Pleasing Mr. Pepys

by Deborah Swift

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Politics is all in the mind. Don’t let it set you apart. The human heart beats just the same, no matter what thoughts divide us. If you still like her, you should find a way to mend it. Perhaps she just needs time to adjust to the idea, so that you can both come to a compromise.’

  ‘I tried to apologise once, but she brushed me off. And it is not so easy any more, because she’s moved, and I don’t know exactly where she lives. But I can’t bear the thought that something might happen to her because of my brother, not if I could have prevented it.’

  ‘Where did she used to live?’

  ‘She was maid to Mrs Pepys, but she’s left there now.’

  ‘Then go to the Navy Offices and ask him for an address for her. And while you’re there you could gently warn Pepys that more trouble with the sailors is brewing, and suggest they prepare themselves. That’s the best you can do. And as for your brother, you should sit down with him over a table and talk it out. Use your curate’s powers of persuasion.’

  Lizzie did not know how stubborn Bart could be, Jem thought. And if he went to see Mr Pepys he might not be able to keep his temper. He’d met his old acquaintance Crawley from the Navy Office; he was drinking in the Bell Tavern, and Crawley had told him with great relish that Deb had probably left because Mr Pepys had tupped her. It couldn’t be true, he knew that, but just the idea of it choked him.

  ‘What’s her name?’ asked Lizzie, interrupting his thoughts.

  ‘Deborah, but people call her Deb.’

  ‘Nice name. I like the old biblical names. Used them for all my children, Thomas, Hester—’

  ‘I didn’t know you had children, Lizzie. I thought you were a widow.’

  ‘I just let people assume that. But no, I’m married. Alas, I’m estranged from my husband and family.’ Lizzie turned her face away. ‘Have been these last seven years.’

  ‘That must be hard.’

  He saw her swallow, press her hand to her chest. ‘Their father won’t allow me to see them or even tell me where they are. I write, but have never received a reply, though I can’t say I blame them. My sons don’t want to know me.’ She shook her head. ‘It all happened a long time ago. My children will be grown now, and I missed my chance to mother them. They’ll have no need of me after all this time. It still hurts, though, to think I missed their growing up.’

  ‘Whatever caused the rift,’ Jem said, ‘I’m sure it can have been none of your fault.’

  ‘Then you are naïve. It was more my fault than anybody’s. I was young, and wilful, and in love. It was like madness, and I couldn’t see the consequences. But you must talk to your Deborah, see if things can’t be mended. Don’t let it go on until it’s set as cold as stone.’

  She went to the desk, scrubbed at it too hard. Jem had the impression she was trying to rub out the past.

  ‘There’s not one day goes by when I don’t curse myself,’ she said. ‘I lost my youngest son in the Great Fire, and after that I hadn’t the heart to confront my husband, to fight him to see the rest of the children.’ She paused, sighed. ‘Grief does that. Wears you down. It all seemed like too big a mountain to climb. But I’d give anything to see their faces now, though I wouldn’t impose on them. I know it’s too late. They will think me too much dropped in society. But never a day goes by without thoughts of them, and the ache that goes with it. It’s why I do this.’ She gestured round the room. ‘The children are all substitutes for my own. I’m not so stupid that I don’t know that. So if you think I’m good, it’s only self-preservation, not charity.’

  ‘It’s fine work, and I’m sure your children would be proud to see you.’

  ‘But they never will.’ The words stung like a slap. She picked up a rag from the bucket and wrung it out. ‘Pass me those slates.’

  At the Navy Office the next day Jem tried to reason with Mr Pepys. ‘I beg you, sir, think again. If you don’t do something soon, there will be trouble. You will have a rebellion on your hands, and don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ The sight of Pepys sitting smugly in his leather chair, his well-coiffed wig and the waistcoat straining against his heavy stomach, made Jem want to strike him.

  ‘Good Lord, are you threatening me?’

  ‘No, sir, just plain speaking.’

  ‘A good deal too plain for my liking.’ He thumped a fist on the table. ‘Newman will show you out.’

  Jem had almost reached the door when he remembered to ask for Deb’s address. He bit back his anger, tried to put on a neutral face. ‘Miss Willet, who used to be maid to your wife – she used to come to my church sometimes. Do you happen to know where she lives now?’

  At the sound of Deb’s name, Pepys frowned and looked up from his desk. ‘She’s working for a Dr Allbarn in the west of the city, but I don’t know the exact address. Why? What’s it to you?’

  ‘No reason, just some charitable work she might be interested in.’

  ‘Charitable work? Our Deb?’ Now he did look flummoxed. Jem gave him an icy glare, bowed sharply, and withdrew.

  If Pepys wouldn’t listen, he supposed he should try to speak to Lord Bruncker, warn him that if they didn’t want a rebellion, they should act now. Bruncker was just finishing a meeting with Mennes, but the clerk invited him in to wait in the vestibule while he went to see if Lord Bruncker was available yet and had time to see him.

  Jem peeped round the door into Bruncker’s office. It was full of the good oak furniture that sailors like his brother would never be able to afford, polished so highly that it gave off a treacly sheen. An imposing leather-covered desk was flanked by two gleaming upholstered leather chairs. The desk itself, with its silver inkwell, was littered with correspondence. Weighty letters, stiff with red wax seals, in amongst rolls of what looked to be architectural plans.

  Jem could not resist walking over to try out one of the chairs. The leather was so new it squeaked, so he stood again and glanced at the papers on the desk. He was peering at what looked like a plan of a ship, when the door opened and Lord Bruncker strode in, casting him a disapproving look down his long nose. Jem jumped away, aware of how rude it must appear to be caught perusing someone else’s private papers.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir.’ He stood up straight and held out his hand in greeting but Bruncker did not take it.

  ‘What’s so urgent it could not wait?’ Bruncker said, glaring. ‘Some sort of charity? Be quick, man, I’m busy.’ He didn’t sit, but stooped to sift through the papers on his desk.

  Jem began to explain to him about his fears for a rebellion and why he had come. He was only halfway through his speech when Bruncker flapped him down.

  ‘Tush, lad, we know all that already. We’ve told the sailors often enough, we’re in the hands of the King. We’re doing what we can. And if we weren’t constantly interrupted by people like you, we would be able to get on with it that much quicker.’

  ‘But, sir—’

  ‘Now stop wasting my valuable time, and get back to ministering to your parish. If they’re as poor as you say they are, they certainly need your charitable assistance more than I do. Good day.’

  Bruncker ushered him to the door while he was still protesting. Outside the door, Crawley jumped back and wiped his hands down his breeches. The nosy dog had obviously been listening.

  ‘Show Mr Wells out, would you, Crawley?’Bruncker said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Crawley bowed low to him and led the way.

  If Crawley’s head bent any further it would scrape the ground, thought Jem. After the door shut behind him, Jem turned and threw his hat at the door in frustration. For the first time, he could understand Bart’s embitterment. These well-to-do men in their fancy offices had no idea at all of life in Whitechapel or Lukenor Lane, nor the depths that sailor’s wives must stoop to just to put bread on the table.

  When he got back to his house he could smell tobacco as soon as he got in through the door, and Bart and his friend Tom Player stood up guiltily from the table. Jem sighed
and slung his cloak onto the back of the door. No doubt they were plotting again. Player gathered together the sheaf of maps and papers on the table and stuffed them into his bag.

  ‘Evening, Mr Wells,’ Player said. ‘I’m just on my way out.’

  Jem watched Bart whisper to him on the doorstep, before he disappeared into the dark.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t be here long,’ Bart said, tapping the embers of his pipe onto a plate. ‘Just getting a change of clothes and then I’ll go out to eat.’

  ‘You can eat here with me. I’ve been to see Mr Pepys and—’

  ‘No thanks. If my friends aren’t welcome at your table, I’d prefer to join them. Tom’s found me new lodgings, so I’ll be out of your way as soon as the lease is signed.’

  Jem was taken aback. ‘You don’t need to do that. You don’t need to move out.’

  ‘I know I don’t need to, but it’s what I prefer.’

  ‘Come on, Bart, let’s try to be civil with each other. I believe in your cause. I just don’t believe in violence, that’s all. Why do you think I spend so much time at the school with Lizzie? Because I’m educating the poor to pull themselves up out of poverty, that’s why.’

  ‘Lizzie Willet is a fool. She was perfectly capable of managing that school without any help from do-gooders like you. Now you’re taking it over and the poor woman—’

  ‘I’m not taking it over!’ He paused. Something had just registered. ‘What did you say her second name was?’

  ‘Willet. Why? What difference does it make?’

  ‘Be quiet. Let me think.’ Hadn’t Deb once told him that her sister was called Hester, or was he imagining it?

  Bart was waiting for Jem’s reply, but when none came he threw back his head, blew a sigh of annoyance, and stomped off to his chambers.

  Jem sat at the table and tried to remember all the things Deb had told him about her family, and all the things Lizzie had told him about her daughter. It was all fitting together. How stupid of him not to realise before. He’d never thought to ask a surname. The children just called her ‘Missus’, and everyone else knew her as Lizzie; no one had titles in the rookeries of Clement’s Yard. The strange affinity and familiarity he had felt for her from the very beginning began to make sense. Could it be he’d been helping Deb’s mother every day?

  He got out a map of the west of the city, already looking for the churches still standing there. Dr Allbarn. That’s what Pepys had said. Deb lodged with Dr Allbarn. He could check at the churches to see if Dr Allbarn was part of their congregation. And he could ask at the Royal Society. If he was a physician then someone there would surely know him. Jem was in a ferment of excitement, could not sit back down.

  This new information made him see both Deb and Lizzie in a new light. He rolled it round in his mind. On one of their walks after church, Deb had confessed she was searching for her mother, but was reticent about her family background. ‘I don’t want Mrs Pepys to know about my family,’ she said, ‘so keep it to yourself.’ He’d thought it was because she suspected Pepys to be of a different political persuasion from her parents. But now he wondered.

  Lizzie had said her husband had disowned her, but not why. Whatever had gone on in the past, he should go and tell Lizzie he thought he knew her daughter. Hadn’t she said she’d do anything to see her children again?

  But he’d go to Deb first because it might be the news that would mend things between them. He imagined her pleasure and his heart lifted. Tomorrow he’d go and find out where Dr Allbarn lived, and, with luck, persuade Deb to see him so he could give her the good news.

  Chapter Forty-four

  ABIGAIL OPENED HER CHAMBER DOOR and looked down at the floor. The film of powder was undisturbed. She breathed out, chided herself. She was on edge all the time, as if some feeling was ready to burst out, like a cask of fermenting wine ready to explode. She found herself rattled over small things, seeing demons where none existed. Sometimes she thought that Deb was more intelligent than she gave her credit for, and on occasion she’d thought Deb was actually watching her, instead of the other way around. Something was out of kilter, and experience had taught her never to just dismiss these things.

  Abigail sighed, hitched up her skirts, tucked them in the waistband and fetched a besom and dustpan to clear the floor. This was a task she did not ask of Poole, since it was designed to catch her too. Abigail coughed, wrinkled her nose; the smell seemed sicklier than usual. When it was done she went to her dressing table, slid the pins out of her hat. She was never without them, their heavily jewelled finials masking their effectiveness as a weapon.

  She reassured herself; she had not seen Deb do anything out of the ordinary, and she seemed obedient enough. Abigail shook her black hair loose, scrutinised the wrinkles on her forehead. They seemed deeper these days – not that she could see them as clearly now; her eyes had grown some kind of milky film, and she could make out little now without the aid of a glass.

  She froze, alerted by a noise below, but then relaxed. Deb. She knew it from her tread. She was back from her meeting with Crawley already. Abigail took her time peeling off her gloves before her mirror, and when she eventually went through, Deb was sitting near the window dutifully writing notes.

  ‘How is Lord B?’ Deb asked. As she sat back, Deb’s elbow knocked one of her quills to the ground.

  Without thinking, Abigail bent down to pick it up. It was then she caught the smell. She froze, inhaling deeply. That was the same smell that was in her room. It lingered on Deb’s skirts. Something floral and sweet, but dry, like rose petals.

  A smell that was not her own. That could only mean one thing. Deb had been in her room.

  ‘Are you well?’ Deb asked, when Abigail did not stand up immediately. ‘Is it your back?’

  Abigail rose, all her senses honed as sharp as a blade. She kept her voice light. ‘I’m not as young as I was, that’s all.’

  She stood and went back to her bedchamber. There she rummaged in her bag and took out the brass compact of lavender face-powder. She dabbed in a finger and brought it to her nose. The scent of this was quite different; sharper and fresher.

  The consequences whirled in her head. She sat down on the bed to think. Lord B had complained to the post office only last week that some of his letters had been opened. Until now, Abigail had assumed it to be someone at the post office, for it was common knowledge that agents operated from there. But now there was a more sinister answer. It could have been Deb.

  Still thinking, she rose from the bed and walked back through to the parlour. The bitch. She was spying on her. On her own instigation, or Piet’s?

  The answer came as Deb turned to look up briefly, questioningly, and smiled at her.

  She was not as scared as she used to be.

  Deb no longer feared her. She should have noticed it before; and it was so obvious, now she’d seen it. If she was not afraid, it must mean she had protection. Deb went back to writing, leaving Abigail looking down on the top of her head, at the pale skin where the hair was parted.

  After all she’d done for her. Taking her in, putting up with her filling her space – a girl who wasn’t even her daughter.

  Abigail curbed an overwhelming desire to smash something heavy down on the back of that head. She had trained herself never to act in the heat of the moment. She drew herself taller, took a deep ragged breath. She came to a decision. The time had come. She rang for Poole.

  ‘Fetch me a carriage,’ she said. ‘Round the back, something unmarked, unobtrusive.’

  ‘Yes, mistress.’

  She fetched her outdoor things.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Deb asked.

  ‘B’s.’ Abigail draped a fox fur around her shoulders.

  ‘To Lord Bruncker’s? But you’ve only just come back.’

  ‘Supper and then on to a friend of his,’ Abigail said, tersely.

  ***

  Deb watched from the window, bemused by Abigail’s sudden departure. She was
hovering by the back gate waiting for the carriage, her body restless, her hand twitching at the fur around her neck. She usually waited inside, out of the cold. Deb was uneasy. When the carriage arrived, all Abigail’s movements, the way she fumbled with the door, showed an agitation.

  ‘Berenger’s,’ she heard Abigail say.

  She’s up to something, Deb thought. But she knew she could not follow, for the carriage was already gone in a clatter of hooves.

  Leo was working late, as he often did, by the time Abigail got to the printing house.

  ‘I need a document making,’ she said, slapping her gloves down on the table.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘A letter of safe conduct. I need to get out of England.’

  ‘You too? What’s the hurry? Is something afoot?’

  She ignored him, traced her fingertip on the wooden counter. ‘Are you still planning on leaving?’

  He nodded. ‘Soon. At the end of the month. The passage should be easy then, when the spring blusters have passed.’

  ‘Then I shall travel with you.’

  He blinked, opened his mouth, but did not speak.

  ‘We will travel together,’ she said. ‘You will supply the papers so I can pass as your girl’s mother.’

  ‘No.’ He stepped back from the counter, one hand up as if to ward her away. ‘Sorry, Abigail, but I have to say no. I don’t want Rachel to be involved in any trouble.’

  ‘No one will know. You know me, I’m a good performer. We’ll be a close family group travelling after a wedding. What could be less suspicious?’

  ‘But Rachel knows nothing of my life, except that I am a printer by trade. How will I explain you to her? Besides, what if her mother wants to visit?’

  ‘You’ll think of something. Don’t tell me you don’t know how to lie? Not after all this time.’

  ‘No, Abigail. I wanted to be free of all that, and how will Rachel ever be able to trust me if she sees I am lying to get you to France? The whole point of it was to leave it behind, to make a new start.’

  ‘And you shall have it.’ She gave him a taut smile. ‘After we are in France. I need a new identity, one that can’t be questioned. Do this one thing for me, won’t you, Leo, as a favour for an old friend? You would be in the poorhouse if it wasn’t for me.’