Pleasing Mr. Pepys

by Deborah Swift

  Since she must have displeased the Pepys, Aunt Beth wrote, finding another position was to be Deb’s responsibility.

  “I know what your mother did was not your fault, but the stink of a bad reputation sticks. Mistress Pepys must have heard tell of it, and perhaps that is also why I have not found another mistress willing to take you. Your sister will not be continuing at Bow now that you are unable to provide for her. Your father’s business has had some difficulties; sales are dwindling. He certainly cannot afford the fees, that much was clear when I visited, at least not now that your brother Robert is old enough for schooling.

  I wish you well in your search for another position. You had your chance, and must make your own way now. I will arrange for Hester to come back to me as a maid-of-all-work until she is old enough to find an alternative. I would not want this to be a permanent state of affairs, since she has not a fit temperament for such a position. As you know, she’s unruly and wilful. Let’s hope her schooling has had the desired effect …”

  Deb looked at the words and a stone seemed to lodge in her throat. What was she to do? The thought of Hester going back to Aunt Beth, when Aunt Beth so clearly did not want her, was unthinkable. There must be some way to keep her sister at school, to give her a chance at life. And it was clear she could not come here, to London, not now Deb had been dismissed. With regret, she realised she should have taken the money Elisabeth had left her. She had been too proud. A pride she couldn’t afford. And now it was too late.

  There was little choice left in the matter. Deb sat at her familiar table and picked up a quill, one whose nib was almost furred from her nights of copying, and wrote a note to Abigail begging for assistance. It stuck in her gullet that she must crawl to Abigail, but it had to be done, for Hester’s sake, if not her own. She would need a place to stay, and an income, and Abigail could offer both. She could think of no one else. Only Jem, and she had far too much pride to ask him.

  When the letter was sealed, she slipped it into her pocket and began to pack her portmanteau and her chest of drawers. She flattened out her whale-boned bodices on the bed and folded them, smoothed out the skirts, feeling how much wear was left in the cloth. A Brussels lace collar that Elisabeth had given her as a gift one day at Unthank’s caught her eye, and she lifted it closer. Now it appeared too flimsy and transparent, her hands coarse and red under its white silk. She left it on the bed, did not pack it, for the sight of it filled her with remorse.

  She thrust Jem’s angel to the bottom of the trunk. What had she become? Just the empty body Mr Pepys described in his diary, she supposed. A girl who was just a stuffed bolster of straw one might lie on. She had despised her mother for what she had done, but was she, Deb, not as bad? The gypsy had been right: the dark side of her was always there, calling. She was like a fish swimming against that tide. She shut the lid on her portmanteau, surveyed the bare room.

  But when the time came to go, there had still been no reply from Abigail. It was a stark choice – the streets or the workhouse. She could not go to the workhouse. The stench of Bridewell came back to her.

  Anything but that. She would have to go to Abigail and beg.

  Will Hewer avoided her eyes as he put her trunk in the carriage.

  Deb leaned forward to the driver. ‘Whetstone Park,’ she said.

  The windows of Seething Lane stared glassily after her, but Deb was certain Elisabeth was behind a curtain watching her go.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  DEB’S LETTER LAY ON TOP of Abigail’s work desk, where she had torn it open first thing that morning. Abigail went to pour a drink, but found only a dribble, the last of the rum in the bottle. She’d had a sleepless night dreaming she was saving Joan from a sinking ship. She’d fought her way out from the sheets dry-mouthed and wet-eyed, and now this.

  She shoved the empty bottle away. When had she drunk that? Her mind was soft, as if she’d lost her edge.

  So Deb had got herself found out, had she? Oh, how she wished she were younger. She could have played Deb’s part to perfection, teased Pepys just enough to get what she needed, without giving too much of herself away.

  But what to do? She could not let the girl loose in London, to go Lord knows where with her mouth a-flapping. How could she sleep easy if Deb was taken on by another employer? Yet a disturbance in her territory could not be borne. Her arrangements were too complicated to take account of someone else. She had it all sealed tight, rigidly timetabled, her comings and goings to the theatre and Lord B, her meetings with Piet. She came home as one thing and went out as someone else. Another person in the house would loosen it all, like unlaced stays.

  Abigail walked to the bedroom. If Deb was to be silenced, it would be down to her. But then she would be back to the old problem. Piet would expect information from the Navy Office, and she was expected to supply it. He had no idea she wasn’t already doing so. She had never told him of Deb’s existence.

  It was as if she was forcing her way through mud. It was a conundrum too much for her to unravel. Even now, months later, she still couldn’t seem to think, except of Joan. It haunted her, those last days, how little Joan had weighed in her arms. A fledgling, dropped from its nest. And her heart still hurt, with a tearing feeling that would not stop.

  She pulled open the window; the air was sharp and damp. Joan was gone, though she could not quite believe it. She did not want to follow her. Put like that, it was simple after all. She could not displease Piet, or she would be the one in the river. Deb must come here and be her eyes and ears as usual.

  ‘Poole!’ She ran to the stairs and called down. She should have replied to Deb straight away. She hoped she was not too late.

  Deb did not relish the idea of arriving unannounced at Abigail’s, but she did not know where else to go and still feared one of the spymaster’s men would come after her. Better in the lion’s den where you could see the lion, than lost in the jungle where it might leap on you unawares. Besides, already the November wind blew biting through her cloak, and she dare not sleep on the street with no shelter.

  Abigail must have been expecting her, though, for after the carriage drew up, she opened the front door herself. Her face was white with leading, even more of a mask than usual; dark charcoal was smudged round red-rimmed eyes. Deb wondered if she was drunk, but could smell no alcohol on her breath. Nevertheless, there was something sad and adrift about her that she could not place.

  ‘Where’s Poole?’ Abigail said, looking in the carriage.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen her.’

  ‘But I sent her to fetch you.’

  ‘We must have crossed. You got my letter then?’ Deb asked.

  ‘You should have been more careful. Did they catch you at it?’

  Deb looked down. ‘Just a few days, I need, till I can find something else.’

  ‘You have references then?’ Abigail’s tone implied she knew she hadn’t.

  ‘A chit saying I worked there.’ Deb was defiant.

  Abigail nodded, as if it was what she expected. The driver, anxious to be off, dumped her trunk before them on the damp pavement.

  ‘Drag it into the hall,’ Abigail said. ‘Poole will help you bring it up later.’

  Deb paid off the gig and driver, and when it was out of sight, they waited in the front vestibule. Deb had never been in through the front door before.

  ‘Watch.’ Abigail rapped on the knocker of the inner door, a staccato pattern of knocks. ‘Four singles, two close beats, two singles,’ she said. ‘Have you got that? If I’m out, Poole will know it’s you.’

  Abigail unlocked the door with a weighty key, then slid the bolt home behind them and mounted the wooden stairs to the first floor with Deb close behind. The door to the main chamber was also locked. Abigail examined the lock, before saying, ‘If you go out, make sure you are not followed home. Be observant. It’s not the obvious ones you need to look out for. Often they are a false tail – there to keep you from spotting the real danger, t
he one who is unobtrusive.’

  They climbed the second set of stairs past the living quarters to the top floor, where Abigail led her to the wooden shuttered window. She threw it open to reveal a loading gantry and another set of stairs on the outside of the building. ‘You can get out of here if you need to, down to the tannery yard, if there’s trouble.’ She shut the wooden doors again. ‘Give me a hair.’

  Deb did not think she had heard correctly, but then Abigail gave a tug and withdrew one of her own long black hairs from the nape of her neck. ‘Watch,’ she said. She tied the hair carefully around the latch of the shutters and pulled it taut. ‘It’s what I do. Now, do the same to the chamber door when you go out. If Poole doesn’t answer, or the hair’s broken, you’ll know someone has been in. And they may still be in here.’

  ‘Is it really necessary? I mean, I don’t think I—’

  ‘You can’t be too careful. If you expect to live here, you must abide by certain rules. I have found them useful, and I am still here to tell the tale.’

  ‘What about when you have visitors?’

  ‘I have none, and neither will you. My visitors are received at Bruncker’s or I meet them in town. You were my only visitor, and I had my reasons for that. I do not want Pepys or anyone from the Navy Office to know you lodge with me, so you must make sure you are not watched, and never bring him here. Often I will be at Lord Bruncker’s and Poole will escort me. It means you will be alone, so you must be vigilant.’

  ‘What about your new house? Will you be moving there soon?’

  Abigail laughed, a sharp humourless sound. ‘There is no new house. There never was.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It is a ruse. I use it when I need to breed confidence in gullible people.’

  Deb coloured.

  ‘Bring no one here, and keep little. Be ready to move on to another safe place if we need to run.’ Deb’s sense of unease grew. This amount of vigilance could only mean that it was somehow necessary.

  ‘You’ll find all you need,’ Abigail said, gesturing around. ‘And I’ll give you more unobtrusive clothes, things that are more shapeless, that don’t draw attention to your looks.’

  ‘I only have a few dresses. Mrs Pepys chose them.’

  ‘So I see.’ She looked Deb up and down with disdain. ‘Poor woman never did have any taste. For this work you sometimes need to look poorer, or to be so bold and fashionable that nobody dares challenge you. You’re the nondescript type. I’ve a grey skirt and bodice I’ll loan you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Deb said. ‘It’s kind of you to take me in when I’ve nowhere to—’

  ‘Kind? I’ve no use for kind.’ The thought seemed to make Abigail angry. ‘Who was ever kind? It’s business. There’ll be documents to copy as before, and we still need Pepys’ intelligence. You’ll be able to entertain him at the Black Bull tavern.’

  Entertain him. She had thought she was clear of all that.

  ‘Naturally, you will be paid less. You are not as valuable as you were, now we can’t have such easy access to Pepys’ diary. Still, you must get what intelligence you can. My contact wants to know which ships are being rebuilt at Chatham, and which at Portsmouth or other docks, for some scheme he’s involved in. He’s particularly interested in the hundred-cannon ship that Pepys mentioned to you. Try to find out where that’s being refitted.’

  ‘I understand,’ Deb said.

  ‘Poole will take a message to tell Mr Pepys where to meet you.’

  ‘Yes.’ She had no intention of meeting Mr Pepys again, but she was in no position to argue.

  ‘Ask him the layout of the yards, what’s being refitted, how many artisans live on site, the hours they work in the roperies and the sailmakers and so forth.’ Abigail was throwing on a wrap as she spoke. ‘Try to persuade him to take you there, if possible. And you must ask him what day they inspect the yards. The day and the time of the weekly inspection. Have you got that? It’s most important.’

  ‘Yes.’ She knew better than to ask why these details were needed. Abigail never told her and she drew her own conclusions from the evidence she copied.

  ‘I’ll be at Lord B’s. When Poole returns you may use her as a messenger.’

  Deb nodded.

  Abigail gestured to a shut door. ‘And my chamber – it is strictly private. You have your own chamber here.’ She walked along the hall and pushed open a door to reveal a servant’s quarters at the back. The damp and Spartan room told Deb all she needed to know about her status there. ‘I need the yard inspection times by Friday,’ Abigail said.

  Deb had lost all sense of time; she’d forgotten what day it was.

  ‘I have an appointment to dine with Lord Bruncker.’ Abigail brushed down her full taffeta skirts and adjusted her veiled hat. Deb noticed the hatpin on the brim, skewering it tight to Abigail’s hair, and could not help staring now she knew how that pin could be used.

  ‘The spare key.’ Abigail dropped the cold weight of it into her hand. ‘Don’t lose it.’ She did not bid her goodbye, but Deb could hear her red heels clack all down the front stairs, the shunt of the bolts and the other key turning in the lock.

  When she was quite sure she had gone, Deb let out her breath and took stock of her surroundings. Without the presence of Abigail, and with the fire unlit, the house was dank and she could see dust on all the surfaces. It did not seem to be a home, just a collection of random possessions, as if nobody had ever really lived there at all.

  She wondered if she should clean it. Abigail had not made her household duties clear, only her spying duties. She did not know how to be Abigail’s maid. She was a different beast entirely from Elisabeth Pepys, and besides, something in Abigail’s manner had shifted from feigned interest in Deb to a ruthless contempt.

  After an hour or so, she heard the strange pattern of knocks and went down.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked warily from behind the door.

  ‘Poole.’

  She was almost glad to see her. She explained that Abigail was out at Lord Bruncker’s. When she and Poole had lugged up the trunk, it sat in the middle of the floor, making it feel even more like a waiting room. This chamber was nothing like the Pepyses’ cosy parlour, full of half-read books, portraits and maps on the walls, soft cushions and rugs for comfort.

  After Poole disappeared downstairs, Deb dragged her trunk, scraping on the boards, to her chamber. Suddenly exhausted, she sat down on the hard pallet bed and examined a patch of creeping mould on the whitewashed wall. She was stuck here, she realised. Elisabeth had thrust her a hastily scrawled paper that merely stated the dates of her employment and no recommendation. The lack of words said more than any reference could.

  Where had it begun to go wrong? Was it the moment she met Abigail? Or the moment she set foot in the Pepyses’ house? Once things started to slide, it was hard to claw them back; they were sand sucked away by the sea. One thing dragged another in its wake. She had hoped to set an example Hester could follow, one as far away from her mother’s ruinous reputation as possible. Yet here she was.

  Hester. Deb groaned. Hester must never know. Deb could pay for her board and schooling just the same, if she did Abigail’s bidding. Her own chances and reputation might be lost, but she would make sure her sister kept hers, and what’s more, that Hester would never find out how. A resolve hardened in her.

  Very well, if she was a whore and a traitor, she would be one that survived.

  And if Abigail Williams could hide her true profession, then so could she.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  ABIGAIL MADE DEB WRITE to Mr Pepys, and Poole brought the return message to Deb asking to meet him at his tailor’s. From there they took a ride in a hired coach. She was surprised to find she was glad to see him – his familiar jovial face, his beaming smile. He was full of questions about her new employer, but Deb simply told him it was a Dr Allbarn, and led him to believe he was a dull but dutiful physician. Frustratingly, Mr Pepys would not be steered to a conversat
ion about the docks or inspections or anything to do with the navy, no matter what enticements she tried.

  ‘I need diversion,’ he said. ‘The office is a mighty trial. Let’s not talk of that now. Show me where you live, little Deb, where we can be private.’ He emphasised the word ‘private’.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dr Allbarn won’t permit callers after hours, and I must be back soon.’

  ‘Big bear misses you. I’ve been half-mad with it,’ he said, trailing his finger along her bare collarbone.

  ‘And Elisabeth?’

  He frowned, was silent, playing with the embroidered pocket of his waistcoat. The coach rattled across the cobbles.

  ‘I love you, Deb,’ he said, in a sudden gush. He took hold of her hands. ‘Don’t you care for me at all?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ she said. It was true, she did. He was the closest she had to a friend. But she did not want to be his lover. It was all so complicated, and then there was Jem. Jem – she dare not even think of him.

  Mr Pepys pressed his lips down on hers, but she pushed him off. ‘Someone might see us, through the window,’ she said.

  His answer was to pull down the blinds and lift her skirts.

  ‘No,’ she protested. ‘I just want to talk.’

  ‘But I’m mad about you. The house is so quiet. There’s nothing left to look forward to.’ His eyes were wet and soulful as he tried, again, to creep his hand up past her stockings to her bare thigh. ‘You know you like it, Deb. Just a little kiss.’

  ‘No,’ she said, loud and definite, pushing his hands away.

  ‘But why?’

  What could she tell him? That he was deluding himself. That he could not love her, because he did not even know her. What could he know of the real Deb? The Deb he loved was a figment of his imagination. He wanted a grand ‘amour’ and as his inferior, she was supposed to supply it.

  ‘But you’re all alone in London,’ he went on. ‘I want to protect you. I don’t know where you are, and I worry that someone will hurt you.’