Jem looked away out over the river, staring at the opposite bank.
She touched him on the arm. ‘Jem?’
He turned, a sharpness in his eyes. ‘And you think the King’s rule better? A man who sets us no example? He is king in name only. As far as I can see he is a dissolute, cruel, unthinking man, who cannot see the nose in front of his face. He is bringing the country to ruin. A man like that is unfit to rule decent men like us.’
Deb stopped dead, as if her boots had glued themselves to the ground. His words struck deep inside her. Her family had been staunch Royalists. It had never occurred to her that Jem might have different views to her own. She did not know what to say; there seemed to be no answer to his statement.
‘Let’s not talk of him,’ she said finally. ‘Look, those ducks over there – aren’t they sweet?’
He grunted an assent, but she could see he was still thinking. He twisted his hat in his hands and did not take her arm again, but walked ahead, striding forward as if he wanted to get somewhere fast. She followed a little behind, struggling to keep up in the heat, her skirts flapping hot around her ankles. A wave of feeling wanted to burst from her chest but was stuck at her throat.
Eventually she stopped in the middle of the dirt path, stared at Jem striding away, his broad shoulders hunched. He turned when he did not hear her footsteps following. She did not move, just stood, hands hanging limply at her sides. A trickle of sweat ran down to her eyebrow. His face was unreadable, like a mask. She had never before seen him without a smile.
‘I think I’d like to go home now.’ Her voice sounded tight and small.
He walked back towards her. ‘Oh. If that’s what you want. I thought we could … but no, I see it is impossible.’ He sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said.
They walked side by side, silently, as though a wall of glass was lodged between them. Several times she opened her mouth to speak, but then dare not.
Back at the jetty there was a family group waiting to get the boat up to town. They had a basket of provisions and the two children were laughing and jesting, tickling each other, full of noisy excitement. It reminded her of her smaller brothers and made her even more miserable.
When they finally got to Old Swan Stairs, Jem put out his hand to help her to dry land, but his eyes stayed resolutely away from hers.
‘I’ll find a hackney and make my own way home,’ she said.
‘If you’re sure.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done, but I’m sorry.’
‘There is nothing to be sorry about,’ he said briskly. ‘We just see life differently, that’s all. Goodbye, Miss Willet, I hope to see you in church again.’
No. Not this, not this icy politeness. Tears blurred her eyes, but she did not want him to witness them. She had no money for a carriage; Constantine had taken it all. Still, she hurried away as fast as she could, not daring to look back, her hand pressed to her nose.
Chapter Twenty-eight
July
OVER THE FOLLOWING WEEKS, DEB could not get Jem out of her mind. It was a torture. This was it, this was love, she realised, this feeling that your insides were being torn apart by wild dogs.
She replayed their conversation over and over in her head, trying to find the moment when things shifted. At first she was inconsolable, then angry. What was clear was that while she was away he had changed. And worse, he was a man who disliked the King. So he would be even less enamoured of her if he were to know that she was working for the King’s agent, Abigail Williams.
As if sensing some sadness in her, Mr Pepys was even more attentive than usual, and his hot, pawing hands made her want to scream. Abigail had asked for her to listen to Pepys’ talk and note down anything about plans for re-equipping the navy. Deb was still copying tracts from his diary, the earlier years, but also couldn’t resist reading his daily entries, scouring them for references to her. When she found her name, it was always about how he had touched her.
There was never any reference to how she might feel. It was as if she was just another of his household furnishings, or a book, to be brought out from the cabinet when he wanted entertainment, and it hardened her towards him. Soon she thought nothing of it, this stealing of his diary.
Until one night when she crept down to his study and the door would not open.
She jiggled it again and rattled it as hard as she dared, but it would not give.
‘It’s locked.’ Jane appeared at her shoulder, the week’s laundry bundled in her arms.
‘Why?’
‘There’ve been burglaries round the corner in Crutched Friars. The master fears for his books. He’s worried about thieves.’ Jane gave her a pointed look. ‘Don’t know why you’re up. You haven’t to light the copper at this hour like I have to.’
Deb watched her go, feeling a little guilty that her life was not as arduous as Jane’s. But this feeling was replaced by relief. If she couldn’t get to the diary, she would not have to translate it any more.
But then the second, more disturbing thought came. Maybe Pepys was suspicious or had missed his papers. She turned cold. She would have to tell Abigail, and she did not know what would become of her if she displeased the King.
Chapter Twenty-nine
‘I’M SORRY, ABIGAIL, BUT I CAN’T bring you any more of the diary.’ Deb rushed to explain the problem. ‘It’s more difficult now. Mr Pepys locks his office at night and keeps the key with him. And he’s become much more troublesome.’
‘What do you mean?’ Abigail stood up from the chair in Bruncker’s apartment. ‘I need those transcripts.’
‘He wants to touch me and … Abigail, is there no chance I could work for you and Lord Bruncker?’
‘The King relies on your information. In time, perhaps we could see about alternative employment. But for the present, it’s essential you keep your live-in position. Now what did you mean—?’
‘But I’m not sure how long I can keep Mr Pepys away. He gets more urgent every day.’
‘But surely that’s to your advantage?’
‘Copying his papers from the navy and the office is one thing,’ Deb said, ‘but I don’t like copying his diary. There could be things in there about … well, it’s personal.’
‘Good. The more personal the better,’ Abigail said. ‘That kind of information can provide leverage. Just copy as much of it as you can. I dare say he has hung himself already, but that need not concern you. The King demands all of it, if possible, but you must take the utmost care – if Pepys finds you out, then His Majesty would be most displeased. Now, I expect the documents as usual.’
‘But I’ve told you, he locks his office against thieves.’
‘Then you must get the key.’ Abigail wafted her arm in its draped sleeve, as if that objection was of no importance. ‘The King looks ill on those who refuse to do his bidding.’
‘You don’t understand,’ Deb protested. ‘Mr Pepys keeps it in his pocket. How can I?’
Abigail made a gesture of impatience. ‘You have just told me he is enamoured of you. So use your guile. Coax him. Use what charms you have.’
Her charms had not been enough for Jem Wells, thought Deb, bitterly.
The weather was sultry and still, the dust hanging heavy in the house. Twilight had fallen, so Deb went to Elisabeth’s chamber to light lamps, turn back the sheets and lay out her mistress’s nightclothes. When she’d smoothed the counterpane she went to open the window and let in a little air, putting off the moment when she would have to go to Mr Pepys and try to persuade him to give her the key. Elisabeth came in behind her and began to wash with the hot water Deb had left out for her, but Deb’s attention was hooked by something else.
A little way down the street a carriage was parked. She made out the silhouette of a person inside. She stared. Was that the same man she’d seen before outside the house? She shut the curtains with a rattle, suppressed a shiver.
‘I can manage, Deb. You may go,’ Elisa
beth said.
Deb nodded and withdrew, and walked slowly down the broad staircase.
From downstairs in the main chamber she heard Mr Pepys singing. He had a new espinette which he was just learning to play, and she could hear the pluck of its strings. The song was plaintive and sad, which was most unlike him; perhaps his eyes were bothering him again.
‘Deb, I can’t bear it!’ Elisabeth yelled to her from the landing. ‘Tell Sam to stop that infernal noise! I won’t be able to catch a wink of sleep with his plinking.’
As soon as she entered the main chamber Mr Pepys stopped playing, swivelled on the stool. ‘Blasted thing. It’s too hard for me to read,’ he said, pointing at the tightly written music propped above the keys.
‘Are your eyes so bad?’ she asked.
‘So bad I can think of little else. What will I do if I can no longer read? My work, my pleasure, everything depends on my eyesight.’
‘Shall I read to you a little then, instead? Then you may rest your eyes.’
He sighed. ‘Come and give me a hug. I need some consolation from my pretty maid.’
She went over, her heart thudding, knowing that whatever he wanted of her, she must not lose sight of getting the key to his office. When she got close, he reached for her and drew her close to his chest. She expected him to do more, but instead he turned to look up at her, his expression troubled. ‘What shall I do, Deb? I fear I am going blind. How shall we live if I can’t use my eyes?’
‘Perhaps you just need to rest them more. You use them too much. Give me the key to your office and I’ll fetch something soothing to read.’
When he looked up to answer her, his face was haggard. ‘I don’t feel like it. I’ve never felt so glum in all my days.’
‘It’ll be soothing, to be read to.’
‘No. I just want my hair combed. No book.’
His downcast face made her feel worse about what she had to do. She fetched a basin and ewer, poured water over the teeth of the comb as she thought how to get the key. Once he was seated, she took a deep breath. ‘Mr Pepys, I must confess something to you,’ she whispered.
‘A confession, is it? Tell me more.’ He turned, but she pushed his head back around to the front.
‘You might not like it.’
‘Tell me. Tell your old sad bear. It can’t be that bad.’
‘When you are in bed, I take books from your office, so I might have something to read before I sleep.’
He swivelled around, then he laughed, his eyesight forgotten. ‘Is that all? I thought you were going to confess to a murder, or felony at least. Tush, girl, I would lend you what you’d like, happily, you only need to ask. What sort of thing do you like to read?’
‘It’s hard to know in advance,’ she said, wiping the comb on the washcloth, ‘but I like to choose one to help me sleep. And you have so many. It is hard to decide.’
‘I know what you mean. We are alike. I, too, find pleasure in having the right book for the right mood. And I don’t know why I bought Elisabeth that Merchant Taylors’ book, it’s—’
‘But now you lock your study, so I can’t get in.’
‘Oh. Wait a minute—’ He took hold of the lace at the front of her chemise and ran it through his fingers in a teasing manner. ‘You mean to tell me you sneak about the house at night in only your nightclothes? Into my study?’
A sharp tug, and the bow at her neck fell loose. His other hand fumbled with the knot. He ran his tongue over his lips, but she kept on talking, breathless.
‘Yes, sometimes. I was wondering, please would you leave the key out for me.’ She lowered her gaze.
‘The key, is it?’ He pulled her towards him by the strings of her chemise, his eyesight forgotten.
Deb tried to make a joke of his attentions, pulling the strings from his fingers.
He fumbled in his pocket and drew out the key, dangled its bronze weight before her. She leaned to take it from his hand, but he smiled and swung it out of her reach, and instead he caught her round the waist with a well-padded arm. He was smiling now, his eyes alight.
‘Try again,’ he said, a hand squeezing at the top of her breast where it pushed out of the top of her stays.
Curse it. He was too excited by this game.
She made another lunge for the key, but again he swung it away. As she made another bid for it, her fingers just brushed the tassel on the cord. Between her legs was the heat of a hand snaking up her thigh, past the lace of her petticoat.
She leapt to the side. He mustn’t find the pocket beneath her skirts. She hitched them to one side, feeling the crackle of the papers beneath the material. She held them tight away from his searching hands.
He took her hitching of skirt to be an invitation, and his hand slid up again to the soft part between her legs. Deb forced herself to ignore it, kept her eyes on the key. His other hand went slack and Deb closed her fingers around the cold metal. A quick tug and she had it. They tussled a moment, in mock fight, before she jumped up. He made a lunge for her, but missed. He was laughing.
She could not help but smile back, panting, triumphant. ‘You can have it back in the morning.’
He held up his hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘You win,’ he said. ‘You have the key to my study. And the key to my heart too, little Deb,’ he said, eyes moist. ‘I’m mad for you. I can’t sleep, can’t work for thoughts of you. If ever man lov’d woman, I … you …’ He did not finish.
She stood a moment and watched his face crumple, as though he too had just realised the enormity of what he’d just said.
‘I love you.’ He was almost in tears.
‘No, sir.’ Deb backed away. ‘No, you don’t.’ She kept her hands crossed on her chest, the key pressed to her heart.
In the dark of the night, long after Mr Pepys had retired to bed, she was creeping out of his study, when she bumped into Jane.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I could ask you the same.’
‘I’m always up this early. Today I’m to get the grates cleaned.’ Her look was accusing and full of blame, as if it was Deb’s fault. ‘You’ve no need to be up. You should be abed.’
‘I was just taking some things back to the master. Books.’ She was still fully dressed and with a volume of Mr Pepys’ diary tucked into her skirts.
‘At four o’clock in the morning?’
‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Mr Pepys doesn’t like us in his study. How did you get in?’
‘He gave me a key.’ She held it up.
‘Why?’
‘No reason.’ Deb slipped the key into the keyhole and locked the door.
When she turned to go, she was nose to nose with Jane, who was still standing there in her apron, arms folded, her expression sceptical. Deb squirmed under the directness of her gaze.
‘If I were you I’d spend more time seeing to my mistress’s demands than those of her husband,’ Jane said. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
Chapter Thirty
August
WHENEVER DEB WAS IN THE ROOM, Mr Pepys had the hangdog look of a lost soul, and it made her feel guilty. Love, he’d said. She feared now that he would force her, and she knew that openly rejecting him would be like rejecting his household, his lifestyle, and all that went with it.
So she was even more apprehensive when she was informed she was to accompany Elisabeth and her friend Mary to see the fortune-teller on Norwood Common. Mr Pelling, an apothecary friend of Mr Pepys, was to loan his carriage for the excursion. Although she knew fortune-tellers were charlatans, what if some of her secrets were revealed to Elisabeth? What if the gypsy told Elisabeth about her liaisons with Mr Pepys? She told herself not to be so foolish. It was all nonsense, this stargazing and casting the bones.
Copying at night for Abigail and the King had taken its toll, and the incessant August heat wore Deb down; she had never known a summer so hot. On the way to Norwood, in Mr Pelling’s carriage, she was so sleepy at his dull convers
ation that she fell into a doze, but she sat up sharply when Elisabeth’s fan rapped her on the knee.
‘Are you listening?’ Elisabeth’s voice was cross. ‘Mr Pelling was talking to you!’
Deb apologised and tried to look attentive.
They struggled out of the coach. The Great Fire the year before had made the common overcrowded. Makeshift dwellings had sprung up like mushrooms. Barefoot, half-naked children ran in amongst the stalls begging for change, and bluebottles buzzed in clouds around the trestles where a few frazzled women were selling cloudy ale and sweating cheeses.
They made quite a procession. Elizabeth and Mary traipsing after the strutting Mr Pelling, and Deb following Mary and Elisabeth, holding a fringed parasol over their heads against the burn of the sun. The two women ignored her, their heads close together, giggling over something in whispers and flicking their fans open and closed. She both hoped and feared Elisabeth would not make her have her fortune read, too. There was a tension in Deb’s heart all the time now, like a lute-string.
She did not want her secret life exposed, but on the other hand, perhaps she could ask if the gypsy could see any end to Mr Pepys’ attentions, or to this work she was forced to do for the King. At the back of her thoughts was always Jem. Perhaps she might ask the gypsy if Jem could ever think of her again with affection.
Mr Pelling shepherded them past the brightly coloured awnings on the booths advertising “Fortunes Told, or Your Fate in Your Hand”.
‘What about this place?’ Deb asked, longing for any sort of shade, and pointing to a tent with a large queue of other well-dressed ladies.
‘No, no. My wife, God rest her soul, absolutely swore by Marina-Rose Sadira. She’s a bona fide Romany. We’ve to look for the sign of the “Rose on the Waters”,’ Mr Pelling said, signalling them forward.
The sign turned out to be a large flap hanging over the doorway, with a peeling red rose floating above a badly painted sea. It looked shabby, and Deb was immediately sceptical. There was no queue, so after a slight disagreement over who would go first, Mary lifted the canvas flap with her finger and went within. Elisabeth could not contain her nervous anticipation, which resulted in more batting of her fan and making cow eyes at Mr Pelling as they waited. Lord knows why. Mr Pelling was middle-aged and paunchy, with eyes like boiled oysters.
Pleasing Mr. Pepys Page 20