Pleasing Mr. Pepys

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Pleasing Mr. Pepys Page 19

by Deborah Swift


  ‘If you’re another wife that wants to tell him to close down, no you can’t.’ The doorman scowled at her.

  ‘No, nothing like that. I’m looking for someone. Jack Gates, and his sister Eliza Willet. The proprietor might know them.’

  ‘Women aren’t allowed.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Wait.’ He put a hand up to stay her words. ‘All right, all right. I’ll ask if Mr Constantine will see you. Name?’

  ‘Deborah Willet.’

  He called a boy from inside who touched his cap and scuttled away back into the dim interior. How on earth he stood the stench of roasting beans, she did not know. She had almost given up hope of anyone coming when a swarthy man in a flamboyant lace jabot emerged from the door. This must be Mr Constantine.

  ‘Miss Willet?’

  She nodded and he beckoned her through the door with a curl of his index finger. She followed him into the dark, past a group of staring men in rough smocks and up some uneven gloomy stairs.

  Mr Constantine sat down in a captain’s chair and pointed to the chair opposite. She sat, trying not to stare at the ship’s wheel hanging on the wall and the bare-breasted mermaid figurehead. The noise of voices below sounded like sailors crammed in the hold of a ship, and when she glanced down, she saw that smoke sifted up between the floorboards to drift round her ankles.

  ‘Now, they say you are looking for Jack Gates, the bone-setter.’ Mr Constantine’s black eyes were not unfriendly, but businesslike. His accent was unmistakeably foreign, but perfectly intelligible.

  ‘That’s right. He’s my uncle.’

  ‘Who said you could find him here?’

  ‘Another relation, my aunt. I just want to know where they are. They’re my only family in London. Do you know them?’

  ‘I know Jack Gates,’ he said guardedly. ‘But he’s long gone. He lived upstairs, in my lodging house. It wasn’t a coffee house back then, see, just a sailor’s tavern with rooms. He was a regular – backwards and forwards he went, between here and Rotterdam in the Low Countries. Sometimes a month, sometimes half a year at a time he stayed. Last time was a few years ago. Afore the fire anyway. Then he disappeared. I suppose back to Rotterdam.’

  ‘You don’t know an address?’

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  ‘Do you remember if there was ever a woman with him, his sister?’

  Mr Constantine laughed as if his cheeks would crack. ‘Was there ever a woman, she asks! Jack Gates, he was never without one. Gentleman Jack, they used to call him, for he was well-spoken. I’d hear them – creeping up the back stairs and then the banging of the bed. Round here, it’s easy pickings for a gentleman. Specially a good-looking cove like Jack with money in his pocket.’

  Deb let her gaze drop downwards, abashed, but then persisted. ‘My mother’s short, and they say she looks a little like me. Oh, and I don’t know if this is right, but it’s possible she was expecting a baby or might have had a baby with her?’ If Aunt Lillibet was right, it was worth asking.

  Mr Constantine shook his head, but then he paused, rubbed his jaw. ‘Wait – something comes back. There was a woman with a baby. Jack told me she was his sister, but I thought it was another of his doxies, you know? One he’d got in the family way. I remember because I thought it was strange, that he didn’t just throw her out. And the baby, oh it was a horrible sickly thing. There were complaints about the crying. Day and night it cried, and the gentlemen didn’t like it. I told Jack she’d have to go somewhere else. Next thing I knew the woman and the baby were gone and I thought no more of it. But it was a long time ago.’

  ‘About five years since?’

  ‘I’d say so. Lord love us, I’d forgotten all about it. Strange what you forget, isn’t it?’

  ‘She never came back?’

  ‘No. Seen him, though – last time about a year ago. Downstairs, supping alongside old Skinner and his cabal of cronies. Then there was that sea battle with the Dutch. Afterwards, anyone suspected of being a sympathiser scarpered. Like the rest of them, Jack Gates just did a flit in the night. He’s not been back, more’s the pity.’

  ‘Then where will I find this Mr Skinner? He might know where my uncle is now. Do you have an address for him?’

  Mr Constantine narrowed his eyes and scrutinised her. ‘I can’t just give out a customer’s address like that. It could make trouble. You must give me yours and I’ll ask him to contact you.’

  ‘Oh. I see what you mean. Have you a nib?’

  He waved his arm towards the table by the grimy window. Conscious of his eyes fixed on her back, she picked up the ragged goose quill that lay there, dipped it in the ink. “Mistress D. Willet, Care of Samuel Pepys”, she wrote, then scratched down her address in Seething Lane, forming the letters slowly to make sure it was legible.

  She blew on it and handed it to Mr Constantine. He glanced once, then looked again, this time more closely. He frowned. ‘You stay with Mr Pepys? Mr Pepys of the Navy Board?’

  ‘Yes, that is he.’

  Mr Constantine walked away. He took out a pipe, tapped it with his fingers and sucked on it without lighting up, seeming to come to a decision before replacing it in his pocket. She sensed a shift in the atmosphere, something indefinable. When he turned back to face her, his face was grim. ‘Empty your pockets,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Jack Gates, he never paid his bills or his notice. If he is a relation of yours I’ll take some of what he’s owing.’

  ‘But you can’t—’

  Her words died in her mouth. Constantine strode towards her so that she had to back away towards the wall. A barometer behind her swung as she stepped back into it. He was speaking, but she could not take in the words. It was as if a baited bear had suddenly turned and was snarling at her. She readied herself to run, but he was a big powerful man, and his men were downstairs barring her way out.

  ‘If you work for Pepys, I dare say you have been paid, unlike some others I could mention. Your purse, Miss Willet.’

  Shakily, she took out her purse and shook the coins and tokens out onto her palm. ‘Please, this is all I have. Take it, but leave me enough to get the wherry back up to Tower Hill.’

  He brought his face so close to hers she could see the black hairs in his nostrils, the furrows between his brows. ‘Do you think sailors’ wives have the luxury of travelling by boat? My tavern went under because sailors were never paid their dues. Thank Christ for coffee is all I can say. Pepys is a lapdog. Too scared to stand up for the sailors to the King. All bluster and no bloody action. You can walk.’ He scooped the coins off her palm with his hand and counted them. ‘More than four pounds your uncle Jack Gates owes me. Your coins don’t cover the debt. I’ll send you the bill. If it is not paid within one month, then I will send the debtor’s clerk to fetch goods to the value.’

  ‘But you can’t! It’s not my fault—’

  ‘You’re his relation. You should pay. Is it fair I should be out of pocket? No. And besides, Mr Pepys withholds payments from our sailors, doesn’t he? Your uncle’s debt will drop when all our sailors are paid. Tell that to your Mr Pepys.’

  After she had stumbled back out into the light, Deb waited a moment by the wharf, breathless with shock. She leaned on a wooden rail, peering down into the murky grey water sliding past below. What was she to do? She certainly could not tell Mrs Pepys that she had actually been inside a coffee house. And it was even more certain that she could not afford to pay Mr Constantine four pounds.

  Curse Uncle Jack. Her mother had always said he was a ne’er-do-well. ‘His own worst enemy’ was her phrase. But she would have to find the money somehow, or Constantine would send his men to the house. Why had she given him her address? That had been foolish. Now he knew she worked for the Pepyses and he might come and threaten her again, and Deb could just imagine Elisabeth’s horrified face if Constantine or a debt collector arrived unannounced at Seething Lane.

  Unless she could find her uncle, she would have to p
ay off the debt. It gave her a pressure in the chest, as if something was squeezing her stays too tight. Deb inhaled the damp woody smell of the water and set off to walk downriver. Without her purse, she was vulnerable, as if her last protection had been stolen from her. She had trusted Mr Constantine, but he had changed in a heartbeat when he read Pepys’ name. Now every man seemed unpredictable, a threat. She kept her head down and walked as quickly as she dared without drawing attention to herself.

  A safe distance away from The Grecian, Deb stopped to lean on the railings and massage the stitch in her side. Passing barges ferried loads of timber and bricks to put London back together again. She sighed, knowing Mr Constantine probably would not give her note to Mr Skinner, not seeing as he seemed so against Mr Pepys’ household.

  So Uncle Jack was in Rotterdam. Perhaps Mama had gone there with him, too. But no, she had left before that, Constantine had said. The thought that her mother had actually been at The Grecian, but that she’d missed her, swamped her with despair. Where had she gone after that? Had she stayed in London, or had she eventually followed Uncle Jack?

  She stepped aside to let a woman pass. She was pale-faced and thin, carrying a squirming bundle of what looked like old clothes. The woman gave no smile or thanks but trudged past with hollow eyes. Only after she’d gone did Deb realise the bundle was a baby. Constantine said he’d remembered a baby.

  She imagined her mother, cast out from The Grecian as well as from her home, all because of some passion she could not resist. Why could she not resist it? She should have been strong, thought of her children. But perhaps the new baby meant more to Mama than her other children. Deb braced herself, pushed the hurtful thought away. Perhaps she should give up. She did not know where to start looking for a woman and child.

  She took out the miniature and stared at it, at the pale oval face with its composed smile. Then she hurled it, watched it arc into the river. Immediately, she regretted it, but it was too late. She would never see her mother’s face again.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  ‘GOOD MORNING,’ JEM SAID, holding out a wooden box with a slot in the top of it. ‘I’m collecting for the poor of this parish.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I bumped into an acquaintance of mine, Crawley from the Navy office, and he said that you were back. I couldn’t wait any longer.’

  Deb half closed the front door behind her and frowned at him, but her eyes were laughing. ‘Wait there, I’ll get a donation.’

  ‘No, don’t go.’ He put his hand on her arm, then slid his fingers down until they brushed hers. The touch was delicate, but intoxicating.

  ‘Who is it?’ Mrs Pepys demanded from inside.

  ‘Collection for the poor,’ Deb shouted.

  ‘Again?’ The voice was disgruntled. ‘Oh, d’accord. Fetch my purse and I’ll find them a few coppers.’

  Deb hurried indoors into the dark of the house, and after a little searching found the purse in the fruit bowl on the dining-room sideboard. Thinking fast, she withdrew a scrap of paper from the drawer and wrote Jem a quick message. In the parlour, Elisabeth pouted and emptied her purse to fish out a few farthings. A few moments later Deb was back on the doorstep. She slipped the coins into the box.

  ‘Here,’ he said, and passed her a note.

  ‘Snip-snap!’ She handed him a scrap of paper in return.

  He laughed. ‘We think alike. You look well,’ he whispered. ‘The country air suits you. And I’ve so much to tell you.’ She had been thinking the same, and her cheeks were stiff with smiling. It was so good to see him.

  ‘Deb?’ A voice from inside. Mrs Pepys wanted her.

  Jem grimaced to show he’d understood, before he backed down the few steps and crossed the street, narrowly missing being run down by a dray-cart because his eyes were still fixed on her face.

  ‘Watch out!’ she cried, her heart jerking in her chest.

  As she watched him go, her attention was caught by another man across the street – a man in a dark cloak with a slouch hat pulled down over a straggling wig. It could be the man from The Grecian – Constantine’s man – but she couldn’t be sure. Something about his furtiveness alarmed her. She had not had time yet to do anything about Uncle Jack’s debt. She hurried inside, shut the door. Immediately, Elisabeth began to talk –about how airless and cramped the house was after the country, and she must have new decorations to brighten it up. Deb was to write for samples and order quotations.

  She was forced to pen the orders and listen to how Mr Pepys was too mean to buy them their own coach, and that Elisabeth deserved better than a hired hackney. As soon as she could get away, Deb ran upstairs to peer from the upstairs windows. The courtyard and the surrounding streets were reassuringly empty. The thought occurred to her that perhaps the man had been sent by Abigail or the King to check on her return. She remembered Abigail telling her about the network of spies, and it filled her with foreboding.

  I’m imagining it, she thought, shaking her head at her own foolishness. He was probably just a passer-by who had happened to glance up. She put him from her mind and took out Jem’s message. To her surprise it was a tract of poetry, written in his long sloping hand. Of course, she knew he had been to the Merchant Taylor’s School, and had been a Fellow at Cambridge, but she had not known he was a poet.

  “For dearest Miss Willet, in case you are regretting leaving the peace of the country for the soots of London, with my great affection.”

  ‘Dearest’. ‘With great affection.’ Her heart seemed to flip in her chest.

  Eagerly she scanned the poem. Elaborate and full of metaphorical references, it was a poem likening Paradise to a garden in which all moral virtue was contained. It thrilled her that Jem, who was always so ready with quips and jests, could also be such a deep thinker. But then, she thought, he was training to be a curate after all. She pressed it to her chest. How different it was from the poem Mr Pepys had given her.

  Jem’s poem was all innocence, with its emphasis on sowing and reaping moral virtue, but it gave her a queasy feeling that she might not be good enough, might fail to match up to his expectations. She vowed she would do her best in future, to be the unsullied embodiment of everything Jem Wells might wish a young lady to be. She would wear crisp white linen and avoid any contact at all with Mr Pepys.

  Her note to Jem had simply said, ‘I’ll be at church on Sunday at the morning service.‘ Elisabeth was sitting to have her portrait painted that day and had grudgingly given Deb the day off.

  When Sunday came she was in a ferment of anticipation. She wore a dazzlingly white neckerchief and kept straightening her straw hat over and over, tapping her cheeks to make them rosy. After the service they emerged into bright sunshine and Jem suggested they catch a wherry out towards Richmond for a stroll in the country. On the way he took hold of her hand and encouraged her to lean back against him, letting the noonday sun warm her heart as her head rested against his shoulder. His hand crept gently around her waist, sending tingles through her body like the currents of the water.

  As they approached the landing stage, she asked him, ‘How is Bart? Have the sailors received their dues yet?’

  ‘He’s just the same,’ he said, handing her out onto the jetty. ‘He twisted my arm and persuaded me to help them. He’s got me involved with his little group now. I’m giving help to some of the poor women in Lukenor Lane. There’s a school where they educate the children—’

  He paused, looking to her reaction. She was trying to make sense of it. ‘Isn’t that where …?’ She licked her lips, unwilling to say the word ‘whore’.

  He took her arm and steered her onto the path away from the other passengers. ‘Yes, but it’s such good work, Miss Willet. They have nothing, and worse, they turn to sin to try to solve it. While you were away I went to live amongst them, saw how they have to scrape and scrounge to get by.’

  ‘I don’t understand. You lived there? But why?’

  ‘I’ve got a plan, to set up a mission in that par
ish, somewhere sailor’s wives can go if they’re in trouble. Somewhere with a physician, and a midwife, and … oh, there’s so much I need to tell you. But I’ll need a woman to help me, a woman who could set an example. A woman like you, Miss Willet.’

  Deb could not catch up with his words. She could make no sense of them. Was this a proposal? And what was this talk of living in Lukenor Lane? She could not believe he could be serious. But she had no time to think, for he was speaking.

  ‘You remember that news-sheet, the one there was such a fuss about, that was addressed to Lady Castlemaine—’

  ‘Oh yes, a scandal wasn’t it?’ Deb said, trying to find her feet in the conversation, and anxious to impress upon him her disgust at such vulgar news. ‘Mr Pepys showed it to me when I got home, though I was quite shocked he should give it to me to read. Such uncouth language. That someone should have the brazen cheek to publish such a despicable thing. The King should find out who did it and deal with them.’

  Jem stopped. He withdrew his arm from hers. He was looking at her in a puzzled way.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. The sun beat down on her shoulders.

  ‘Don’t you think it appalling that the King should set such an example, to openly flaunt his whore at court, with no consideration whatever for the poor Queen? That he should expect our sailors to fight his cause yet pay them nothing – not even a dry pea – for their trouble?’

  She was flustered. He was frowning at her in a way she had never seen before. A wasp settled on her arm and she flapped it away. ‘I know nothing of the court, the ins and outs of it, I mean,’ she said, still trying to find an even keel, ‘but dissenters are never satisfied, are they? And I have to say, though the King has his weaknesses, when Cromwell ruled us I got the impression life was a deal more uncomfortable than now. I can’t remember much, but Mr and Mrs Pepys are quite convinced of it. Look at how he closed all the theatres and stamped on any sort of entertainment. People are grateful that the King is back, and that news-sheet was monstrous cheek. It did nothing but stir up trouble.’

 

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