Entertaining Mr Pepys Read online

  For John, who plays a part in all my stories

  Table of Contents

  ~ ACT ONE ~

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  ~ ACT TWO ~

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  ~ ACT THREE ~

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Historical Notes

  Selected Further Reading

  About the Author

  ~ ACT ONE ~

  1659

  ‘O Heavens! How wretched have you made the state of Women... you make us subject to our Parents humours, when Maids; when married, to our Husband’s wills; and yet in either State such your Decrees, you plant in us a will to disobey.’

  (Otrante in Flora’s Vagaries, a play by Richard Rhodes, 1664)

  Chapter 1

  London, March 1659

  When someone is in love, they turn inside out. The man you think you know is gone, and a new shining man appears. A man that is the opposite of everything he was before. So it was with Bird’s father. Instead of his sober lawyer’s doublet, he took to wearing lace-tipped cravats, flapping coats in the Indian style, and the worst sin of all, curling his hair with clay curlers. It made him look like a Royalist, and the curls, with his balding pate, made him look ridiculous.

  Bird had tried, she really had, for her father’s sake, to like Dorcas.

  But Dorcas wanted to own Bird’s father, and was busy fencing him around with her opinions. And Dorcas had plenty of those. Bird shouldn’t wear this colour petticoat, or that height of shoe. She shouldn’t play this sort of music, or read that kind of book. According to Dorcas, nearly everything was ‘unsuitable’.

  So now, they had found Bird a suitable match.

  She paced the tiled hall, dressed in her Sunday suit of lilac watered silk, her skirts swishing as she twisted at each turn. Behind that door was her future; her freedom. Twenty years old, and she was ready to burst out of this life and into another.

  Inside the chamber, the hum of men’s voices was too low for her to hear.

  ‘Shall I...?’ Sukey, her pale-faced lady’s maid, reached for the door handle.

  Bird pulled her back. ‘Wait!’ She held up both her hands with the fingers crossed.

  Silently, Sukey shook her head, but made the same gesture back. Neither smiled. Both knew it was far too serious a business for smiling. The dream of what lay beyond the door couldn’t be spoken. The fairy-tale knight was too ridiculous an idea for a grown woman, and yet somehow that hope still clung...

  Bird took Sukey’s hands and squeezed them, something Dorcas disapproved of. Her voice echoed in Bird’s head: Never touch the servants.

  Sukey squeezed back, her expression grave, and mouthed, ‘good luck,’ turning the handle and swinging the door wide.

  A deep breath. Bird sailed through the open door, eyes immediately searching out the stranger standing before the ornate oak fireplace.

  ‘Mature,’ her father had said.

  She stopped, mid-step. He was old. At a guess, a good ten or even fifteen years older than she. Thirty? Thirty-five?

  At once, everything within her seemed to be mired in quicksand, sinking. A glance was enough to see his clothes were dark and a little too tight, skimpy even, and the knees of his breeches rubbed thin with wear. A wiry body, and nervous, restless eyes that alighted everywhere but on her, and the wary stance of a dog that had strayed into someone else’s territory.

  It was then she realised that love doesn’t just blind. It renders everything irrelevant except the one object of its affections. Her father had lied. There was nothing in the least handsome or well-favoured about Mr Knepp.

  Bird paused, balanced on tiptoes, as if she were about to cross a physical line into the room, hoping somehow that time might respool, and she might find herself back outside the parlour door.

  ‘Mary Elizabeth,’ her father said, using her formal name and beckoning her in.

  Bird curtseyed as was polite, and drew herself back to upright. She was robbed of words. That Father could have thought Mr Knepp a suitable match had pole-axed her. She stole a glance behind her, where Sukey, still hovering by the door, was rigid, eyes fixed on the newcomer.

  ‘Miss Carpenter.’ Mr Knepp made a brief nod of acknowledgement in her direction, as one hand unbuttoned and rebuttoned his coat.

  Should she speak? She had no idea what to say. She had the impression that she’d somehow stepped into the wrong room. She cast desperately about the chamber, hoping her father would break the awkward tension.

  ‘Mr Knepp’s livery business is one of the busiest in London,’ Father said, his hand plucking at the curls of his careful coiffure. As if the business made up for everything. ‘Farringdon and Knepp, Hackney and Horse Hire and Livery.’

  ‘It’s not a bad little business,’ Mr Knepp replied. ‘Pays its way.’

  Bird was still taking this in. Horse hire. Well, at least she could ride. She heard little of her father’s pleasantries until he turned towards her again, ‘And her height suits you very well, you being...’ Her father stopped and waved his hands vaguely.

  Short. She’d be taller than him, in pattens.

  ‘Can she manage a budget; staff, and so forth?’ Mr Knepp barely even looked at her.

  Bird stepped forward, ‘I do all my father’s tallies, and I—’

  ‘Oh yes. And she can do wonders with pastry,’ Father said, cutting her off as usual.

  Wonders with pastry. She clamped her mouth shut. What an inane recommendation, as if she had no sensible virtues at all.

  Father turned to face her and mouthed, ‘He’s a good prospect.’ Their guest saw it and turned away, as Bird felt her face flame. Aloud, Father said, ‘What do you think, eh?’

  As if she could answer! With him standing right there. She quelled her seething emotion.

  ‘Speak up,’ her father prompted.

  No words came. She knew what Father wanted. If she was to accept this man, the unspoken tension that plagued their house, the icy sharpness between Bird and Father’s new wife, Dorcas, would be gone. He would be able to breathe easily again. He was eager for his life of unrestrained passion, and Bird wanted to please him, but... this man? Still, she hesitated, but knew it would be grossly impolite, and beneath her schooling and upbringing, to reject the man openly.

  ‘Did you have far to come, Mr Knepp?’ she said, finally managing a conversation.

  ‘Smithfield,’ he replied. ‘Near St Bartholomew’s.’

  She nodded. Her head bobbed up and down foolishly as she sought for something else to say. In the ensuing silence Mr Knepp gripped his hat in front of his chest as she grew hotter and more flushed, uncertain where to look without catching his eye. She searche
d her mind for something positive. He had nice hair, she thought. Good, thick hair. It was the only thing she could see to recommend him. At the same time, the thought came that she didn’t want to be Mrs Knepp. Bird Knepp. The name sounded sharp; ridiculous. But of course he wouldn’t call her by her mother’s over-familiar nickname, he’d call her Mary Elizabeth, as Dorcas did.

  A rustle of taffeta. As if summoned by her thoughts, Dorcas stepped forward from the open door. She was a pale, buxom woman, laced tight into her bodice, so her white chest bulged over it, reminding Bird of milk boiling over a pan. Her pale curls were stiff with sugar water, and her prominent, over-innocent eyes made her appear like a small lap-dog. Bird stepped out of her path, glad of the diversion.

  ‘Is the deal not settled yet?’ A fan tapped impatiently against Dorcas’s thigh. ‘Another five, Joshua dear?’

  Bird turned to her Father. The conversation seemed to have jumped ahead without her. Five what? She couldn’t really think Father needed persuading? Surely it was she who needed to be persuaded?

  ‘I suppose we could.’ Her father beamed and placed his hand on Dorcas’s arm in a gesture of doting affection that instantly shut Bird out. She watched the hand move from the arm and downwards. It lingered over Dorcas’s rump before it dropped away.

  ‘Thirty-five guineas,’ Dorcas whispered, nudging him.

  At the sound of this enormous sum, Sukey let out a little gasp. Dorcas turned, made an impatient shooing gesture, and Sukey scurried out.

  ‘Very acceptable.’ Mr Knepp’s voice was firm. ‘I’ll take her.’ As if he were buying a joint of beef. He did not even look at Bird, but reached out a hand to her father, who clasped his arm to pump the hand up and down.

  ‘Best not to wait too long,’ Dorcas said. ‘A June wedding. What do you think, Mary Elizabeth?’

  She couldn’t think. Her opinion seemed to be too late. She just kept staring at the man who was to be her husband.

  ‘June then,’ Dorcas said.

  ***

  As her father prepared to go up to bed that night, she caught him by the arm. ‘Father, I’ve been thinking... Mr Knepp is not... I mean, I don’t think—’

  ‘It’s a good match,’ her father said firmly. ‘You are very fortunate he picked you out.’ As if he had not offered him an incentive at all.

  ‘But is he like us? I mean he seems ...’ She struggled to find the words. ‘Father, have you seen where Mr Knepp lives? Tell me about his house. I’m anxious to know more about it. Is it in a fashionable part of town?’

  ‘Farringdon and Knepp’s is a big place; just off Smithfield. Close to the city walls and the fleshmarket.’ He shook her off; tried to dismiss it, knowing what she meant beneath the words of the question.

  ‘And who, pray, is Mr Farringdon?’

  ‘Oh, he’s deceased. Mr Knepp used to be the junior partner, but of course he’s in charge now. And a good thing too; Farringdon was a good tradesman in the old King’s day, but he’d let it all slide; he was eighty you know, when he died.’

  ‘Have you dined there, Father? How many servants does he have?’

  A pause. He twisted the button on his cuff. ‘Of course I have.’ His eyes slid away to the window. ‘Though I didn’t see everywhere, just the parlour. There seemed to be a great many men in the yard.’

  ‘But what about his other interests; does he like music, or play? Has he many books? He didn’t have much to say to me, and he doesn’t seem the sort of man to—’

  ‘Tush. What a question! You know I always want what’s best for you. How many books he has doesn’t matter one whit. One can always buy books.’

  ‘It matters to me,’ she said. She went over to the spinet in the corner, put a finger on a key, and heard its plaintive twang. The note made him turn. ‘Is there nobody else?’ She held his gaze.

  Up until now, her father’s authority had been absolute. And to stay in the house, where she had become unwelcome, with the overbearing Dorcas quashing her every move, was plainly unthinkable. As the note died to silence, for an instant the whole dilemma was laid bare before them; her father’s guilt and regret, her own reluctance, and the impossibility of the whole situation.

  Her father was the first to brush it all away. ‘Come, Bird, he’s an excellent prospect; the man’s got a thriving business. Up and coming, they say, up and coming.’ He flapped an impatient hand at her, turned to go upstairs. ‘And you are getting no younger. It’s time you were settled. You can make a success of it, I’m sure.’

  ‘But he seems, I mean... it seems a rough sort of trade, horsehiring.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with good honest labour. You’ll get used to it,’ he said gruffly. But she heard the regret in the words; that like a sudden shaft of sun coming from behind clouds, he’d seen for a moment what it meant to her.

  ‘Father, I’m not sure I will be able to find affection for him.’

  ‘Whoever marries for fancy?’ Silence, before he made a small cough in his throat to cover the irony of this fact.

  ‘I mean I can’t—’

  He opened his mouth, about to say something, and hope flared, but then; ‘Joshua?’ The call was sharp, proprietorial. Dorcas appeared at the top of the stairs in her nightgown, her hair loose and hanging. ‘It’s late. Aren’t you coming up?’

  The tender moment was gone. Father shrugged and, like a dog to its master, hurried up the stairs. She watched him stumble on the top step and fall into Dorcas who stifled a laugh and hauled him back to standing, ‘Naughty boy!’ she said.

  The bedroom door shut with a click and laughter drifted from behind it. Laughter that squeezed the breath from Bird’s heart.

  Chapter 2

  June 1659

  Bird had expected a simple wedding, and the wedding service was short, the church naked of decoration as was the Puritan way, even though by then Richard Cromwell, the Protector’s son, had resigned his feeble grip on the country. He was still living at the Palace of Whitehall though, and the uncertainty of what was to come next meant the mood in London was austere, with a general feeling of malaise.

  In St David’s Church, the exchange of vows was hurried, the congregation a blur. Another wedding party was shivering outside the door when the newly married Mr and Mrs Knepp came out. Who’d have an English summer, thought Bird. June, and the wind was cold enough to cut.

  ‘Stroke of good fortune, wasn’t it, that the parson could manage to accommodate us at such short notice,’ Dorcas said to Bird’s father, as he helped Bird into the carriage, where her domed trunk of clothing was already stacked next to the driver.

  Her new husband had sent an impressive coach and four to fetch them home from church, but the thing was open-topped. She rubbed her goose-pimpled arms, as Father passed Mr Knepp the iron-bound dower box, patting it with a benevolent smile. Mr Knepp gave a curt nod, and stowed it on the floor.

  Bird pressed down her blowing skirts and held tight to her hat, her hair whipping around her face. The carriage creaked and tilted as her new husband got in opposite her. She couldn’t believe it had come to this; that she was actually married, and her stomach lurched as she realised it was done. Irrevocable.

  Father reached over the door and took her hand, and kneaded it, and opened his mouth ready to speak, but the horses were matched chestnuts that pranced in their traces, and the pock-faced boy who was driving couldn’t hold them back. With a jolt, they lurched into motion. Bird was thrown back against the seat, and could not even wave. The horses were wild with the wind, and everything had to leap out of their way.

  Mr Knepp swayed on his seat opposite, the dower box wedged between his feet. He gripped the door easily with one hand as if riding a runaway coach were an everyday occurrence. Finally the horses slowed as the traffic queued for the city walls. He was more smartly dressed than before, she would say that for him. He wore a dark suit with a single row of buttons up the front of the vest, and breeches of serviceable black moleskin, but his dark demeanour made her green summer gown seem frivolous
and over-fussy. Bird’s stomach heaved. She was already nervous, and the wind had messed her hair, made her dishevelled before Mr Knepp. Christopher. His name felt strange on her lips. He hadn’t called to see her since they had become betrothed, though he had sent apologies twice, and it had bothered her, his lack of interest. But Father said reassured her, saying summer was the busiest time for the horse-hire business, and the engagement had been short.

  ‘He sought you out,’ Father said. ‘He asked me about my daughter last time I hired a horse, and I told him how pretty you were. Did you not see him looking last time we hired a carriage from him?’

  She didn’t remember. Nothing about Mr Knepp would have drawn her eye. But her father had told her this over and over in the last few weeks, and it had mollified her somewhat, to think Mr Knepp had been so smitten, and she imagined he would tell her how pretty she was, and how much he wanted her. Perhaps it would be pleasant to be worshipped that way, and she would grow fond of him. In any case, she looked forward to escaping Father and Dorcas. She had made a point of always pausing before entering the parlour lest she find them both unlaced. She was shamed seeing her father’s hands roaming over Dorcas’s neck and chest.

  Her mother had borne this from her father over and over. The women coming and going like carriages. Father did what he wanted as if it was his right, and Mother could do nothing about it. Her protestations got weaker and weaker over the years. Father was impervious to the wringing of Mother’s pale hands, to her face blotched pink with humiliation. He did what he wanted, no matter the cost to her. No words made a difference; he denied it all, even when the evidence was such that any fool could see he was philandering. In the end Mother wasted to nothing, seeming to die of silence. They said it was the wasting sickness, of the chest, though Bird suspected it was a broken heart. When Mother was gone, there was nobody left to protest about his ever-changing liaisons. Was Dorcas different? Would she change him, and put an end to his dallying ways? She doubted it.

  Bird took a deep breath, fanned her face with her hand to cool her feelings, and focussed on the passing view. She must not turn into her mother. She refused to fade away. She had always felt that there was a much bigger person inside her, bursting to get out, if only someone would give her the chance.