Ah, the scent of home – warm floorboards, musty tobacco, candle wax. But the room was all awry, as if some fight had gone on there. The drawers were out of the desk, the wooden cupboard open, his papers and books scattered everywhere. People had been here, searching, he realised. He called out for Bart, but was unsurprised when no answer came. Bart’s room was empty, the bed unmade, the water in the washbowl rancid and full of scum; the same as the day he left, as if Bart had just got out of bed and left in a hurry. He, too, must have been gone all this while, since the fight at the docks. He hoped Bart was safe and not in prison, too. He stared at the cup of ale on the table, which had grown a froth of green mould.
Perhaps the letters might tell him. But first he needed a hot wash, and to fetch food. Jem put the letters down unread and laid wood for a fire. Then he must go to Mr Pepys and thank him. Find out why he’d done this for him, and what he’d said, discover what had happened to Bart. While the water heated, he found a few coins in the pocket of his other breeches and went to the corner to the bread shop. His hands trembled as he ate, cramming the crumbs into his mouth, but he could not force much down. He was all a-jangle, filled with the sheer excitement of being alive.
When he had peeled off his filthy clothes, washed and eaten, he was so sleepy it was all he could do not to put his lolling head down on the table right there. But first he must find out about Bart. He picked up the letters, scanned them for his brother’s hand. One arrested his attention. His heart leapt in his chest. It was Deb Willet’s handwriting. He broke the seal and took out the letter.
It took him a while to read it because it was a long letter, a letter that seemed to be a confession. He scanned it once. Twice. A third time. He could not take it in. She was telling him that she was responsible for his arrest; that she was a spy for the Dutch and she was going to admit her guilt to the magistrate. She bid him adieu, and the letter avowed her love for him.
‘With my heartfelt love and deepest regard,’ she had written. The words danced inside him, making his legs feel flimsy as straw. He picked up the lock of her soft hair from the table where it had fallen, stroked it with his fingers, ran his thumb over the red ribbon which was holding it together. He blinked, unable to make proper sense of the information, as if his mind was too slow to believe it, his heart too eager to feel.
She had confessed to this for him, and even now she might be on the way to the Clink, the place he had just now escaped with such joy and freedom. He didn’t understand. Where was Pepys in all this? Surely it was he who had fetched him free, not Deb? The bag must hold a clue. He unbuckled it, spread out the contents.
Plans of the docks, letters with official navy seals, illegible documents in some sort of code. Memoranda from the Cabinet in shorthand about navy policy. He ran his hands over them in astonishment. Deb had been harbouring all this information. It must be true. She really was involved in some sort of espionage.
The vision he had of Deb Willet as a ministering angel dissolved, to be replaced with a new, slightly frightening picture. He picked up her letter again, full of wonder. Here it was in her own hand, that she had saved him by sacrificing herself. His elation that she cared was doused by the realisation of what that meant for her. He let out a groan of despair. They’d hang her.
He dragged himself to his feet as if drunk. Wherever she was he had to find her. He blundered outside, hailing a hackney by standing in the street and waving his arms until one stopped.
‘Whetstone Park,’ he said. ‘Across the bridge. Gallop.’
When the house was in sight he jumped from the carriage door as it was still moving, narrowly missing its flapping edge, and threw his last coins at the driver’s feet. ‘Turn around and wait for me,’ he yelled.
At the battering on the door, Lizzie threw open the window. ‘Who’s there?’ she called.
‘Lizzie! Is that you?’ Jem’s voice.
‘Jem! I’m coming down.’
A few moments later Lizzie slid back the bolt.
‘Where is she?’ Jem said, grasping her by the shoulder.
‘It’s all right, she’s safe. They wouldn’t listen to her. She went to Pepys, persuaded him to speak for you.’
‘But how? I don’t understand.’
‘Are you angry with her?’
‘Good Lord, no. I just want to see her. She wrote to me, she said—’
‘Then come on in. I’ll take your hackney and go on home now, back to Lukenor Lane. There’ll be a welcome for you both there, and a hot supper later, if you’ll join me.’
She embraced him briefly, whispered ‘She’s waiting upstairs’, and slipped away. She was giving them time, he realised, time alone.
Deb heard his voice outside. She knew its tone and the rhythm of his speech. She looked out of the window to see the top of his auburn head, and it was such a dear sight she thought she might faint. Moments later, she heard his footsteps on the stairs and she held her breath, tried to be calm. But as the door opened and as she saw Jem’s worried expression, she couldn’t help herself – she took a few steps towards him, her eyes full of questions.
He was still a moment, looking at her as if to take her all in. Then his arms came out to hold her. She let herself be pressed against his chest with a great sob.
‘Dearest Deb,’ he soothed. ‘You can see my neck is still the same length, thanks to you.’
‘Oh, Jem,’ she said. ‘Thank God. They nearly killed you, and I’m the one to blame. My bag … if it hadn’t been for that, they would’ve had to let you go.’
‘But you went to sacrifice your own life for mine. I can’t take it in, that you cared so much. It makes me humble.’
‘They wouldn’t believe me. They think women are feeble-minded, not supposed to be capable of such things.’
‘They are fools then.’
She pulled away from him. ‘I’m not so noble. Don’t think of me falsely, I have had enough of that. I persuaded Mr Pepys to put in a word for you. He owed me a favour. I don’t want you to be under any illusions. I did spy for the Dutch. I did … unspeakable things. Be careful, Jem. I’m not the woman you thought I was.’
‘You gave me my life back, and I’m still trying to understand it, who you are, but I … well, I want to try. To get to know you, the whole of you, not just the parts strangers see.’
‘I deceived you,’ she said. ‘I need your pardon. And you need to know about—’
He put his hand to her lips. ‘I fell for you the very first time I met you, kicking the devil out of that big white dog. I should’ve known then you were a woman to be reckoned with.’
‘But did you not look in the bag—?’
‘Hush, be quiet and let me kiss you.’ He pulled her closer. Deb let his warm lips touch hers and his arms wrapped tight around her back to draw her in.
Finally, Jem spoke. ‘I can’t promise you a house like Seething Lane.’
‘The less like Seething Lane, the better.’
The rapping at the door made Deb almost shoot out of her shoes.
‘Don’t answer it,’ he said.
‘Deb! Deb? Is there anyone there?’ A female voice. They heard the door open and hurried footsteps tapping up the stairs, before Hester burst in on them.
‘It’s taken me days to find you!’ Hester glared at Deb accusingly from under her fashionable hat. ‘I had to stay with Lavinia’s uncle and it was … where are all the servants?’ She looked around in astonishment at the bare room, at Jem’s arm on Deb’s. ‘I’ve left school. I couldn’t stand it another minute, and you’re not to send me back.’ She frowned, wrinkled her nose. ‘Do you live here? Is he Dr Allbarn?’
‘No, no. Dr Allbarn left,’ Deb said. ‘Let me introduce … Jeremiah Wells.’ She glanced at Jem, whose grin almost split his face. ‘Jem, this is Hester, my sister.’
He made a small bow. ‘So pleased to meet you at last,’ he said, in his most charming voice.
Hester’s mouth fell open. She took a few steps back. For once, she was lost fo
r words.
‘Won’t Lizzie be surprised to see her?’ Jem said to Deb, squeezing her around the waist.
‘Who’s Lizzie?’ Hester asked. ‘I don’t understand. I don’t remember any Lizzie.’
Jem turned to Deb and they laughed. ‘You will,’ he said.
Epilogue
ELISABETH PEPYS WAS MIGHTILY PLEASED with her shiny new coach. She sat back in upholstered comfort to admire the view and the springing up of Wren’s new buildings from the ashes of old London. As they clopped through the streets, the new coach drew the envious eyes of her neighbours. Of course, she knew she was only allowed it because Sam was trying to appease her and make amends for the whole sorry business with Deb. Last night he’d been positively loving, and today he’d offered to drive with her to call on Mr Coventry, hoping to impress him with their grand appearance, but unfortunately, Coventry was out.
‘I thought we might take a ship to France, dear,’ Sam said, ‘as you are so keen to return there. Your brother can come with us, and we can visit some of your old haunts. It would improve my French. Maybe we could look at the cathedrals, see the sights of Paris, the great paintings and buildings.’
Or likely the docks, she thought, if you have your way. But Sam really was trying hard. He disliked her brother, Balty, with a passion, she knew, so it was good of him to invite him.
She reached out to take her husband by the hand. ‘Thank you. Will it not be a terrible expense?’
‘Yes, but it’s no more than you deserve.’ He looked at her ruefully.
‘I know.’
‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’
She sniffed, but it was a pleased sort of a sniff. She knew better than to expect him to apologise, but there was an honesty in his look that was different from before. She leaned back against the green leather seat, still cool with him.
‘I have a yearning to get away from England,’ he said, ‘away from the Treasury and the court. Lately I have felt … oppressed. I need to get a breath of air.’ And there was a tinge of sadness in his expression that made her think that it was not England that bothered him, but his own mind, his own self.
It touched her. She lifted his hand, placed a kiss there. ‘I shall look forward to it. It’s a fine idea, Sam.’
He held her gaze a moment. ‘And you are a fine wife.’
Passing through London that night, if you were to peep through the window of Seething Lane, you would see Mr and Mrs Pepys at home. She has a French romance open on her lap and is staring into the fire, dreaming of the dressmakers in the fashionable leafy quarters of Paris. In the study, Mr Pepys is on his hands and knees with a cloth tape, measuring for more bookcases. He stands up, pulls his waistcoat straight, and trots over to the desk where a dish of half-eaten bread and herring has just called for his attention.
In another part of the Navy Building, close by, Abigail Williams takes Lord Bruncker’s wig and, patting it fondly, puts it on its stand. She climbs back into the four-poster, rolling up her petticoat to show him the embroidered tops of her stockings, and he reaches for her before they disappear under the heap of silk counterpane. For a few moments, the silk heaves and rolls like waves on the sea, until it gently subsides to stillness.
Passing by Lukenor Lane, through the window of a tavern in Clement’s Yard, the candles on the table are flickering low, illuminating four plates bearing the remains of a pease pudding. Lizzie Willet leans close to a pink-cheeked Hester, who is explaining something, gesturing animatedly with her hands. Every now and then Hester looks up to see her mother still listening, head tilted to one side, eyebrows raised, a surprised smile on her face. Jem Wells, his long hair tied in a black sash, has his back to the window. If you were to wait a little longer, you would see Jem put his arm around Deb Willet’s shoulder and pull her close, as if he might kiss her.
Deb turns, looks through her own reflection, into the night outside, her face caught in the light for just an instant, before her hand flashes up, and she closes the curtain on the dark.
Postscript
ON 31ST MAY 1669, shortly after his last recorded meeting with Deb, Samuel Pepys wrote his last diary entry. In this final entry he says his eyesight is failing, and tells the reader, with his eye firmly on posterity, that he will ask his clerks to help him keep the diary, but to ‘be contented to set down no more than is fit for them and all the world to know; if there be any thing, which cannot be much, now my amours to Deb are past.‘
Sadly, Elisabeth Pepys died from a fever on November 10, 1669. She had recently returned from a sightseeing tour of France with her husband.
In 1673 a fire began in Lord Brunker’s apartment and burned down the offices of the Navy Board and Pepys’ house. Pepys narrowly managed to save his diaries and books. Abigail Williams was responsible for starting the blaze in her closet.
According to research by Dr Loveman at the University of Leicester, Jeremiah Wells and Deborah Willet were married in January 1670 in Chelmsford. He went on to work for Pepys as ship’s chaplain on the ships Dover and Resolution. The couple had two daughters, Deborah and Elizabeth. Mrs Deborah Wells died in 1678 at the age of 27, and her husband Jeremiah only eighteen months later at the age of 31.
Historical Notes
SAMUEL PEPYS’ REMARKABLE DIARY has fascinated me for many years. While researching my other novels set in the seventeenth century, I referred to it for those small details about the Restoration period which could only come from a man who recorded it for us, as it happened, through his own eyes. But every time I used the diary I became intrigued by the shadowy female figures that Pepys mentions only in passing: Elisabeth Pepys, referred to only as ‘my wife’, and Deborah Willet, whom he calls ‘Deb’, the girl who stole his heart. I wondered what their view of events would be, but it was quite a few years before I thought of actually using the diary more directly, to spark a novel of its own.
Researching Deb Willet, I discovered that she was not the unlettered maid she is usually made out to be, but as well-educated as her mistress, and that the fact that she had been schooled was one of the reasons she was chosen as a companion for Elisabeth. A maid’s subservience to an employer demands a certain reticence, an ability to be on the fringes of things, to watch and listen. I realised an intelligent woman in her position could be useful to those who wished to know more about the affairs of the navy, so the idea of a novel, with Deb at its centre, was born.
Constructing a novel around the diary was both a joy and a headache for a fiction writer. Pepys gives us such a wealth of detail that cannot be circumvented. For example, I could not manipulate the weather to heighten an emotional scene, and I had to deal with the problem of periods in the diary where Pepys is frustratingly silent in terms of Deb’s story. However, Deb must have had a vibrant life between his mentions of her, though there is little evidence surviving of her life. I am grateful to Dr Kate Loveman, whose research into Deb Willet’s family, and what happened to her after she left Seething Lane was invaluable to this novel. Filling gaps is what a historical fiction writer loves, and I have made full use of them, though I have been careful to ensure Deb’s story coheres with Pepys’ recording of the events of the diary.
Espionage
My main source of reference for this novel has been Pepys’ diary itself in various editions. The online versions are particularly good as they contain useful and insightful comments from Pepys’ cognoscenti, as well as the actual text. My secondary reference work was the excellent Intelligence and Espionage in the Reign of Charles II by Alan Marshall. In this period, England as a nation was still awash with religious dissenters, and with different factions nursing various grievances left over from the Civil Wars. Marshall’s description of a country riddled with plots both real and fake, the one often indistinguishable from the other, guided the construction of the espionage subplot. The seventeenth-century poet, Dryden, expressed the feeling of the nation very well when he said:
“Plots true or false are necessary things,
&nbs
p; To raise up commonwealths and ruin kings.”
There is no doubt that after the first Dutch war there was massive distrust of the fragile treaty with the Dutch. They were still being blamed – along with God’s vengeance – for the Great Fire, and Marshall gives us strong evidence of the Low Countries as a refuge for English rebels of all persuasions. Perhaps my character Bart might have found his way there.
Morality
Our views on morality and sexual conduct have moved on since Pepys’ day. What was considered perfectly acceptable in the seventeenth century is totally unacceptable now. A Deb of today certainly would not have put up with her employer’s harassment. Pepys in my novel could easily have been a monster, but he is regarded everywhere with such affection – rightly or wrongly – that to paint this view of him would have caused great resistance in a reader who has turned to this novel because it features him.
From Pepys’ diary we can read that, just like today, a simplistic view cannot suffice, as within the diary itself we see conflicted views of what constituted moral behaviour – Pepys’ remorse and feelings for his wife when he has strayed, Elisabeth’s disdain for the behaviour of ‘Madam’ Williams. Whether or not I have successfully picked my way across this quagmire of sexual abuse versus the historical mores of the time is something I hope my readers will discuss between themselves.
Names and Dates
Many of Deb Willet’s family were called Elizabeth – her mother and both aunts, and to make it even more confusing Mrs Pepys was also an Elizabeth. I have used different diminutives or spellings to try to make it clear who is who. I was juggling with this when I realised I also had the confusion of Wells, Williams and Willet as surnames – all unavoidable as they were real people.
Pleasing Mr. Pepys Page 38