Pleasing Mr. Pepys

by Deborah Swift

  She’d woken with the poem running round inside her head. It’s just a poem, she chided herself. Perhaps it was the first thing Mr Pepys thought of. But she knew she was deceiving herself; she remembered the hungry look in his eyes. She crunched through the streets, feet stinging with cold. She was to go to the wood merchant to remind them to deliver the Yule log, and besides that, there was fetching beans to make a spiced bean-cake, and collecting the bread that Jane would need for stuffing the goose.

  She took a deep breath, put her employer from her mind. After the oppressive confines of Pepys’ chambers, it was delightful to see all the houses of the Navy buildings with their hoops of frosted greenery set above the doors. Here, in Seething Lane, the willow boughs were hung with nutmegs or with baubles, and one even had carved figures of the Nativity. She was standing staring up at it, admiring the craftsmanship, when a hand came down on her arm.

  She jolted and spun round, fearing to see Mr Pepys, but it was Jem Wells, nose red with cold, a beaver-fur hat pulled over his ears.

  ‘I was waiting for you to come out,’ he said, ‘on purpose.’ He opened his mouth and began to sing to her.

  ‘So now is come our joyfull’st feast

  Let ev’ry man be jolly.

  Each room with ivy leaves is dress’t

  And every post with holly.’

  His voice was enthusiastic but tuneless, so she took up the tune with him and they sang it again together. A passing dame stopped to watch, a smile on her face, and at the end they fell into laughter.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Miss Willet,’ he said.

  ‘And to you, Mr Wells.’

  ‘I’m just about to go to meet Dr Thurlow to bless the thresholds, so I wanted to catch you before I went. How is Mrs Pepys’ toothache?’

  ‘Better. The swelling’s less, but she’s tired from lack of sleep these last few nights, so she’s resting.’

  ‘That’s good. I hoped you’d be on your own.’

  ‘I’ll need six pairs of hands though. I’ve a mountain of purchases to make.’

  ‘I wish I could help, but I’ve an appointment with a parishioner at eleven. The thing is, Miss Willet, from tomorrow my time will be taken up with services and charitable works, and visiting my parents. They’re insisting I go there after the Christmas service to share the family supper, even though it’s a few hours’ ride. But to be frank, you’ve been much on my mind. I wanted to wish you the compliments of the season.’

  ‘Will you be away long?’ She tried to hide her pleasure that he had thought of her.

  ‘Not if I can help it. Too many attractions in the city. Like you, Miss Willet.’

  She didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Here, I have a New Year gift for you – that is, if you’ll accept it.’

  ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have—’

  ‘It’s only a small thing, just a token. Of my esteem, I mean.’ He offered her a small woven box tied with a scarlet ribbon.

  She took it, noting the sprig of ivy pushed into the ribbon. Ivy – for binding, her mother used to say. ‘But I have nothing for you.’ It pricked her not to have anything to offer in return.

  ‘Perhaps you might permit me … as it’s Christmas … a kiss under …’

  He was already reaching for her, and she only had time to take a breath of frosty air before his arms came around her back and his hot lips brushed gently against hers. The box was pressed between them, digging into her chest. It was over in a moment, leaving her reeling, her senses all aflame. When she opened her eyes he was gazing down into them and the black of his irises made her feel faint. She opened her mouth to speak but found she could not say a word.

  The moment seemed to hang. When he released her shoulders, the iron ring of hooves clopping past seemed too loud, the plaintive cries of the street traders and the scrape of a street sweeper’s brush, too coarse.

  At the same time, the thought of that other kiss came. She evaded his eyes, assailed by sudden guilt and shame.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she heard herself say. ‘I’ve got far too much to do.’

  His face creased in disappointment. ‘I’m sorry if I offended—’

  ‘No, oh please, no. You didn’t, it’s just …’ She tucked the box in her basket, her lips burning. ‘Thank you for the gift. But I must hurry. You see, there’s all the shopping …’

  ‘Well, Merry Christmas, Miss Willet,’ he said, his eyes suddenly distant and guarded.

  ‘And to you, Mr Wells.’

  Deb was aware that they had made exactly the same conversation earlier, but this time it was different, full of hidden tension instead of joy, full of anxiety instead of merriment.

  ‘Goodbye then.’ She had to get away, get away from herself, all the conflicting feelings. She blundered up the street, inadvertently knocking into an old gentleman who was passing.

  ‘Beg pardon,’ she mumbled, but ran on, head down, without looking back, afraid to let Jem see how much she liked him, afraid for herself, of how much she wished she could have stayed there for ever, kissing him back.

  When she had done her errands she peeked in on Elisabeth, but she was sleeping. Deb looked at her curiously, this woman who shared a bed with Mr Pepys. After Hollier’s compresses, her face was almost back to normal and she was prettier at rest. With a stab of compassion, Deb moved the coverlet up and smoothed it around Elisabeth’s shoulders. She went to peek out through the crack in the shutters, over the snow-covered roofs. Sparrows had made patterns of footprints, like a monk’s calligraphy.

  At Christmastide she missed them all, Hester and her brothers. And most of all Mama. Oh how she wished she had someone to confide in, someone who’d know what to do about the unwanted attentions of Mr Pepys. She mounted the stairs thinking of Hester, enjoying her Christmas at Lavinia’s. At least Hester would have a family Christmas, a Christmas full of cheer like they never had at Aunt Beth’s.

  In her room Deb shut the door and took out the little reed box that Jem had given her. She pushed away the vision of him hurrying home to his family feast, because it split her heart with an ache of loneliness. Slowly she untied the red ribbon. When she teased aside the straw packing, it revealed a wooden angel, his wings outspread as if he would fly. How had he guessed? It was just what she needed – a guardian angel.

  It was beautiful – finely crafted and lifelike, with a string loop to hang it on a garland, so she stood on tiptoe, hung the angel over the threshold, on an empty hook where a picture must have hung. Did she imagine it, or was he looking down on her with a stern expression? Eyes that were telling her he’d be watching her to keep her on the straight and narrow.

  Christmas Eve. As soon as she was able, she made excuses to the Pepyses, who were entertaining Hollier the surgeon again. Mr Pepys had promised her an evening off, as Elisabeth would need her for the morning’s festivities, but she wanted to try to get away earlier to buy a gift for Jem. The snow had melted and she hurried through the slush to the Convent Garden market. A sweet smell of roasting chestnuts wafted from glowing braziers, and she was relieved to see there were still plenty of stallholders touting for last-minute buyers.

  At a stall selling hymnals and pamphlets, she settled on a miniature prayer book, a fraction bigger than her thumb. Of course, such a gift was a little obvious, but she did not wish him to feel she was being too forward or intimate. Besides, this one was charming, with illuminated letters and tiny illustrations of the psalms. After she had made her purchase, she could not wait to return to St Gabriel’s for the evening service.

  The wooden church was full of Christmas revellers and families bundled up against the cold, but she waited until the service had ended and everyone had gone. A scattering of Christmas Eve bells were already pealing out, but she hardly heard their clamour.

  When Jem came to lock the door, she stepped into the porch.

  ‘Miss Willet! I did not see you there. Were you at the service? I wasn’t—’

  ‘I’ve brought you a gift,’ she said.


  ‘Oh no, you needn’t—’

  She brought the tiny object from under her cloak and pressed it into his hand. He turned it over and over, examining it, taking it in. It was then that she saw the mistletoe. A great bunch hanging just above his head, tied up with ribbon.

  ‘Look,’ she said pointing to it. ‘You’re right underneath.’ Then, before she could think better of it, she stood on tiptoe and reached her lips to his. She pressed them against him as if she might blot out the other kiss altogether.

  At first, he was shocked. He faltered, drew back. She saw his eyes widen, about to protest. But then they closed. His arms slid around her waist. He kissed her again. The feeling was so exquisite she could barely breathe. It was a long moment later that he let her go. His expression was tender and filled something like admiration.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Mr Wells,’ she said.

  Act Two

  1668

  Chapter Seventeen

  January

  DEB MANAGED TO ESCAPE her duties at Seething Lane to go to St Gabriel’s, but after she squeezed into a pew, she was disappointed to find it was dry old Dr Thurlow taking the service. There was no sign of Jem. She wanted to make it quite clear that kissing him had been a moment of madness, and would not happen again.

  The thought that she had been so forward made her wince. She could only think it was a weakness brought on by the Christmas spirit. But now Twelfth Night had been and gone, and Deb had not seen Jem since he went to visit his parents. Yet still the kiss haunted her.

  She would not think of it again, she decided, and especially not here, in church. She kneeled on the hassock and tried to pray. But the more she forced the kiss away, the stronger the memory of it pulsed through her.

  She thought of Jem, too, at night, when she could not escape Mr Pepys. Mr Pepys would nudge her and wink at her while they played cards, his eyes inviting more looks than she wished to return. Tonight it was Mary Mercer and her parents, the Turners, who were cousins of Mr Pepys, and Mr Batelier, who often joined them for a game. None of the assembled company seemed to notice Mr Pepys’ obvious attentions to Deb. If only she could fly this stifling chamber with its fug of heat and Mr Pepys’ knees always too close to hers. Like a bird in a cage, she was always on show, expected to flutter to order.

  Over on the far side of London, in a dark shuttered room in Lukenor Lane, Abigail and her daughter Joan glared at each other.

  ‘What did you do with the money then?’ Abigail asked in frustration.

  ‘Gave it Polly for a new skirt.’

  ‘But, Joan, why? It was meant for you – for your mercury treatment.’

  ‘No, Ma. I’ve told you, I’m not going into the Baths. There’s no point. Misery for nothing, that’s what it is. Nobody comes out of there. They just get sicker and sicker. Why won’t you listen to me?’

  ‘I do, it’s just … I want you to get well,’ Abigail said, trying not to see the reddish rash of warts that tattooed Joan’s skin, the grey shadows under her eyes.

  ‘Pah. You said that about the healing man, and a lot of use he was, with all his abracadabra and laying on of hands.’ Joan flopped back against the pillow, her pallid forehead glistening with sweat.

  ‘Now listen,’ Abigail said, perching on the edge of the bed and leaning in, ‘I happen to know one of the King’s courtiers. He took the mercury baths and his symptoms went – just like that.’ It was not true, but what else was she to do? She’d try anything.

  ‘Oh, Ma, why won’t you face it? What whore ever got better from the pox?’

  ‘This one. You’ve got to try. It’s no use giving up. You’ve got to fight it.’

  Joan let out a ragged sigh. ‘It’s not an enemy, Ma. It’s my own body. And it’s tired of all your damn fool cures. Besides, Polly needed a new skirt, her old one was in rags, and she couldn’t get no customers. She looks fine in the new one, and business is better already, she says.’

  Abigail pressed her lips together to stem her response. She took out her purse and emptied the little heap of gold onto the side table. ‘This is for the mercury baths. Not for Polly, or Jess, or any of the others – hear me? The physician expects you on Tuesday.’

  ‘Ma?’

  ‘What?’ Abigail retreated inside herself. She knew what was coming.

  ‘Let me go quietly,’ Joan said. ‘Please. I want to go peaceful, here, where I can hear the girls joshing in the yard, the men coming out of the alehouse. Don’t send me there. It’s the end for me, whatever you do. You’ve got to face it, Ma. I can. Why can’t you?’

  Abigail put her lips to Joan’s forehead. ‘Get Polly to remind you. Tuesday, ten bells. Look, I’ve brought you a clean nightdress.’

  She pressed the white cambric onto the end of the bed, but Joan turned away. Abigail stood a moment watching the silent lump of her daughter’s back, before, grim-faced, heart aching, she gathered her cloak tighter and strode from the room.

  Chapter Eighteen

  February

  ‘JANE SAYS SHE SAW YOU talking to a young fellow last week,’ Elisabeth said, ‘in the street near St Gabriel’s church. Who was that?’

  Deb stood up from the brass fender she was burnishing. ‘It was Mr Wells, the apprentice curate.’ Her eyes shifted away under Elisabeth’s scrutiny.

  ‘And how do you know him? I didn’t know you knew any young men. Jane says she saw you when she passed on her way to town, and you were still talking there when she came back.’

  ‘I don’t really know him. I answered the door to him once when he came to ask for Mr Pepys. He was only passing the time of day with me,’ Deb said, silently aggrieved that Jane should have told tales about her, especially as Jane was always finding an excuse to linger with Tom Edwards.

  ‘You know him well enough to know his name, though.’ Elisabeth raised her eyebrows.

  ‘It’s on the board outside the church.’

  ‘So what was he saying?’

  Deb squeezed the polishing rag in her hands, keeping her face averted so that Elisabeth might not see how guilty she looked. Since his return, Jem had walked out with her on her half-days off, but always well out of the way of Seething Lane and Elisabeth’s sharp eyes. ‘He was collecting, for the poor. And then we just struck up a conversation … about the weather.’ In actual fact, it had been a long discussion about whether there was any news from Mr Pepys on the sailors’ pay.

  Elisabeth sniffed. ‘When a person is sent out on an errand, I naturally assume they will go straight there and back. I don’t expect them to dally with every Tom, Dick and Harry. While you reside under my roof, I’d rather there were no goings-on with young men; after all, they are not paying you for your company. I am the one who pays you for your time, n’est-ce pas?’

  Deb picked up the basin of potash for polishing and bent down to finish the fender. If Elisabeth wanted no goings-on under her roof, Deb thought, she’d best look to her husband.

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ Bart said, wincing as he dabbed a wet kerchief to a cut on his head. ‘Can’t you feel it, Jem? It’s the beginning … the beginning of the rebellion.’

  Jem leaned his elbows on the table and pressed his head into his hands. ‘You’re wrong. People have had their fill of wars, and fighting. It will all blow over. And look at you. You’re a sight.’

  Bart grimaced, felt his bruised cheek with his fingertips. ‘Enough with the lectures, you sound like Dr Thurlow. There’s always a bit of high spirits on Shrove Tuesday, you know that.’

  ‘Burning down houses? High spirits?’ Jem threw up his hands. ‘What will those families do, now they’ve nowhere to go? As if the Great Fire wasn’t bad enough, but idiots like you must start another. I can’t believe anyone’d be so stupid.’

  Bart looked sheepish. ‘Wasn’t my fault. The sailors have just cause to protest. It’s a short step from throwing stones to throwing brands, and it just sort of grew.’ He stood and went to wash out the bloodstained kerchief in the ewer. ‘We were driven to it by the King. H
e won’t bloody budge. We haven’t got a single sou out of him. It makes us all sick to see him flaunt himself, frittering away our rightful pay, on … what? Jewels for his mistress, bolts of gold cloth … he even bought her two flaming lapdogs! I’ll bet they’re better fed than us, the whore’s bloody dogs.’ He flung the cloth into the basin, and water sloshed onto the floor.

  ‘Will you stop griping about the King,’ Jem said. ‘Those families you’ve burned out, they’re what matters. You should make a collection. For food, warm clothes and—’

  ‘For pity’s sake, not that again. That’s always your answer. Charity’s all well and good, but it’s not going to change anything.’ Bart stood up and rubbed his forehead in frustration. ‘It’s like bandaging over gangrene. Useless. What we need is proper action. Political action.’ He placed his hands on the table, leaned in. ‘Look at your own church. The least variation on the service and you’re labelled a dissenter and clapped in gaol. And it’s getting worse – the King’s banned all conventicles.’

  Jem sighed. Bart seemed to thrive on bad news. ‘How will complaining help? There are families who have no roof over their heads tonight and it’s all your doing.’

  ‘Then will you come with me to Lukenor Lane?’ Bart asked, standing up from the table and shoving his face towards him.

  ‘Me? What’s it got to do with me?’

  ‘It’s your idea to go back there with your do-gooding and your charity. So are you going to come?’

  Jem raked his fingers through his hair. ‘Why should I? It’s your mess, not mine. And Dr Thurlow would burst his garters. He’d see it as me supporting the bawdy houses.’

  Bart threw up his hands. ‘Hypocrite. You’re like all the rest! You won’t do anything. It’s no use any more sticking your head under a blanket. You saw how Pepys and the Navy Board are fearful of displeasing His “holy” Majesty. Please – come with me. Come out of your ivory tower, that’s all I ask. Then you’ll understand.’

  Bart’s accusation that he was a hypocrite made Jem uncomfortable. He felt himself weakening. He had always tried to look after his younger brother, even now that they were grown, and as a future curate he felt he should be guiding Bart somehow.