Entertaining Mr Pepys, page 2
‘These are fine horses,’ she said brightly, smiling at her new husband, determined to make the best of it.
‘So you think you know something about horses then?’ he asked. His expression held a slight sneer.
‘No,’ she said, flummoxed, ‘I mean, not a great deal, but—’ He was already looking away out of the carriage.
Chastened, and unaware what she’d done to offend him, she looked down again into her lap, where the nosegay of wild marjoram and purple comfrey was ragged and broken by the wind. Her stomach was even worse now, filled with a hollow sense of disbelief. This wasn’t what she’d imagined.
‘Will we be having our marriage feast at home?’ she asked, trying again to get his attention.
He turned his head slowly. ‘No feast. Your father didn’t pay for one.’
She took in the accusation in his tone, and her hands tightened on the seat. No feast? Even a proper farewell to her father had been snatched away.
Out through the crenellated archway at Newgate, and at last the horses could find passage through the traffic. Ahead of them a herd of cattle swayed their rumps on their way to the slaughterhouses. The men behind them goaded them on with switches. One of them had a little bull-calf following, and the cut of a switch drew blood from its flank. The sign at the end of the street read, Cowe Lane, and shortly afterwards the horses turned under another arch to a big cobbled yard surrounded by stabling. She turned to look back at the larger building that must be the house, which spanned the passageway into the yard – a house that had probably once been a tavern, built over the arch of the bridge. Above, were a pair of narrow shuttered windows with a round one, like an eye, in the centre.
As they clattered through, the horses’ heads poked from the stables as if to see who was arriving, and several rough-looking stable lads appeared and gawped at her.
‘Say nothing, d’you hear?’ Mr Knepp shouted to them.
They stood back as he got down, the dower box crushed against his chest.
‘Take these horses and get them fed and watered, and the carriage cleaned up. It’s going out for hire again at four.’ He turned to Bird, gestured impatiently with his free arm. ‘Get down, we haven’t got all day.’
But it’s our wedding day.
The thought came and went like smoke as two boys grabbed the reins of the leading horses. She scrambled down.
‘What about my trunk?’ Bird said, anxious she might never see it again.
‘Purler,’ Mr Knepp shouted. An emaciated boy in half-mast breeches who was sweeping the dung from behind them, stopped and stared. ‘Bring my wife’s trunk into the house.’ The lad put a hand across his mouth to stifle a giggle.
‘This way,’ Mr Knepp said, and set off ahead of her towards the house.
It was so unlike what she had imagined that Bird could only follow, dumbstruck.
The entrance to the house was dark and smelled of horseflesh and old leather. A collie dog whined and came to her wagging its tail. She knelt down to pat its silky head, and it licked her hand. At least that was some kind of a welcome. She ruffled its ears and the whole of its backside shook back and forth with pleasure.
A grey-haired man with a pinched-out face and pointed beard appeared at the door. The dog slunk away back into the yard. ‘She’s here, then,’ he said to Mr Knepp. His voice had a nasal quality.
‘This is Mr Grinstead who minds the office. Grinstead, my wife.’
‘A pleasure, Mr Grinstead,’ she said.
Grinstead gave a brief nod, but then held up some papers. ‘I’ve had a look at the bills of sale for Northampton.’ He sniffed and wiped his nose with a grey kerchief before continuing, ‘That matching pair of greys. They sold for fifteen guineas at Derby, but they’re two years older now. We might get them for ten. And Baxendale says Viner’s got his eye on them.’
‘Hell’s teeth.’ Her husband swiped the papers out of his hand and examined them.
Grinstead gave a shrug. ‘Can’t you get someone to nobble them?’
‘Bloody Viner. I didn’t know he was going. He’ll bid me up again, blast him.’ Mr Knepp turned sharply to Bird. ‘I’ve got work to do,’ he said. ‘There’s provisions in the back kitchen. I’ll be in at six bells for something to eat.’ And he was out of the door, with Mr Grinstead gesticulating at his elbow.
Bird watched them stride across the yard. Her husband still had her dower box and Grinstead’s papers clamped to his chest. The house behind her was silent.
She swallowed the urge to cry. She was a grown woman, not a babe, and her husband was busy, that was all. He’d be in later to make a fuss of her. She’d better look lively, and see what she was to be mistress of.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door into the parlour and navigated around the table in the dark, inhaling a smell of soot. Throwing open all the downstairs shutters, she revealed a large but echoing chamber, panelled in dark, grimy wood, its ceiling stained yellow with tobacco smoke. No ornaments graced the walls, but a faded print of a horse race hung unevenly over the fireplace, and a blackened hunting horn dangled from a beam. She shivered as a draught blew through the door – the fire grate was broken and there were no fire irons.
My Lord, but it certainly lacks a woman’s touch, she thought.
No maidservants in the kitchen either. She coughed as the smell of damp caught the back of her nose. A fire would need lighting here if anyone was to cook. A quick glance into the copper in the scullery revealed chipped earthenware bowls and filthy trenchers floating in a scum of grease. On the kitchen table was a packet of barley, some onions and leeks, and a brown paper package leaking blood. Her knees started to shake.
The shock. It must be the shock. Her thoughts tumbled over each other. She wanted to go home, back to this morning to her warm chamber, back to the moment when she had slid on her new silk stockings tied with a blue ribband, back to before she was married, before she wore this wedding band. She pulled at it, but it wouldn’t budge. He had skimped on the gold. Or had thought her smaller. Either way, it was there for good.
It was then that she thought of her father.
He knew, she thought. He knew exactly what she was coming to, and he had said nothing on purpose. How could he do this? To his own daughter?
Angrily, she strode into the gloomy passage. She’d better see the whole house.
Up the narrow creaking stairs to a set of low-doored rooms above the archway. Again bare walls; not a shelf, not a book, not even a news-sheet. Two rooms, each with a heap of tangled, unmade bedding. Hooks on the wall held coats and caps, and a single basin and ewer stood on the window ledge. She would have no privacy, she realised, not with the stable men so nearby.
From up here she could see into the yard, but there was no sign of Mr Knepp. Three solid-looking gentleman were hiring horses, the stable-boys helping them mount. She watched them clatter from the yard with a kind of envy, before going into the next room, the one with the round window.
This must be Mr Knepp’s bedchamber. The sight of the bed made her cover her mouth. It was a wooden bed frame with no drapery at all. No pillows, just a plain sheet and some rough striped blankets. She went a bit closer. They were horse-blankets, she could swear it.
He hadn’t bothered to make any kind of welcome for his new bride. A kind of horror drained her anger.
A rattling noise on the roof made her start and glance at the window where stripes of rain dashed against the greenish glass. Heavy footsteps on the stairs, and two lads blundered through the door with her trunk swinging between them, the corners bumping into the door jamb. They dumped it with a crash in the middle of the floor.
‘Thank you,’ she said, summoning a semblance of control and dignity. ‘I’m Mrs Knepp.’ The name sounded odd to her ears, as if she’d aged overnight. ‘And you are?’
‘We know who you are, Missus.’ The taller one, his pale face pocked like porridge, hair sticking damply to his forehead, wiped a hand over his wet face. ‘That short-arse’s Nipper and I’m Dobbsy. Stable lads,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meetcha.’
‘Pleased to meetcha,’ echoed Nipper. He was stunted, with a head that looked too big for his scrawny body and freckles. ‘Can you cook?’
‘Well enough,’ she said. ‘Though you should wait to speak until you’re spoken to.’
A moment’s pause. ‘Thought you’d need to know,’ Dobbsy said, jutting out his chin in defiance, ‘there’s eight of us live here in the yard and Master said as how we’d get a good dinner once you got here.’
She did not react, though inside her heart sank. ‘Eight?’
‘Eight that live in. Two coachmen, two grooms, two runners and us. And then there’s Mr Grinstead but he don’t live in.’
‘Are there no indoor staff?’
‘We all work in the yard. It’s hungry work, mucking out,’ Nipper said.
‘No cook, or housemaid?’
‘Only Livvy who comes days to do the brewing. There was a cook, but she’s gone, now you’re here. Master gave her the heave-ho.’
‘You may go,’ she said, hoping this was the right way to dismiss them. It seemed to be, as they shuffled off and she heard them go out of the front and the door bang after them. A phrase of her mother’s came to mind: She’s married beneath her.
She stooped to her trunk and opened the lid, but hastily shut it again. She couldn’t unpack. Not here. She’d glimpsed her brand new cotton lawn nightgown embroidered with rosebuds and ribbon, where it lay on the top of the pristine white linens and her best gowns. She knew every item in that trunk, and she could not imagine any of them in this house. In fact she wanted to protect them from it, as if its very air might sully what was within.
With heavy feet she went back downstairs. She could leave now. But then she thought of her father and a tightness drew around her throat. He’d done this on purpose. She simply couldn’t bring herself to go back home to Lombard Street.
Her mother’s voice came back to her: Humour him, Bird dear. It’s always less trouble in the long run.
He’d been so desperate to get rid of her, he’d sent her to this.The thought burned like sulphur. She couldn’t bear to see his face, this night, of all nights. Perhaps Mr Knepp was just unused to women, or unsure how to treat a lady. Perhaps he would be kind, and be glad she was here, and she could clean this place up, if he was willing. She had plenty of energy, and given time, she could make things comfortable and pretty. Hadn’t she always said, she enjoyed a challenge? She’d give it one night.
***
By six o’clock she had mended the fire and made a passable stew with the beef, leeks and barley that had been left out for her. She’d scrubbed the worst of the dirt from wherever she could, and afterwards washed herself, just up to the elbows; there was no time for more.
Humming a tune to herself, she lit candles to dispel the gloom, but paused as the bells of St Bartholomew’s clanged the hour. Her stomach gave a somersault. Eight people, Dobbsy had said, and her new husband too. And she, the only woman. She wiped her hands again and again, licking her dry lips, waiting. It was a torture. The quarter bells went by, and then the half. She kept hurrying over to the stew to sir it, with her palms already sweating. Foolish to have it ready before they came, the bottom would be burned.
Should she fetch them? What should she do?
Finally she hurried out into the yard. The rain flattened her springy hair to her scalp. Not a sign of anyone. A light glowed in the stable door across the yard, and laughter. She steeled herself and made a dash for its cover, hunched against the rain. Over the top of the half-door she made out men round a rough plank table, cards in their hands, a leather-jack jug of ale set on a barrel. The lanterns hung from the rafters reflected glints from the piles of coins next to the upturned decks. There was no sign of Grinstead, which was a relief. He’d set her teeth on edge.
‘Supper’s ready,’ she said, over the slash of the rain.
They turned, startled. She had the impression they’d forgotten she existed.
‘We’ll finish this round first,’ Mr Knepp said, not looking up from his cards.
Damn him. ‘It’ll spoil if you leave it too long, husband,’ she said.
Sniggers from the stable-boys which were silenced by a look from Mr Knepp.
‘I said, we’ll be in when we’re done.’
There was nothing for it but to walk away.
***
They came when she wasn’t ready, and caught her staring at herself in the back window, trying to fix her ruined hair. Your father likes me to look nice when he comes in, her mother used to say.
‘Good evening everyone,’ she said, determined to make a good impression.
Mumbled greetings and stares. The men sat, and fished their eating knives from their pockets, and all eyes were fixed on her hot face as she doled out the stew. Reluctantly they put the knives away and picked up the spoons she’d left out. Their expressions showed their disappointment with the meal.
They were wiping their bread around their bowls before she was even half-way through hers, and had to endure the stares as she lifted the spoon to her lips. She felt her face begin to perspire.
‘Looks like we might have to wait all night,’ Mr Knepp said, gesturing towards her. He waved to the men. ‘You go. Tell the landlord at the Tap and Bucket I’ll see him tomorrow. I’ve one or two things to deal with before we ride to Northampton.’
The men sniggered. ‘Give her one for us,’ Dobbsy said, grinning.
‘Mind your mouth,’ Mr Knepp said. ‘Now get out of here.’ Scraping of stools and clatter of boots. Finally the door banged shut and they were alone. Bird forced herself to spoon down her meal, aiming for dignity but quelling the urge to run after them.
Mr Knepp stood and went to a shelf to take down a box of tobacco. He lit his pipe without speaking and exhaled a thick stream of smoke. She smiled at him, inviting conversation, grappling for normality.
‘Right, Mrs Knepp,’ he said, fixing her with cold eyes, ‘these are the rules. One. No visitors without my say so. Two. Dinner on the table at noon, and supper on the table at six. You don’t need to be here when we eat. You can eat before or after us, I don’t care which.’
He paused to suck on his pipe, and she grabbed the moment to protest, ‘But I thought we’d eat together, as a—’
‘Three.’ He raised his voice over her. ‘I’m not to be interrupted when I’m working with the horses. Women are in the way in the yard. You’ll work in the tack room cleaning the harness, and in the house. And you’ve to keep out of sight of the men; I don’t want them getting ideas.’
She nodded, and the disappointment was curiously numbing. She hardened herself. This was not to be a marriage of affection; that much was obvious. It was to be a marriage of convenience – his. But if that was the case, the further away from him she was, the better, and in one way, it was a relief.
‘Very well,’ she said, feigning calmness. ‘But I’m sure you will agree that if I’m to lodge here, the house needs some refurbishment.’
‘It suits me perfectly well as it is.’
His stubbornness brought out her own. ‘The fire grate needs repair, and at home we had a drape on the door to keep out the draught. You would be more comfortable sitting here in the evenings if we did the same.’
‘Perhaps. But there are more urgent repairs in the yard that need doing first.’
She took a deep breath and got to her feet. ‘You had a larger than average dowry from my father, and I’m sure he’d want you to ensure my comfort.’
He stood and tapped out the plug of tobacco on the trencher before him where it sank into the remains of the stew. ‘You’re an expense. That’s what the dowry’s for. A wife is an expense, like a horse.’
‘Then why did you marry me?’
He thought a moment. ‘Other men my age are wed, and having sons. In time, I’ll need an heir to take over my business.’
He held her gaze, raised his eyebrows, and the thought hung between them, unspeakable.
***
When she woke next morning it was to the stink of horsehair and an empty bed. She listened for any sound, but could only hear the clop of hooves in the yard and the squabbling of sparrows on the midden by the window. She hobbled to the wash-bowl, limbs stiff and cold.
She kicked her trunk viciously as she passed and her bare white toes stung. She was Mrs Knepp now, and no mistake. She should have left. Should have run. Why hadn’t she? Because she’d been too polite, that’s why. Mother had brought her up to be polite and well-mannered, even to servants. Why, she had befriended all the servants at home, no matter how lowly.
She’d thought Knepp would see reason, if she was nice. She’d thought he’d stop, if she was nice, and asked him politely.
‘It has to be done,’ he’d said. ‘We must needs consummate it.’
Even at the last moment, when she had winced with pain, she thought he’d stop. How naive. She’d thought if she pleased him, he’d like her, and she wanted him to like her. Even him. Why must she always want to be liked? She shrank with self-loathing.
At the wash-bowl she scrubbed everywhere, then balled up her stained nightdress and pushed it under the mattress. It couldn’t go back in the trunk with her other clothes and she didn’t want to look at it ever again. The wedding gown she pushed out of sight under the bed. It was contaminated by thoughts of him. She dressed in a hurry in practical clothes and went down to the parlour, in search of food, but found there was no left-over bread in the crock. The fire was lit though. Had he done it? She couldn’t say his name; she didn’t want to think of him.
A clanking noise from the direction of the back scullery made her curious. She went through the scullery and opened another door to the smell of hot ale and a woman’s back leaning over a steaming copper. A brewhouse.
‘Oh!’ The girl turned, eyes wide.
Bird’s eyes flared in the same way. The girl was a blackamoor, with the darkest skin she’d ever seen.
