The Pleasure Merchant (12 page)

“I know he does not want me.” Mr. Bewit’s lower lip trembled before he could compose himself. “Ah, but to be fair, what young man would? All fledglings long to forget the nest when they take their first flights. And yet it plagues me. You see what I am trying to say? Why should I celebrate getting into Brooks’s when I know I might have spent my time endeavoring to raise a wiser son?”

This was nothing Tom knew how to answer, so he improvised. “A man can have a good day at the racetrack but a miserable night at cards, can he not, sir?” Mr. Bewit was looking at him curiously. “I just mean you need not condemn a success because you perceive a failure elsewhere.”

Thunder rumbled, and wind gusted, sending a spray of raindrops against the windowpane. “You’re right, of course,” said Mr. Bewit, “but I tell you truly… if I could, I would trade my membership for a son who did not despise me. I would trade it, as well, for my cousin’s respect. But, to his mind I am as feckless as my son. I read novels instead of journals, follow racing rather than politics, and have no real opinion on colonial independence. To Hallux, these are all as much a crime as profligacy… but as all the family’s money is his, I cannot safely request that he bugger off.”

Tom was deeply uncomfortable. This was the last conversation he’d expected to have with Mr. Bewit, not just tonight—
ever
.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked. There’s no reason my cup-bearer should not know my financial situation. And anyways, you may not long be only that.” He smiled weakly as Tom coughed on his cognac. “Yes, you should be intimately aware of my situation, Tom—and its history, for it does not begin with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“For generations we Bewits have stood unsteadily on the sharp cliff of ruination due to this bad decision or that poor exercise of judgment. It was my father’s misfortune to be the one who finally lost his footing… and fell. The knowledge we were bankrupt killed him, and I inherited his debts. I was in danger of losing everything… until Hallux got word that an uncle on his father’s side, a Colonel Dryden, had left him a fortune.”

Thunder boomed again, closer this time, and when the wind picked up a candle guttered. Mr. Bewit’s bedroom was always so drafty, and until this very moment, Tom had wondered why Hallux’s chambers were the nicer. Now he knew.

“Hallux left Bergamot Mews—our country house—by post, and came back in a coach… oh, how jealous I was! And when he burst through the door with his fine new clothes in disarray, as if he cared nothing for their richness, expensive gifts for us all from London in his arms… but at the same time, I was glad. I had just had a visit from my solicitor that very morning, asking when certain funds would be received for certain bills. That evening I begged Hallux to save me—save our family—from ruin. I applied to his sense of Christian charity, and to his duty—his mother had been a Bewit, after all, and he had grown up at the Mews since he was a small boy.

“He agreed to save us… for a price. It was high, but at the time I thought it worth it to keep us from the poorhouse. Now… I no longer know if I did right. I look around me, I see all the appropriate signs of prosperity, courtesy my cousin, but I wonder… would I be happier if I hadn’t sacrificed… hadn’t…” He sighed. “What a hypocrite Hallux is! But never mind, it is late, and you have too long listened to an old man’s rambling regrets. All I mean to say is, I thought the time and money I spent getting into Brooks’s was not wasted, until I got that letter. Who can say?”

Unlike before, Tom did not press Mr. Bewit. His eyes were moist, and the way he shut his mouth indicated the conversation was over. Too bad. Tom was more intensely curious than ever. For being such a simple man, Mr. Bewit was apparently full of secrets. What had been Hallux’s price? What made him such a hypocrite, in his cousin’s eyes?

There was only one way to get his hands on any answers. He would have to insinuate himself deeper into Mr. Bewit’s confidence. But to get to the bottom of these mysteries would require more than
presence
. It would require boldness—and a bit of cunning.

“Mr. Bewit,” Tom cleared his throat, “if you would allow me to speak candidly…”

Mr. Bewit seemed surprised. “Of course, my boy. I’ve been candid enough with you.”

“All I want to say is… I have not known you long, but everything I have seen indicates you are a generous and intelligent man. I think it’s admirable that you’ve gone after what you wanted with such… clarity of vision. The only thing that saddens me is how you doubt yourself. You have made your choices; why not enjoy how well they have worked out in your favor? You will do nobody any good tormenting yourself over your victories, least of all yourself. Your son will not behave more like the gentleman if you fail to enjoy your membership at Brooks’s. And as for the other… I shan’t pry, but it seems to me that failing to enjoy your wealth seems like it would make your earlier sacrifices… pointless.”

Mr. Bewit looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “Why, Tom,” he said slowly. “You have touched my very heart with your words. I had never thought about things that way. But you’re right—one must never dishonor one’s sacrifices, I learned that when I was a just a schoolboy puzzling through my Euripides. Or was it Sophocles? I can’t recall. Regardless, it was a lesson I failed then to take to heart… but no longer.” He chuckled. “I knew I did right to take you on after… everything.”

The clock struck half twelve. Mr. Bewit sighed. “I should take my medicine and go to sleep. If Fitzwilliam hears I’ve been up late jawing he’ll bleed me just to keep me quiet. You need your rest, too… for whenever I’m well, we’ll go to Brooks’s. Members are not known to get to bed before two.”

“Very good, sir,” said Tom.

He poured Mr. Bewit’s draught into his empty snifter, and after the man had gulped it and settled in, Tom bowed his way out of the room, shutting the door very, very carefully behind him. For better or for worse, Tom’s fortunes were intertwined with his master’s. He would do everything in his power to see the man’s nerves were nothing short of pampered—for it seemed to him, if they fared well, so would he.

“The tailor is coming this afternoon, Tom—so don’t you go running off anywhere.”

Tom looked up from the second volume of
The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
, which he had been reading by the window; across from him sat Mr. Bewit, who was perusing something in Latin. It was a fine hot day in mid-June. Tom was sweating into his coat, and Mr. Bewit had just cast aside his wig and called for barley-water for them both. Next week they would repair to Bergamot Mews, where it would be cooler, and therefore more suitable for Mr. Bewit’s convalescence.

“I have no plans to run anywhere in this heat,” said Tom. “I’ll be here to assist him in any way he wishes.”

“You misunderstand me.” Mr. Bewit gave him a lopsided smile over the top of the leather-bound, gilt-edged tome. “The tailor is coming for
you
, my boy. Got to get you a summer livery made up before we head into the country. The weather will be pleasanter in Somerset but not so much you’ll want to traipse about under so much wool. You’d sweat to death.”

“I see, sir. Thank you sir.” Tom was extremely relieved. Wearing his livery while caring for his master was already a warm endeavor; he couldn’t imagine donning it to trot after Mr. Bewit when he was well enough to ride and hawk.

“I thought it might be nice to get you fitted for a few other pieces, as well…” Mr. Bewit said casually, turning an onionskin page. “Perhaps a coat to wear into town on your nights off, a few shirts, and a new Sunday best. There isn’t much society in Puriton, but Bridgwater is a market town, and not far off. We shall be dining with several fine families, and of course there will be balls and picnics and the like. I should not like you to feel self-conscious.”

“Thank you
very
much, sir,” said Tom.

He was gratified but not particularly surprised. Ever since the night of his acceptance to Brooks’s Mr. Bewit had treated Tom with substantially increased favor—and generosity. His first excursions after his collapse had been to shops, where he had bought Tom, among other things, three new pair of shoes, silk small clothes, a clock for his room, and a feather mattress for his bed.

Tom was delighted, and refused to be embarrassed by his master’s generosity. If the rest of the staff chose to raise their eyebrows whenever some new trinket was delivered, let them. Their jealousy didn’t bother him. Ever since the incident with Holland and Kitty, everyone was too wary of Tom to bully him. Whether it was due to Mr. Bewit’s increased reliance on him, or because they suspected he had played a part in the valet’s downfall Tom neither knew nor cared. He was too busy to take much notice either way—he might no longer be sent out in all weathers for this or for that, but his days were undeniably longer. Whenever Mr. Bewit ate alone in his rooms he almost always wanted Tom to dine with him, and when he felt strong enough to visit his new club or go to a play or party he invariably kept Tom by his side. If the other servants assumed he was being given light duty, they were wrong.

“You’ll like Puriton, I think.” Mr. Bewit set aside his book. “Have you ever been into Somerset?”

“No, sir.” Tom had never actually been outside of London. Whenever the Drays had gone away, they had left him behind to mind the shop.

“It’s beautiful country. So green! The rolling hills are glorious in all seasons but particularly now, when everything is growing. Oh, when I was a boy how I
loved
the summer! Before I could ride I used to plunder the woods for bird’s eggs to roast, harass great herds of sheep to see them run… I would try to find fox-dens and rabbit warrens, and go on quests like I was one of the Knights of the Round Table. Of course, when I grew older, I came to love the good hunting and good company… yes, Puriton is most agreeable, though very rustic. But they did build a hall for public dances three years ago.”

“It sounds charming, sir.” Tom could almost see it in his mind, from Mr. Bewit’s description, though of course his imaginings looked much like the sets in various plays he had lately seen.

“So you like to dance, then? Well, there will be at least one servants’ ball over the summer if you’d like to go, but I daresay you’ll see plenty of late nights of gaming and dancing and fine-eyed ladies when you come along with me.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“Are you? I’m glad.” Mr. Bewit’s smile faltered. “Callow never found much to enjoy, he would always beg me to let him stay with his more fashionably situated friends. I tried to show him my old haunts now and again, but nothing gave him the least pleasure after he went away to school. You can understand why that vexed me… I have always tried to give Callow the best, but his tastes and mine are not always in alignment. Or perhaps it all reminded him too much of the humble summers of his youth, before Hallux restored our fortunes.”

“That’s a shame, sir. Forgive me, but I don’t appreciate a good steak and kidney pie any less after eating Cook’s more refined vittles for the past few months.”

“Ha! Good lad, that’s the spirit,” said Mr. Bewit, and chuckling, turned back to his book.

Tom was pleased. He never criticized Callow, sensing it would be an impertinence—but Mr. Bewit spoke so often of his son that Tom had needed to figure out some way to respond
.
Constant silence would seem like disapproval; instead, he made bland, oblique remarks that in some way confirmed Mr. Bewit’s point of view. His master seemed to enjoy that.

Tom knew for certain he had pleased Mr. Bewit when the day before they departed for Somerset the tailor’s boy arrived with a brand new trunk packed full of tissue-paper packages. Tom found not only the promised summer livery, shirts, Sunday frock, and plain but elegant evening coat, but also a tailored day coat, a country suit that looked like it might be worn hunting or riding, several new pairs of breeches, a few lovely waistcoats, and, of all things, a peacock-blue banyan with matching cap.

For the first time, Tom felt a faint flutter of unease looking upon Mr. Bewit’s munificence. This was not the wardrobe of a servant, not even a senior one—it really ought to belong to a young gentleman. Wearing any of it, even on his days off, would alienate the household staff and confuse any stranger he chanced to meet.

Regardless, Mr. Bewit would want to see him in it all. Well, except perhaps the banyan. It would create just as many problems for him—quite possibly more—were he to reject the gifts.

“My goodness,” said Mrs. Jervis, passing by Tom’s open door as he tore away the tissue protecting yet another waistcoat. “What a lot of clothes!”

Tom blushed. “They were Mr. Bewit’s pleasure to purchase,” he said defensively, looking up from the subtle floral embroidery.

Mrs. Jervis raised an eyebrow at him. Uninvited and unwelcome, she stepped inside and picked up a pair of breeches.

“He bought you
all
of this?”

She had noticed the mother of pearl buttons. They were a bit ostentatious in Tom’s opinion, but he wasn’t complaining.