Pleasing Mr. Pepys

by Deborah Swift

  ‘I saw you at the back,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you’re still here.’

  He was waiting for her to say something. All at once she was too shy to meet his gaze. ‘It was a good sermon, Mr Wells … wonderful, I mean.’

  An expression of relief lit up his face. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘If you liked it you must come back another day. And it’s Jem, to my friends.’

  ‘I don’t know if I’ll be allowed – Mr Pepys likes us all to worship at St Olave’s. He calls it “our little church”.’

  ‘“Little church”? Good heavens! It’s enormous. I can’t compete with St Olave’s. As you can see, here we need all the faithful we can get. Only three more evening services until Christmas Eve, would you believe? I could do to go out with my crook and round up a few more lost sheep!’ His laughter was deep and warm. Deb had been impressed with how he had preached and was entranced now by his good humour.

  After the last worshipper had left, Jem threw on a cloak and locked up the hefty wooden door. He thrust the key in his waistcoat pocket, blew on his hands then rubbed them together, and set off purposefully in the direction of the Thames. ‘I know the weather isn’t ideal, but shall we have a stroll on the bridge?’ he asked.

  She nodded and they jostled their way past all the other folk trying to pass over the river. The sleet gave way to an intermittent drizzle. When her cloak flapped open, he slipped his arm in hers and she was surprised to feel the heat of his arm through her woollen sleeve. And he’d asked her to call him ‘Jem’. It gave her a tingle of excitement. She told him about Hollier’s visit and how Elisabeth was in too much pain to want company. In turn, he told her about how he had come up from Cambridge to work with the church on helping the many poor and dispossessed of London.

  The way he talked of it made it sound easy and straightforward, the collecting of stale, unsold bread from bakeries all over London, distributing it from a hand barrow. She was amazed he did this. Her aunt had always taught her that the homeless poor were to be avoided at all costs, as if poverty was a disease you could catch.

  About a third of the way across the bridge, burnt-out houses gave way to buildings that had escaped the fire, and Jem led her through a narrow alley between the two blocks of houses. From here they could look down to the ‘starlings’ below, where the water funnelled through in a foaming brown tide. Looking down made her shiver, partly from cold and partly from fear.

  Jem put his arm about her shoulders to steady her. ‘I love looking down, don’t you? Especially knowing that we’re safe up here behind these walls.’

  They watched the water churn and gush below. Deb’s stomach was churning too, but with a strange anticipation. Suddenly light-headed, she stood up to move away, but he caught her in his arms, looked into her face.

  A cold spot of rain dropped on her cheek. ‘I’d like to kiss you,’ he said. ‘I’ve wanted to ever since I first set eyes on you, but I think it too soon, so I’ll not presume to ask.’

  She pulled away, from some habit of self-preservation, and because she did not know how to answer. Was he asking her, or wasn’t he?

  ‘Oh, I’ve offended you,’ he said.

  ‘No, no you haven’t.’ She was suddenly and unaccountably tearful. She wanted him to kiss her. If he did, it might be like a charm, a touch of holiness that would ward off Mr Pepys. She swallowed, looked away. She did not want to feel so affected by – no, confused by – this man.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t open my big mouth before I’ve had time to think. I do beg your pardon. I’m not used to female company. Too much sitting in church meetings. You must be cold. I’ll walk you back to Seething Lane now, and I promise I won’t mention it again.’

  The trouble was, she really wanted him to mention it again. She didn’t want to go home to Mr Pepys, nor did she want to carry out Abigail’s instructions of copying his diary for the King. She wanted to stay out here on the bridge where she didn’t have to make any decisions.

  And all the while they were walking back, she walked stiffly, Jem’s every touch on her arm like a fire burning through the cloth of her sleeve, through her chemise, to make the hairs on her arms stand up as if they, too, wanted to be noticed. She did not want him to take his arm away – she was alight with the touch of him and how it might feel to have her first kiss.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE NEXT DAY, IN AMONGST a deluge of letters for the Pepyses, presumably containing seasonal greetings, there were two letters for Deb. One showed Hester’s girlish writing, the other Aunt Beth’s spiky hand. Aunt Beth rarely wrote, and when she did it was always about money. Deb opened it with trepidation.

  “19th December 1667

  Dear Deborah,

  I write to inform you that I can no longer keep Hester at home, as I intend to pay an extended visit to your father in Ireland. I need to see for myself what ails his business. He tells me he has debts. I can scarcely believe this to be true, but so he says.

  After the New Year, Hester will either have to return with me to her father, which she insists she has no wish to do, or you must make arrangements for her to stay at school. Of course, if she is to continue with her schooling at Bow then she must be prepared to take board with the school, and it will be at your expense.

  I asked your father for assistance, but he denied her. Things must be bad. He will only help if she returns to Ireland, which the foolish girl refuses to consider. I’m at my wits’ end what to do with her, because as I told her father, she is becoming quite ungovernable.

  I await your speedy reply …”

  The second letter was, as she had anticipated, a hurriedly scribbled appeal from Hester begging to stay at school. It had an address in Henley at the top, so Deb scanned it with concern.

  “Oh joy! You can see from the address that Lavinia has invited me to stay with her for their Christmas festivities. Wasn’t that kind of them? I was simply dreading having to go to Aunt Beth. She is worse since you went, the birch always in her hand, convinced I am on the verge of some misdeed. I can never do right by her, no matter what I do.

  Now she says I’m to give up my schooling and must go to Father in Ireland. Please, Deb, I can barely remember him, and I couldn’t bear it, to be so far from England and you. And I know if I had to have three days on a ship with Aunt Beth I’d be ready to throw myself off into the sea! And just when I was mastering my Latin declensions!

  I wondered if I could come to you? You could tell Mrs Pepys I’d be quiet as a mouse, and I hardly eat anything. I’d be no trouble if you’d have me.”

  Deb folded both letters and put them in the drawer of her travelling trunk. She could not let Hester go to Ireland; that was clear. Father did not want her, and Aunt Beth only kept her under sufferance. No, money would have to be found to keep her at school. And certainly she could not come to London. The very thought of her being under the same roof as Mr Pepys, and subject to his wandering palms, made Deb hug her arms around her chest, as if protecting her own heart would somehow protect Hester.

  No matter what happened, Hester must stay at Bow where she was safe, and Deb would have to find the money for her board somehow.

  The sun rose smouldering over the city as Deb rinsed out the nit comb and shook it hard, trying to still her nerves. Above, she heard the faint moan as Elisabeth tossed and turned, still in pain. She picked up the tray and knocked softly on Mr Pepys’ study door. As yet, she had not been able to muster the courage to try to find out where Mr Pepys’ diary was. She kept putting it off, knowing he was sharp and perhaps would see through her clumsy enquiries, and she was scared of being alone with him, of the awkwardness of having to negotiate his desire for her.

  But Abigail’s word ‘treason’ had shaken her – she knew what happened to traitors. She’d seen the convict ships setting sail for faraway heathen lands, the dangling half-fleshed bones on the tree at Tyburn.

  If finding the diary was the way to fund Hester’s schooling, then she had better begin now. She rememb
ered Abigail telling her that a woman must be practical, and line her pocket while she could. Deb could see the sense in it, and reasoning this way gave her the illusion that she had a choice.

  She knocked again, louder.

  ‘Come, come!’ Mr Pepys, always an early riser, threw open the door, then trotted over and patted the chair next to his, where he had set out some books and maps on the table.

  Deb saw that his boy servant was not there, so when she took the chair, she first pulled it away a little more out of reach. Mr Pepys countered by nudging his own chair closer and reaching his arm round her shoulder. Deb felt its weight, just as she felt the weight of her responsibility to the King.

  ‘Elisabeth asks if you will consider new curtains,’ Deb began. ‘She says the chamber is too draughty, now she has to lie in it all day.’

  ‘Again?’ Mr Pepys huffed out a long breath. ‘We only just changed them. Never mind that, I’ve brought you a pamphlet with pictures of the proposed plans for London. You can have first look, before I take it to show everyone at the office.’ He tapped his finger on the map. ‘Look, it shows the rebuilt Exchange and plans for St Paul’s. I have to say, these buildings look mighty fine, don’t you think?’

  Deb stood again to look, dodging his other hand, which was on its way to her bottom. ‘Is that what the Exchange will look like?’ Despite herself, she was interested. Plans and maps had always intrigued her, and these plans made the new trading hall look impressive.

  ‘Aha! I knew you’d agree with me! Splendid, isn’t it? It’s to be designed by Mr Wren, in the Italian style. Bigger than the last, with wider aisles. And see here – the new St Paul’s might even have a covered alley for the booksellers to congregate. Come and sit here on my knee, and I’ll show you.’

  She moved to the other side of the table. ‘You must be one of the bookmen’s best customers, Mr Pepys. When I came, I’d never seen so many books, not owned by one man. Not even locked in the library at my school.’

  Mr Pepys smiled. ‘They are my one weakness. I’m thinking of having these new ones bound too, so that they match the volumes I have in the cases.’ He pointed to the bookshelves behind him.

  ‘Sir, have you never thought of writing a book yourself?’

  ‘Often. But I have not the time. The Navy Board and the Treasury demand too much of my leisure. So no. Perhaps when I’m old and grey.’

  Deb took a deep breath. ‘Elisabeth told me you write your pages every day …’

  ‘Did she? Well, that’s true, but it is not for the public. It’s a record only for my own interest.’

  ‘What do you put in it?’

  ‘Oh, this and that. The day’s events, where I’ve been and so forth.’ He patted his chest as if to congratulate himself.

  ‘Am I in it?’ She gave him her most coquettish look.

  ‘No, my dove. It’s things about politics mostly.’

  ‘Elisabeth?’

  He laughed, but rubbed his chin, embarrassed. ‘No, not really. Only in passing. It’s a record of the times. How things are turning out now the King is back. I never thought I’d keep it up, but once I’ve begun something, well, I can’t seem to stop. I call it a chronicle. Though you would have had to have lived through the wars and Cromwell’s day for it to have much meaning, and you’re far too y—. I mean, you would likely find it dull.’

  ‘It sounds like a fine idea. I know so little about those times, and I’d love to see something you’ve written. Won’t you let me have a little peep?’

  The battle went on in his face; he was flattered she was taking so much interest, but was still reluctant to show it to her. Finally, he said, ‘I’m afraid the pages wouldn’t make much sense to you. I write in tachygraphy.’

  ‘I’m not familiar with tachy—?’ she said, although she already knew of the word. She moved closer to Mr Pepys again and traced her finger over the pamphlet in front of them.

  He swallowed, his gaze trailing over the front of her bodice. ‘Shorthand. I use it for taking notes at meetings and when I need to write something fast.’

  She went to stand next to him. ‘I’ve never seen it. How does it work?’

  ‘It’s too complicated for you to be studying, Deb. It’s not something you will ever need.’ He nuzzled his face into her shoulder. ‘Now, sit here on my lap, and let’s look at these plans.’

  She stepped away. ‘I could write the lists for Elisabeth. Imagine, me going to the market with my shorthand!’

  He laughed.

  ‘And you could write someone a message, and nobody else would be able to read it,’ she said slyly. ‘Except someone else who could read shorthand.’

  She saw him consider this advantage by the way he scratched his forehead where it met his wig. ‘Little minx, you’ve pressed me. Go on then, fetch me that quill over there, and I’ll show you.’

  She went over to the side table and picked up the quill and bottle. Meanwhile, he had bustled across to a drawer and pulled out a piece of parchment. He laid it out flat, weighted it, and uncorked the ink.

  ‘Shelton’s method,’ he said. ‘Look, this is what we do. Come, sit here.’ He hitched her onto one knee where she sat uncomfortably. It felt odd and undignified to have her feet dangle off the ground. She hadn’t done this since she was a child.

  Mr Pepys dipped his quill into the bottle and drew out a series of signs, more like squiggles than actual letters. ‘These are the consonants,’ he said. ‘And then these are the vowels.’ A series of diagonal strokes with little cups beside them. ‘Tall, tell, till, toll, tull, teal …’With each word his fingers walked further up her thigh. He had made her a child, and she resented it.

  She stood his touch as long as she could. Many of the documents she had copied for Abigail were written in a similar way, and she had worked it out without any help, but this was a different and more complex system altogether.

  Her attention was brought back with a jolt as Mr Pepys’ hand tried to go between her legs. She slid off his knee, just in time. His hand grabbed for her skirts but she twitched them away.

  He caught her by the shoulder. ‘Shall I write your name, little Deb?’ His voice was breathy in her ear.

  ‘In shorthand?’ She spied the advantage immediately. ‘I should like to see that. How about … the cat sat on the mat? In shorthand though, to show me how it’s done.’ She kept her distance, alert as a stalked deer.

  He picked up his pen. Made a few deft strokes on a scrap of paper. Then more. Soon he was scribbling furiously. When he’d done, she saw him add a flourish, his quill sweeping an extravagant curlicue across the paper.

  ‘Come and see,’ he said.

  She walked over and looked over his shoulder at the unfathomable dark strokes. The symbols were written in short lines, like a poem.

  ‘Can you read it?’ he asked.

  She shook her head, though she was already running through possibilities, trying to solve the puzzle.

  ‘Just as well.’ He stood, took her face between his hands. ‘You are beautiful,’ he said.

  From upstairs came the sound of Elisabeth’s muffled voice, calling thickly, ‘Sam? Are you not ready yet? You’ll be late. They’ll be waiting for you at the office. Tell Deb I need more cloves, and my fire’s nearly burned out.’

  He turned away suddenly, as though a bucket of cold water had soused him from above.

  ‘Coming now, dear,’ he called.

  Deb curtseyed, aware all at once of her precarious position in the household. ‘Your vest and coat are on the hook, sir, and your hot water’s on the side. Can I keep this, the note?’

  He slapped his hand down on the sheet to stop her taking it. ‘What will you give me, my pretty dove?’

  Deb froze, but did not let go of the sheet.

  ‘One kiss?’

  Deb faltered. She thought of Jem. He’d said he wanted to kiss her on the bridge, and she’d promised herself she would say ‘yes’ if he asked again. Her first kiss was for Jem. The words were definite in her head, tho
ugh still she dithered.

  ‘No kiss, no poem.’

  Abigail’s threats buzzed in her ears. Hester’s pleas to stay at school. Her wish not to offend her employer. She hesitated a moment too long. Mr Pepys reached over, pulled her to him and pressed his fleshy lips heavily down on hers. She bore it a moment and then twisted to free herself. His stubble scraped across her cheek.

  She jerked away, snatched up the paper from the table and made for the door.

  ‘I’ll fetch Elisabeth’s cloves,’ she said, curtseying as she knew she must, blinking back tears, feeling like a kind of Judas.

  When she’d dealt with Elisabeth, she went to her room, rubbed at her mouth with her sleeve. Be practical, she scolded herself. It was only a kiss, no harm done. She unfolded the paper. She hadn’t got his diary, but the shorthand was a start. She could search out his diary if she knew it was written in script like this.

  All day she kept returning to the puzzle of the shorthand, trying to remember what Mr Pepys had said about the strokes for the consonants and vowels, and making little guesses at the text. Finally it was there in front of her.

  Before she had even translated the second line, she recognised it. Shakespeare.

  “My love is as a fever, longing still.”

  One of his sonnets to the Dark Lady, with all the connotations of that forbidden affair.

  “For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,

  Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE NEXT DAY, A SILENCE. Unnerved, Deb peered out of the window. The dark streets were gone, and snow veiled the rooftops, covering the city dirt and squalor with its virgin white. Her heart lifted. The day before Christmas Eve, she hoped it would last. Elisabeth was in pain and tutted over the weather, giving Deb a long list of errands, but today, Deb did not care; she was mightily relieved to get away from the house, out of Mr Pepys’ sight.