Pleasing Mr. Pepys

by Deborah Swift

  ‘Will they rebuild it, do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘Doubt it. There’s talk of amalgamating it with one of the others – St Margaret’s. I’ve been there on loan for the last two months. Dr Thurlow’s in a right stew about it. May I walk with you?’

  Deb hesitated. She did not want to say ‘no’, because she liked him. At the same time, Elisabeth had been more than clear on her rule of ‘no followers’. ‘So sorry,’ she said, ‘but not today, I’m afraid I’m pressed for time; I’ve arranged to meet someone.’

  ‘Oh.’ His face fell.

  ‘A lady,’ she said, wondering why she was reassuring him. Then, feeling even more flustered and foolish, she blurted, ‘But I could come to one of your services if you like.’ Elisabeth could hardly object to her going to church.

  ‘Would you? That would be marvellous. There’s one the day after tomorrow, six o’clock. I’m preaching, and … well, I need all the support I can muster.’

  ‘I can’t promise, but if Elisabeth doesn’t need me to sit with her, I’ll come.’

  ‘Be sure to wait for me at the church door afterwards. We could have a stroll together then.’

  Deb gave a little bob, realised that that was what servants did, and cursed herself. Jem’s eager expression showed he was pleased, and as she hurried away, she was acutely aware that he would be watching. She moved lightly, like thistledown. It was all she could do not to skip. Then she remembered the documents in her basket and was immediately sobered. Somehow she did not think the parson Jeremiah Wells would approve of an actress like Abigail Williams.

  At the Duke’s tiring house, Abigail was already waiting, dressed in a dark riding habit of damson wool with a jet trim and a hat tied down with a quantity of Seville lace. Around her neck hung another fur, this time as black and glossy as dried ink.

  ‘Come, we won’t stay here, we’ll go to the tavern where it is warm,’ Abigail said.

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t the time. Elisabeth has a terrible toothache and I’ve all the week’s shopping to do. If you could just tell me—’

  ‘A few moments. I won’t keep you long. I have some more business I want to discuss with you.’

  ‘Can it wait until after Christmas? I’m already behind with the last papers. Elisabeth needs nursing and I promised her I’d—’

  ‘No, it can’t wait.’ Abigail said, and set off down the alley, so that Deb had no option but to follow. The alleyway leading away from the Duke’s Playhouse was narrow. Half burnt-out timbers of jetty windows stretched overhead. In the gloom, Abigail’s dark figure almost disappeared.

  Deb resigned herself to it. She hurried to catch up, and Abigail cast her a knowing sideways smile. It grated on Deb, this feeling that Abigail knew exactly how to make her do her bidding. Eventually they came to a smoke-stained tavern which advertised rooms to let. They went in through the back door.

  ‘Do they not find it unusual, ladies coming in here by themselves?’ Deb asked.

  ‘They have a room set aside. It is one I always use. I pay them well for it and they know to turn a blind eye to my comings and goings. I shall be meeting someone else here after you.’

  The room they entered was cramped and gloomy, but there was a small fire smoking in the hearth. In this unlikely place, Abigail seemed too clean, with her face ghostly pale with ceruse, her twinkling rings. Deb avoided examining the stained cushion on the bench too closely and kept her elbows off the pocked table with its ring-marks of wax and grease; its dinginess and dirt offended her.

  ‘You have my copying?’

  ‘Yes. They are documents about the manning of ships, are they not?’

  Abigail stared. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I worked out the code. It was a simple substitution cipher, but the words have been organised into even lengths to make it harder to find short words like “the”. And it was clever – sometimes an extra “t” has been added to make the word lengths even, especially at the end of paragraphs. Quick and easy to produce, but hard to unravel.’ She brought out the papers and pointed at the letter “p” dotted amongst the other letters.’See here. Of course,the “p” must be an “e” – the most common letter, and from that, if I ignored the false word-spacing, I found “the” – the most common word. Then I had the “t”s and the “h”s. I had to be careful not to confuse the added “t”s with the actual “t”s. So it went on.’

  ‘Can you read it all?’

  Deb could not conceal her pride. ‘Except for some of the more complicated names. They aren’t easy to translate. You’re not angry with me, are you?’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It’s a message from Pepys to a Mr Brakes, about Clarendon, the Lord Chancellor and how he has fled. And it praises Coventry for his administration and—’

  ‘Have you been able to translate any of the other papers?’ Abigail interrupted, her eyes hard and narrow.

  ‘No,’ Deb said hastily, ‘this was the first time I tried.’ She crossed her fingers at this untruth. Unwittingly, she was getting to be quite an expert on the affairs of the navy.

  ‘Good. You don’t need to translate the things I give you. Better for you if you don’t.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just, it is not necessary.’ Her brisk manner had returned. ‘Especially with the new commission I am to give you.’

  ‘Is it more papers to decipher?’ She brightened.

  ‘Perhaps. This will be a little business on the side, apart from the copying. I have found your work most satisfactory, and you are lucky, you have access to certain information, information that I will pay for, provided you are discreet.’

  ‘What information?’

  Abigail lowered her voice. ‘You must tell nobody, understand? If I confide in you, you must not break my trust. My life, both our lives, could be at stake if you do. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’ Deb nodded, but she was bemused. Abigail’s sudden gravity intrigued her.

  ‘The King wishes to know what goes on in the Navy Office.’

  The King! Deb raised her eyebrows. No wonder Abigail was being so careful.

  Abigail’s expression showed she was pleased at the impression her words had made. ‘Since the war with the Dutch, and the naval enquiry into the Medway affair, I’ve been helping His Majesty by supplying the Crown with certain documents. The King suspects that Pepys is taking advantage of him by plundering enemy ships before their contents are inventoried to the Crown. He wants to find out if this is true.’

  ‘You mean, you are sending my documents to the King?’ She suddenly understood. So this was why she was transcribing papers. It was not for Lord Bruncker’s files at all, but so Abigail could pass them to the King. No wonder Abigail had demanded such secrecy.

  A bead of sweat had formed between her breasts, and she pressed her hand to her bodice. It seemed unbelievable that her copying, her penmanship, might at this very moment be in the actual hand of the King himself.

  ‘His Majesty was concerned that Bruncker might be withholding certain information from him and asked me to copy some of the documents. My eyes are not as good as they were and for such a client there must be no mistakes in the accuracy.’

  ‘No. I understand. I hope it is good enough. I have done my best.’

  ‘But the King is not satisfied. He also suspects Pepys is not to be trusted. These rumours – the ones saying Pepys lines his pockets from captured ships, well, they mean that he cannot trust his own officers. You have heard of Carkesse’s accusations?’

  She nodded. ‘Mr Pepys mentioned it.’

  ‘Deceiving the Crown and stealing the King’s dues is a serious business.’

  ‘I’m sure Mr Pepys would not wish to harm the King. He is his loyal servant.’

  ‘On the contrary, he was a Puritan in his youth. He had no love for the King’s father then. And I suspect none for this young pup on the throne, either.’

  Deb remembered Mr Pepys’ jibes to Elisabeth, that the King did n
ot care a whit for the country or the navy – he was too busy bedding Mrs Castlemaine.

  Abigail leaned forward again. ‘The King simply wants to know whether he can trust your Mr Pepys.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘There are papers at Pepys’ house that I want you to copy. A friend of mine, a Mr Evelyn, has heard Pepys writes a diary. If this is true, then the King would like a transcript. He does not want Pepys to know, because it would serve him well if Pepys carries on writing it.’

  Deb had a sudden vision of Mr Pepys’ cosy study, his rapt face as he played the viol, his urgent scribbling, his heaped papers in disarray on the desk behind him.

  ‘I’m not sure. It doesn’t feel right to take his private papers. There might be consequences for other people, and I don’t want to be responsible.’

  It was as if she hadn’t spoken. Abigail leaned in close. ‘The King wants copies of Pepys’ documents. Anything at all he brings home from the office. They will need to be copied carefully and then returned precisely to their place. But most especially his diary. You will need to be even more careful with that; according to Evelyn, Pepys was boasting he used a personal cipher. And the copying must be word for word, stroke for stroke. There must be no mistakes if the documents are going to His Majesty.’

  ‘But I’ll lose my place if they find out! And Mrs Pepys might be something of a fusser, but she has been a good employer.’

  ‘It will be lucrative. The King pays me very well to be his eyes and ears, and in turn I will pay you handsomely when you retrieve the information I need. Besides, as his subject, you have a duty to the King. Not to help him would be … how shall I put it? Treason.’

  Abigail turned away a moment, took a draught of ale.

  Deb did not reach for her drink. Surely Abigail could not mean it? The walls of the tavern seemed to have closed in on her. She balled up her skirt in her hand, seized by a desire to run, but Abigail seemed to read her mind. She fixed her with her glittering dark eyes. ‘You have little choice. What the King demands is more important than any personal loyalty. Besides, I want to see you rise in society, Deb dear. Think of it! You will be working for the King himself. Who knows where that might lead?’

  ‘But how will I find the time? Already Mrs Pepys—’

  ‘Her? You’ll find a way round her. She’s just another stupid French pauper who bedded her way into society.’

  Deb was shocked. ‘Don’t talk about her like that. They are respectable people.’ The words were out before she realised the irony of them. ‘You’re rushing me. I need to think, to order it in my thoughts.’

  Abigail shrugged. ‘Dig deep beneath any gilded surface and you will find the same dirt. Best choose the thickest gold you can.’

  ‘But what if Mr Pepys catches me doing it?’

  ‘That must not happen. Knowing Pepys as I do, I’ll wager he is perfectly aware of you, and there’s profit in that, too, if you keep your wits.’

  Deb blushed. How had she guessed?

  ‘I don’t know how much longer I can stay there. I was hoping that you might be able to—’

  ‘No.’ Abigail cut her off. ‘You must stay at the Pepyses for now.’

  ‘He’s … he’s very insistent.’

  Abigail looked at her shrewdly. ‘Then you are fortunate. There will be more leverage in it. You will need to make sure every little transaction is an exchange though; that he gives you something you want in return. Something you can gain by … like his papers.’

  Was she suggesting she should sell her favours? Deb straightened her back, set her jaw. ‘No. Not that. I can’t—’

  Abigail smiled, though her expression was cold, her eyes darkening. ‘Perhaps you need a little more persuasion.’ Abigail drew out the white book from her leather bag and held it out. ‘It is no good protesting, for you have already begun. Didn’t you guess? Of course, I could always take your copying to the magistrate. Theft from your employer is a hanging offence …’

  Deb stared at it, not comprehending.

  ‘You stole this, did you not, from Mr Pepys’ office?’

  ‘Lord Bruncker’s book, yes.’

  ‘Not my Lord Bruncker’s, no. This book belongs to Mr Pepys.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  FROM ABOVE, ELISABETH’S GROANS echoed down the stairs, for another day had passed and the bad tooth was worse than ever. Deb scurried up and down with cloves and feverfew. Elisabeth did not deserve such torture, Deb thought, no matter how much she frayed Deb’s temper.

  As Deb mixed a soothing draught, she brooded over her meeting with Abigail, unable to resolve the dilemma. The churning in the pit of her stomach had left her sleepless and exhausted. To distract them both she tried reading to Elisabeth one of her favourite romances.

  ‘For God’s sake, leave me in peace!’Elisabeth yelled after only half a paragraph. Deb went, but left her howling like a woman in labour, coddling her jaw.

  Deb was so frightened by how bad it was she decided to brave Mr Pepys in his study. ‘I beg you, sir, send for the tooth puller straightaway. She cannot go on like this.’

  ‘Is that what she wishes?’ he asked.

  ‘No, she fears it. But something must be done or her face will be ruined. It is the size of a cow’s udder now.’

  ‘I had better go and see,’ he said. But he made no move. ‘Just a little kiss first, to welcome me home, hey, Deb?’ He held out his arms.

  ‘Your wife needs you, sir,’ she said. ‘Best look to her.’ She almost ran down the stairs.

  When she got to the kitchen she looked over her shoulder, but he was not following.

  ‘Mr Pepys, is it?’ Jane asked wryly. ‘I wondered how long it would be.’

  ‘Is he always the same? But why? Elisabeth dotes on him.’

  ‘I don’t know. Because he can, I suppose. But it’s turned into a sort of weakness with him. The women in the market, the orange girls at the theatre, we all let him touch a bit; we have to, to keep him sweet. Men like him, they’re our living, see? I’m warning you, though, Elisabeth’s got wise to what he’s like, so best if you don’t go encouraging him.’

  ‘I’m not—’ Deb’s protestation was interrupted by Mr Pepys’ footsteps coming down the stairs.

  They shut their mouths and curtsied, red-faced.

  ‘She won’t have the tooth pulled,’ he said, ‘but she says I can send for Hollier. My boy’s already out on an errand. Would you hurry over and tell him to call, Deb? Here’s his address.’

  So Deb had to fetch Hollier, the chirurgeon, who looked like an old goat with his greying beard and watery eyes. But he could only do what they had already done, which was to lay on poultices and give Elisabeth brandy. When at last she looked to be sleeping, Deb told Jane she was going to church.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘I thought to send up prayers for Elisabeth.’

  Jane looked sceptical, but could not object, so Deb bundled on her cloak, pulling up the hood against the freezing rain. But instead of St Olave’s, she hastened into the city until she came to St Gabriel’s. By the time she got there it was sleeting, and the service had started, but gratefully she slipped inside at the back. She hoped no one who knew the Pepyses would be there. It was most irregular for her to be out at night without her mistress.

  She hoped she might be just in time to hear Mr Well’s sermon. Her stomach danced a flutter at the thought of him. She told herself it would give her time to think, to pray about the business with Abigail Williams and the King.

  The ramshackle wooden church was lit by candles which shivered in the draught, making the whole place like a flickering cavern. Not many had turned out in this bitter weather with the sleet lashing against the roof and water dripping through the gaps between the wooden tiles.

  Deb sat near the back and was warmed to see Mr Wells welcome the congregation with a hearty, ‘God be with you.’ It was a moment before he spotted her, but when he did, his eyes caught hers, and her insides quickened. She had to look down in
to her lap at her prayer book so he wouldn’t see how hot she’d become.

  The sermon was on the Good Shepherd, something Deb was rather over-familiar with, but she settled down to listen, watching his animated face persuade her of the usefulness of sheep.

  ‘If you grew up in the country like I did,’ he said, his voice ringing out from the pulpit, ‘you’d know that sheep are foolish beasts – little sense of direction and no sharp teeth or claws to protect them, so is it any surprise then that they need guidance?’ He glanced around to check people were listening. Behind Deb, a woman coughed, but Jem fired on, leaning forward in the pulpit, arms spread wide as if to embrace the meagre congregation.

  ‘How much are we like sheep? Is it any wonder that the Bible repeatedly reminds humans of their need for a shepherd? Sheep are not bad, just lost. They need help to find the right path. The good shepherd doesn’t allow his sheep to wander, but instead he feeds his flock with a proper source of nourishment, something that will both sustain and improve them. On what, though? Why, the Word of God of course! For the Scriptures are the only words that are given from the Great Shepherd Himself. Those words are the only words that will satisfy the hunger of the flock.’

  Deb was stirred by his speech. He made it sound so simple, this putting yourself in the arms of the Good Shepherd. As if the world was full of moral certainties, not the foggy choices that had plagued her life since she had come to London. She baulked at the idea of deceiving the Pepyses, yet she could not, in all conscience, disobey her sovereign, God’s representative on earth.

  When the time came to kneel, she groaned under her breath, pressed her clasped hands to her forehead. She needed Mr Wells’ self-assurance, his conviction, to know whether she was doing the right thing. Looking at him, it seemed he had not a doubting bone in his body, with his face all glowing and his eyes sparkling with health, and the promise that the glory of the Lord was all his for the taking.

  He intoned the Lord’s Prayer to the congregation, his eyes closed, face upturned. In the candlelight, she thought she had never seen a more beautiful human being. Awed, at the end of the service she waited for him nervously at the church door.