ Deb held out the paper to Abigail, hoping she would take it back, but Abigail walked away. Deb had the same tight feeling in her chest as when she used to live with Aunt Beth.
‘Friday then,’ Deb said uncertainly, and was rewarded with a glowing smile. She was about to tuck the paper into her basket, but Abigail stayed her.
‘No, no! Be careful!’ Abigail snapped, and hurried to pass her a calfskin folder to put the paper in. ‘It must not be marked or creased. It has to come back to me in exactly the same state as it went.’
Deb had the sense that she was wading into deep water, but had no idea how to extricate herself. A maid in her position had to do a lady’s bidding, and even though Elisabeth called Abigail a harlot, she was still Lord Bruncker’s chosen companion, and it certainly would not do to offend her.
‘Now then, you will need to leave me. My Lord B and Mr Pepys and all the Navy Board are meeting me in town for dinner, and I still have to dress.’
‘Beg pardon, Abigail. I didn’t mean to keep you from your business.’
‘You haven’t. Thank you for coming. It is always a pleasure to see my little friend.’ The dazzling smile again. ‘Don’t trust Lord B’s paper with a messenger. They are unreliable. I’ll send for you in a few days and pay you on delivery.’
‘If that’s best. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Remember, not a word to Mr Pepys. Lord Bruncker does not want the rest of the Board to know how forgetful he is, and Pepys’ mouth is like a tavern door – never closed.’
Deb swung the basket back and forth on her arm, weaving between the stalls set up on either side of the street. Elisabeth’s shopping list was in her hand, though she was not thinking of the list, but of Abigail Williams and the tasks she had set her to do. True, Abigail had done Deb a favour by helping her search for her mother, and it would be useful to have a friend like Abigail if she wanted to continue to look, but now, on closer acquaintance, she realised she found Abigail overbearing.
Deb went in the baker’s to fetch the loaf, and then hurried along to buy a rind of cheese and the rest of the groceries. All the time she was thinking. The extra payments from Abigail would mean a possible dowry for Hester. She had worried about whether she was saving enough. But something about the whole business with the copying felt out of kilter. It was not the fact that Lord Bruncker needed copies of his pa
pers, but more the fact that Abigail should employ her secretly instead of Lord Bruncker himself asking a navy clerk to do it. It seemed odd. And the whiff of conspiracy about it made her wary.
She was absent-mindedly staring into a furrier’s window, when a growing rumble and commotion behind her made her turn to look. A great tide of people was bearing down on her in a clatter of clogs. As they grew nearer, the other pedestrians pressed themselves back under the jetties to give them room, and Deb was forced to dodge behind a timber pillar.
A heavy-laden coal cart coming up the street towards her stopped, unable to move to the left or right, swamped by the crowd. Deb had never seen a poorer, more unwashed rabble. Instinctively she shrank away. Sailors and their wives, by the look and smell of them, and in a high old temper. The stench of them made her retreat even further, but more and more people poured into the street and soon all she could see were the stained shirts and jerkins of those closest. She stood on tiptoe and craned her neck, looking for a way out, but the cart was blocking the way, and the driver could not reverse his horses.
‘Back up,’ she heard the shouts. ‘Back up, for God’s sake!’ But the cart was jammed.
More of the crowd pressed forward until there was barely an inch of room on the street. An elbow dug into Deb’s side, and somebody trod on her foot as they pushed past.
‘What’s the hold-up? We’ve got to get to White Hall by one o’clock,’ said a woman in a filthy and battered felt cap who had crammed herself in next to Deb.
‘I don’t know,’ Deb said, trying to give her space. ‘I think the cart’s stuck.’
There was a sudden surge, the cart creaked into motion, and the flow of people burst forward with a great roar of triumph. Deb fought to stay on her feet, clutching her basket to her skirts. She felt a tug, and the basket almost flew from her grip. A man’s sword hilt was caught in the wicker handle, and the owner of the sword, oblivious, charged onwards. Deb clung tight to the basket, fearful of what Elisabeth would say if she lost it.
‘Please! Please stop!’ She yanked on the handle.
But the man could not feel her tugs and she had no option but to be taken with him. Suddenly, feeling the extra weight dragging him back, the man turned in annoyance, and with a deft flip, he freed his sword. Deb overbalanced and fell backwards. Her head cracked against a pillar supporting an upper storey and then all she could see was a blur of clogs and hems of skirts. A boot came down on her shoulder. Disorientated, she struggled to get up, but another wave of people knocked her to the side.
She clung to the pillar, dazed, and tried to haul her way to standing.
‘Oh, Miss Willet! What’s happened? Let me help you up.’ A pair of strong hands hoisted her to her feet and set her back to upright.
Startled, she looked into his face. It was that young man again – Mr Wells. He seemed to be everywhere, and always when she was at her least attractive. He was still talking, holding out her basket for her to take. He stooped to retrieve the loaf. ‘Are these things yours?’
One of the sailors hurrying down the road in the crowd stopped and rushed across, a big bull-like fellow in a knitted cap. He clapped Mr Wells on the shoulder. ‘Come on, Jem, we’ll be late.’
‘I’ll be along in a minute,’ he said, ‘don’t wait.’ The other man ran to catch up with the throng. ‘My brother, Bart,’ Mr Wells explained. ‘We’re on our way to White Hall.’
‘My things,’ she said, in a panic, searching the ground for the rest of the goods that had tumbled out of the basket. The calfskin folder lay in the dirt. She picked it up and brushed it guiltily with her sleeve.
Mr Wells scooped up a flattened parcel wrapped in brown paper. ‘Is this yours?’
‘Oh no!’ She prodded it gingerly. ‘I mean, yes, it’s a cheese. Well, it was a cheese. Now it looks more like a flatbread.’ She took the limp parcel from his hand and rubbed her shoulder.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Just a bit winded.’
‘There’s a boot print on your dress,’ he said, reaching out his hand to brush her down.
Their eyes met. The effect was to strike Deb momentarily dumb. An unspoken question hung between them. Something urgent that must be answered at all costs. His hand rested on her shoulder, hot through the thin linen fabric.
She stepped backwards away from him and busied herself brushing her sleeve; anything to hide her confusion and the hot flush of her cheeks.
‘I didn’t realise it was you,’ he said. ‘I mean, not at first.’
‘Of course it’s me,’ she said, feeling quite unlike herself. Realising that this sounded foolish, she took a deep breath. ‘What’s this about?’ she managed. ‘Why’s everyone in such a hurry?’
‘It’s the sailors. They’re going to see if they can get Parliament to pay off their tickets. Bart, that’s my brother, well, he persuaded me to try and speak up for them. They’re the crews that defended us in the trouble with the Dutch. Maybe you’ve heard? They’ve not been paid yet. Tempers can get a bit hot.’
‘They look like a crowd who mean business.’
‘Oh, don’t say that! That’s what I’m afraid of. And I’m supposed to be the voice of reason.’ He shook his head.
She laughed. ‘You don’t sound very confident.’
‘I’m not. But Bart’s very persuasive. He thinks because I’ve given a sermon every now and then, I’m an expert speaker. Here,’ he bent down to retrieve a squashed cone of sugar which was now loose and gritty in its waxed paper.
‘Are you a man of the church then?’ she asked him, though she already knew the answer from Mr Pepys.
‘For my sins, yes. Or, rather, not quite. I’m still in training.’ He flashed a smile. ‘But I think I’ve got rather a long way to go.’
They stood a moment in red-faced silence. He was staring at her foolishly, head tilted, as if she should speak.
‘You’d better catch up with your brother then,’ she said, ‘and thank you.’
‘Not at all. I have to say it was a bit of a shock. I wasn’t expecting to see you down there. When I’ve seen you before you’ve usually been upright. With the head at the top.’
Despite herself, she could not help but smile at his good humour. ‘Except when I’m mowed down by a savage dog, perhaps?’
He grinned.
‘Oy! Jem!’ The brother reappeared at the corner, waving his arms.
‘I’d like to …’ He stopped, mid-sentence, as if the words would not come.
After a moment of awkwardness she filled the space. ‘Your brother’s waving.’
‘Oh. Oh yes. Good day then, Miss Willet.’
He raised his hat and loped off down the street. His heels rang on the cobbles, as he hurried away, cloak flying. He turned once to look over his shoulder at her, before skidding around the corner out of sight.
Her blood was racing, whether from the shock of falling or from meeting Mr Wells again, she did not know. She slapped at her skirts to free them of mud, and tidied her hair, wincing when she touched a bump just coming up on the side of her head. She liked him, she realised. Just as a friend, of course. That was twice he’d had to rescue her, and both times she had made a fool of herself.
Elisabeth’s rules were definite: ‘no followers’. But surely that wouldn’t apply to parsons like Mr Wells?
Chapter Eleven
THAT NIGHT THE WIND GOT UP, making the shutters rattle, and the soot blow down the chimney. It made Jem restless. Bart had gone to the Black Bull with his cronies, so Jem took himself out for a walk to the river. Above him, stars glinted like sparks above the gusting evening smoke.
He took off his hat before he lost it to the wind, and his hair blew about his face so he had to hold it back with one hand. A double-masted schooner took his attention as it was rowed into its berth. It gave him a pang, for he had always wanted to go to sea, and he resented his father’s insistence that, as the eldest, he should join the church and Bart should be the one to see the world. But now the idea of bei
ng a sailor was beginning to lose its appeal. He definitely wouldn’t like to be dealing with intractable men like Pepys.
Ten days ago, when he’d gone to the Navy Offices, Pepys had shaken his head, licked his pudgy finger to separate his papers, and said, ‘When the crews are paid is the King’s decision. Nothing I can do.’
He’d like to see Pepys try to manage with no pay. He hoped he paid Miss Willet a decent wage. Jem found himself unable to forget Crawley’s words – that Pepys would give her ‘more of an education’. The thought made him want to grab Pepys by his cravat and punch him, but he had to content himself with kicking the wall. Today again, when he’d seen Miss Willet knocked flat like that, all vulnerable with her petticoats showing, he’d had the same urge to rush to her defence.
But what a day! The sailors couldn’t secure an audience with any of the navy officers. Bart and Bolton and some of the others, already drunk and spoiling for a fight, had taken umbrage and set to looting a nearby pie shop. The atmosphere rapidly turned sour, cobblestones and other missiles began to fly, and in the end the King’s soldiers were called to rout them all. Jem had been obliged to duck and dive before he managed to drag Bart away by the scruff of the neck.
Jem stopped to lean over the wall and watch the dark hulks of the barges go by. His thoughts returned to Miss Willet. Crawley was right, though, Miss Willet was a beauty. Those strange clear grey eyes. It was odd how their paths kept crossing, as if there were some hidden destiny at work. He thought again of how light she was when he lifted her up. She’d blushed when he looked at her, and it had touched him with something like pain. He was always awkward with women; he never knew what to say to them. But if he could come home to someone like that, perhaps a life on land would be worth it after all.
He looked up at the stars again, his heart straining, yearning for something, something ineffable. In all his studies of theology, he had not found an answer for the yearning the stars gave him. The piercing desire for something out of reach.
Pleasing Mr. Pepys Page 9