‘Where is this godforsaken curate now?’ she asked wearily.
‘I don’t know,’ Deb said, sitting down opposite her on a leather-topped stool. ‘Nobody’s seen him for days. My guess is that he’s probably just been called away, maybe has duties in another parish.’
‘Last night Lord B was looking for an inventory. It was one I took to Whetstone Park last week,’ Abigail said. ‘Turned the house half upside down looking for it. Has this man taken the bag with him?’
‘I don’t know. It’s probably in his house somewhere.’
‘Can’t you get in and see?’
‘Not easily, I checked. He lodges right on the main thoroughfare in full view,’ Deb said. ‘A break-in would be too difficult. And I went to his parish, and I even sent a boy, to enquire at the school where he does charitable work. But I think he’ll keep the bag safe and not look inside. After all, he’s a curate. He won’t snoop.’
‘Of course he will. It’s human nature.’
‘He won’t,’ Deb said, ‘because he knows it’s mine and we trust each other. I’m worried … he was going to return it, but something’s stopped him …’
‘You should have come straight here.’
‘Anyway,’ Deb said defiantly, ‘so far nobody has come knocking on my door.’
‘That doesn’t mean they won’t. Clergymen …’ Abigail said, sighing. ‘Never trust them. They’re the worst. More priests in the bawdyhouses than anyone else. Have you found different lodgings?’
‘There hasn’t been time. The bag seemed more important. But I told Poole we could no longer employ her.’
‘Does she know anything?’
‘No. But she did not seem surprised,’ Deb said. ‘She said you knew where to find her when it had all blown over.’
‘She’s been in this situation before, that’s why. She knows I value her discretion. But I trust you’ve told this curate nothing about us, about what we do?’
‘No.’ Deb shook her head. ‘He thinks I’m just a maidservant.’
Abigail saw the way Deb’s eyes would not meet hers, realised there must be some attraction between Deb and this man. She stood up and gestured at the portrait of Lord Bruncker in its gilded frame. ‘Look at him. Handsome devil, isn’t he? I fancied I was in love once. This curate – have you fallen for him?’
Deb joined her in front of the portrait. ‘Jem’s too respectable for me. It wouldn’t be a suitable match.’
Abigail blinked, taken aback. It was a long time since she’d heard those words. What was ‘respectable? Or ‘suitable?’ There would be few who could match Deb Willet for intelligence, or courage. ‘Don’t be too sure,’ Abigail said. ‘They’re never as lily white as they pretend – nobody is.’ She turned away from the portrait and poured them both a glass of Madeira from a decanter. ‘My first husband was a well-respected army officer on the outside, until he got a bottle in his hand.’ She held up the glass ruefully, before swallowing the liquid.
‘Is he still alive?’ Deb asked. ‘Is that why you haven’t married Lord Bruncker?’
‘No. He’s dead. John was twenty-nine years older than me when we married. An old man.’ She paused, remembering. ‘I was his second wife. It suited John, for I was heir to the Clere fortune and, at twelve years old, too young to understand what marriage meant. He ravaged my fortune in less than ten years, and abandoned me when it ran out. But he was already a ruin of a man. The old King’s execution – he could never get over it. He was Cromwell’s cousin.’
‘You don’t mean the late Lord Protector?’
‘The same. The family used to be called Cromwell, but he had to change his name to Williams. When they wanted to kill the King, he tried to persuade his cousin to show mercy. Of course, you know the result.’ She put down the glass and sat down, her legs were weak again. These days she seemed to have little stamina.
Deb passed over her own glass, which was untouched. ‘So what happened to him then?’
Abigail sighed. ‘After that, John was unwelcome in any society – the Cromwells’ or the King’s. We were pariahs everywhere we went. We went into hiding to Holland. That’s where I met Piet.’
Deb came to sit close to her. ‘Did you know he was a spy?’
‘Not then. My husband was losing his wits; he couldn’t hold his drink, and that meant money slipped through his fingers like water. We were destitute, couldn’t afford to eat, and Piet, knowing I could speak a little French, suggested I should act as a go-between between the Dutch and the French. He meant spying, of course.’
‘So why did you come to England?
‘To deliver some papers. It was on my way to England by ship that I gave birth to Joan.’ Abigail closed her eyes a moment, to shut out the memory of the pain and the heaving of the sea. ‘But when I looked into her face – so tiny, so innocent … in that moment I decided I could never go back to Holland. I wanted to give my daughter a better life than I’d had, set her a good example.’ She paused, pressed a hand to her mouth to stop the sob that was rising. It was a moment before she spoke. ‘I failed.’
‘No. She chose the life she wanted. And she knew you loved her, at the last.’ Deb took her by the hand.
Abigail didn’t withdraw. They sat a while before she squeezed it and said, ‘We understand each other. Bring the bag as soon as you get it. It makes me nervous not knowing who’s reading those papers.’
‘I will.’ Deb went to fetch her cloak. ‘Abigail, I hate to ask, but there’s something else. I wondered if you could perhaps give me a loan …’
‘Oh, Lord. You’re right. I should have thought. I’m afraid you’re on your own. Piet’s was my only income and I gave all my silver coin to Lord B to keep up the pretence of a wealthy widow. He thinks I have money. It’s one of my attractions. Takes more than love or beauty to bind a man to you, remember that. Money is power. So if there’s one thing I’ve learnt, it’s that if you don’t care for them, make them pay. And if you do care for them, make them pay just the same.’
‘What little money I had was all in that bag. I have nothing else valuable I can sell. I’d hoped—’
‘Sorry, Deb, I’m down to my last farthing, though you’re welcome to that. Oh, but wait—’
An idea. She took out her calfskin purse from her bag and tipped it into her hand. Two tokens and the brooch she sometimes wore at her throat. She held this out.
‘Take the brooch. It’s the last of my valuables. Lord B gave me it the first time I … did him a favour. You can sell it.’
‘I can’t do that. It’s too easily traced. It will link us together.’ Deb shook her head.
She was right, Abigail realised. She should have thought of that herself. She had taught her well. To mask her feelings of pride, she turned with sudden impatience. ‘Why are you wasting time talking to me? You should still be out searching for your Romeo. And as soon as you find him, for God’s sake, bring me that bag.’
Deb had been relying on money from Abigail. Without it, how could she eat, let alone change lodgings? Abigail’s reaction to her losing the bag had been less violent than she had anticipated. The sting had gone from their relationship, and she sensed a genuine partnership. Now Abigail’s guard was down, Deb sensed her hidden softness, a glimpse of girlhood underneath her hard façade.
But she worried what had happened to Jem – whether he really had gone away, or whether he had given her up altogether. Talking about him to Abigail had made her heart full of longing. It was odd that he had not written to her, to apologise for not coming to their meeting. Perhaps she had offended him too much and he had changed his mind. She hurried on to escape the thought and its accompanying pain. She was just passing down Holborn Hill past the water conduit, when a coach slowed beside her.
She glanced in through the window, but looked away hurriedly. Mr Pepys. He was everywhere. Damn. He’d seen her. She pretended not to have noticed him and hurried on up the hill towards Smithfield. The coach rumbled along, keeping pace with her, and when she got to the
end of the street he alighted and stood in her path.
‘Deb, my dear! The very person. I tracked you down! Will Hewer confessed to me where you lodge in Whetstone Park and I was just on my way to see you.’
But she had no time to digest this, as he had taken hold of her arm. ‘Come along, this way, there’s a little alehouse there.’ He set off briskly before she could protest and swept her into the dim interior of the tavern, pushing her ahead of him into a dark corner. He summoned the taverner to light a candle, though it was still bright outside. The thought came that perhaps she might persuade him to a loan.
‘I wanted to show you my new books.’ He took out his latest acquisitions, talking all the while as if to stop speaking might lay bare the awkwardness between them. He did not meet her eyes, but set out the books in a row before her.
‘I can’t stay long,’ she said, aware that she was jammed against the wall now he had slipped in beside her.
‘Just a few minutes. You’ll love these,’ he said.
He pointed out the fine embossing, the marbled paper and the ornate capitals. ‘Come closer,’ he said, drawing her up to him with his hand around her shoulder.
She regretted now even coming inside, but the trouble with Mr Pepys was that he was hard to resist. With him, it was like trying to stop a runaway carriage. It blundered on, taking all before it. And after her recent experiences, he seemed mild, with not an ounce of malice in him.
‘I’m hungry. Are you hungry, Deb? I’ll order something.’ He shouted the taverner over and sent him to fetch two pies, and just the thought of them made Deb’s mouth water. One little pie could not hurt. She’d be careful, keep her wits about her.
As they ate, he told her about the wedding between Jane and Tom, and it was so good to hear of them, and slowly, with the warmth of the food, she began to relax, until Mr Pepys began to ponder over Jane and Tom’s wedding night, and his hand crept around under her arm to rest on her thigh. She leaned away from him.
‘It’s so nice to see you. Remember when we played “hunt the key”?’ he said. ‘Is there a little kiss for Sam, Deb?’
She did not have to do this any more, she realised. He was no longer her employer. In an instant she saw herself as if from a great distance, saw what she had become. There was power in being a whore. She thought of Abigail’s words of not an hour earlier: If you don’t care … make them pay.
‘Now, Mr Pepys, you know if you want a kiss, you will have to give me something.’ She deliberately took on the teasing tone she used to use with him.
‘What shall I give you? Perhaps one of my books, though I should be loath to—’
‘Sixpence would do.’ There. It was out.
He stopped talking, and his eyes widened in surprise.
‘No. Don’t be a goose. I can’t give you money, not like …’
‘Like a common whore? Why not?’ Anger rushed up like a red heat. ‘You want my favours, don’t you, so why not be honest? And I’ll bet I’ve to be quiet about it, too, so that Elisabeth won’t suspect. Well, silence must be paid for.’
He frowned, shook his head. ‘What’s happened to my little Deb? So hard, so—’
‘I’ve grown up, Mr Pepys. You don’t employ me, can no longer order me. If you want your kiss, it will be sixpence, and sixpence for my silence.’
He stared a moment as if she’d slapped him, and then he reached into his pocket. He took out two gold ‘angels’ and tossed them onto the table. Twenty shillings. It was an enormous amount, enough for two pairs of stockings of real silk.
‘If you need money, then I have plenty,’ he said. ‘You need only ask. Take it as a gift. Now let us say no more about this foolish idea.’ He took hold of her hand and squeezed it in his plump palm.
She swallowed, thought of Jem, and a wave of guilt washed over her. But she had no idea where Jem had gone. Perhaps, even now, he was going through the papers in her bag. He was a thoughtful man. Perhaps he did not come to meet her because he had realised the significance of the papers. Would he tell anyone? She might need to pay to get away. Money could buy her a path out of trouble.
Pepys squeezed her hand again and Deb stared at the glinting gold on the table. Abigail was right. If she was going to do this, she would be in control and she would be rightly recompensed.
Deb reached for the money and tucked the heavy coins into the pocket in her skirts. ‘Forty kisses, then for twenty shillings,’ she said. Like Judas’s silver.
He started to protest, but anxious to get it done and get away, she pulled him towards her and brought her mouth up to his. His hands went to both breasts, but she pushed him away. ‘No. Not that. Just kisses. Touching costs more.’
She kissed him quickly, short sharp pecks on the mouth, keeping count up to sixteen until he thrust her away.
‘Stop!’ he said. ‘That was not what I meant. Where is the old Deb?’
She shook her head, unable to speak. It was a question she kept asking herself, and it brought with it a pain deep in her chest.
He sighed, gathered his books, irritation pushing his mouth into a pout. ‘I can’t stay. I have an appointment to keep. But we need to straighten this out, because you dishonour yourself. Will you meet me again?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t think so.’
‘You still owe me,’ he said, eyes too bright and glassy, the bulge in his breeches too proud.
‘Will you pay then,’ she said, summoning her strength, ‘for me to keep my silence?’
He shook his head, sighed. ‘If I must. But I never thought it would come to this, not with my little Deb, not with my peach.’
‘This same time again tomorrow?’ she asked, her voice brisk.
‘If that’s how it’s to be, meet me in the Hall at Westminster. There’s a room I can hire.’ He stood up and bowed. He had never bowed to her before. It looked odd, and as he scattered more coins on the counter for the cellarman, she saw him suddenly differently, as a sad middle-aged man, like a hollow gourd with a need to stuff himself up, to preen and prattle to keep everyone away from seeing the little mouse inside.
Poor Elisabeth. He would always be wanting someone to make the mouse feel like a man.
Now Deb had money she hailed a hackney to get away as quickly as possible. Although Pepys had not touched a single inch of naked skin, she still felt dirty. First thing she would do would be to boil water and scrub herself all over. Her hand closed over the gold in her pocket. That amount would keep her a few weeks, buy bread and beer, provide a deposit for new lodgings and time to search for another position, though Elisabeth’s paltry reference would not be much assistance. She should have reminded Abigail about her promise to write her a new one.
She did not want to meet Mr Pepys again. He would demand more, and the thought of it turned her stomach the way milk turns sour. Soon as she could, she would leave London, go to another town. Back to Bristol, perhaps. Somewhere far away from here, where she could make a new start. Perhaps Hester would be able to join her. Hester. Oh my Lord. What would she think of her, if she knew?
She alighted and paid the driver, and was just about to put a key in the door when she heard someone call her name. ‘Miss Willet!’
Her heart jolted, and from habit she whipped around. A man was waving to her. She recognised the well-muscled figure of Bart, Jem’s brother. Her first thought was that he might be returning her bag, but she could see no sign of it. He ran up, slid to a standstill before her. ‘Have you heard?’
‘What?’
‘It’s not good news,’ he was panting from exertion, ‘but I thought you should know. Jem thought a lot of you. He wouldn’t stop talking about you. But it’s taken me a long time to find where you live.’ He was embarrassed, reluctant.
‘What? Tell me.’
‘He’s in gaol. Not his fault. Don’t think ill of him. The neighbour says a bunch of men came to search our lodgings.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’ Deb shook her head. ‘He kept to the church rule. What’
s he supposed to have done?’
‘It’s nothing to do with the church. He got caught up in a skirmish at the docks. There was an explosion and … well, they think he had something to do with it.’
Deb was sorting the pieces of the puzzle. The docks – the plot against the King; that was information she knew all about, from maps and documents she’d copied for Abigail. The plot that some foolish rebels were still intent on. She had a sudden flash of insight – Abigail must have sold this intelligence to the Crown. But what had this to do with Jem?
‘They’ve put him in the Clink,’ Bart said.
‘It’s a mistake. If he hasn’t done anything wrong then they’ll let him go, won’t they? Why haven’t they let him go?’
Bart’s face was miserable. ‘I don’t know. It was my fault. It all went wrong … he tried to tell me, but I wouldn’t listen to reason. I was angry and vengeful and just wanted to do something. It had already been postponed once. It was a good plan, and I thought we could do it, even without the Dutch … Player and Skinner and a good number of us. But this time it never even got started … the rain was pelting down, we could hardly see straight, and then, suddenly, as we were setting the fuse, armed troops crashed in on us, shouting and waving muskets. Someone had betrayed us. We panicked, scattered, bolted for our lives. But Player had already lit the fuse and … God, splinters and nails flying everywhere …’
‘What’s this to do with Jem?’
‘He was there, in the yard. Still don’t know what the hell he was doing there. Maybe he’d come to help us.’ Bart lifted his shoulders in a gesture of defeat. ‘I did try, Miss Willet. I grabbed him, pulled him after me, but he got left behind. Next thing I knew they’d arrested him. Lord Bruncker accused him of spying on his papers in his office, and now they’re saying they’ve found a bag of letters at our lodgings. Letters that don’t look good.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Correspondence stolen from the Navy Offices, and names that link him to our plot and some Dutchman that was shot. The one talked of in the broadsides. But I know bully-all about any of that. There was no such bag. It sounds like a trumped-up charge to me.’
Pleasing Mr. Pepys Page 35