The Pleasure Merchant (14 page)

Hallux set aside the pamphlet and withdrew his pocket watch. He opened it and showed the face to his wife in the clear bright light coming in through the coach window. She quieted instantly when she saw it. Tom looked inquiringly at Hallux—it was the second time he had seen the man fiddle with the thing when Sabina seemed agitated, which struck Tom as curious.

“Look at the time, my darling—it’s far too early for highwaymen,” he said evenly, holding Tom’s gaze, as if challenging him to remark on something, and indeed, Tom relaxed to hear Hallux accounting for what had, for a moment, seemed passing strange. “I doubt even the boldest rogue would rob us before tea-time, and on a stretch of road as open as this.”

“Of course.” Sabina nodded vaguely. “Of course you’re right, my darling. I’m sorry, I must have dozed off… you know how the jolting of the coach makes my head ache so.”

Mr. Bewit had recovered his composure during this exchange, mopping his brow with a handkerchief and staring out the window of the coach.

“I apologize for my outburst,” he said. “I did not mean to alarm you, Sabina. But please, cousin—if you are of a mind to keep reading, move on to some other bit.”

“Does something about this passage particularly discomfit you?” The ghost of a smile hovered at the corners of Hallux Dryden’s mouth. “My apologies. Had I known, I should never have begun it.”

“Nothing bothers dear Hallux.” Sabina was apparently herself again, twisting a scarf in her lap as she stared out the window. “The bridle of society does not lead his reason.”

Sabina’s remarks were, as usual, nonsensical, but Tom was always grateful for an excuse to look at her. Even slightly disheveled from travel, she radiated a rare and precious beauty. Her complexion needed no powder to give it luster; her slender waist was evident even under the shapeless dress she wore. Her plump white arms were luminous as a pearl, and her pale gold hair as smooth as silk.

“Yes, well,” said Mr. Bewit, glancing a trifle irritably at Sabina, “some would consider it no grand thing for a man to be undisturbed by the disturbing.”

“What is disturbing about the proposition that fathers should not sell their children into slavery?” asked Hallux.

Mr. Bewit’s expression darkened, and for a moment, Tom thought he might actually strike his cousin.

“If you must read Rousseau,” Mr. Bewit said, a bit heatedly, “why not try his
Pygmalion
? Surely it would be more entertaining—don’t you think, cousin?”

“I do not care for his
Pygmalion
,” said Hallux, so cool the temperature inside the carriage seemed to lower. “It is a story that holds no interest for me. I prefer philosophy to fairy-tales.”

And with that, Hallux began again, but Tom scarcely listened to him as he rattled on. He had just witnessed
something
… but what, he could not say.

The cousins’ mutual dislike seemed to run deeper than simple resentment over money. Tom wondered if it might have something to do with Callow… rarely did a day pass where Mr. Bewit failed to make some remark about his disappointment in his son, and the passage that had so disturbed him had had to do with the raising of children. Hallux had a particular interest in the rearing of children—or at least, their education. Might Hallux have demanded the right to raise Mr. Bewit’s only son? Might
that
have been Mr. Bewit’s sacrifice? If Callow had been an early, failed prot
é
g
é of Hallux’s,
that would certainly explain why Mr. Bewit would blame himself for his son’s shortcomings…

Whatever the case might be, Hallux’s remarks haunted Mr. Bewit for the remainder of the day. Only after they arrived at the coaching inn that evening, and Hallux had refused the very good roast beef and claret presented by the innkeeper, storming upstairs with his wife in tow, did Mr. Bewit seem himself again.

“More for us,” he remarked, spearing another tender morsel. “Fine beef, this. And better company.” He winked at Tom. They had already shared two bottles of wine, and both were rather lubricated. “I hope you will not suffer for losing the Drydens’ society this evening?”

Tom took another long pull on his claret, though the wine did not aid him in thinking what would be best to say. “A quiet meal is never a bad thing, sir,” he managed.

“Would you and your son like more wine?” interrupted the serving girl, with a brief curtsey.

“Yes,” said Mr. Bewit, before Tom could protest her mistaking their relationship.

“Drink up, Tom,” advised Mr. Bewit, with a wink. “With no one around to chide me for drinking to excess, I’m of a mind to do so.”

“Tomorrow, let’s us sit on the bench with the brandy beneath,” said Tom, as they toasted one another. “That way, no one could gainsay a mid-drive tipple.”

“Genius!” Mr. Bewit was very merry. “Ah, Tom. What would I do without you? Better question—what
did
I do before you arrived on my doorstep under Mauntell’s arm? I know it’s wicked, but I’m ever so glad I—” he stopped short as Tom shifted forward on his seat. “Glad I took a chance on you, my boy. It’s proven to be one of the best decisions I ever made.”

Tom sat back, his heart thumping so loud he wondered Mr. Bewit did not comment on it. He sensed that tonight of all nights he could successfully press Mr. Bewit on the mystery of whether he had actually hired the impostor whose interference had caused Tom to be dismissed.

Tom cleared his throat.

“Yes, Tom? What is it?” Mr. Bewit was mellow, happy, and at his ease. Tom, by contrast, felt tense, unsure, like a blacksmith hesitating before a hot piece of iron.

“Well, Mr. Bewit… I just wanted to say… I’m glad you took a chance on me, too. I can’t think when last I spent a pleasanter evening.”

Perhaps it was cowardice—perhaps not. But the expression of contentment his words brought to Mr. Bewit’s face made Tom certain he’d done the right thing.

The orange-lined drive of Bergamot Mews would have been a welcome sight after four long days on the road even if Tom hadn’t been sharing a carriage with Hallux Dryden the entire time. But he had, so when the small but elegant house appeared on the horizon mid-morning their fifth day traveling together it seemed as though heaven itself had come into view.

“Looks like the gardeners haven’t been idle,” said Mr. Bewit. With his hands pressed to the greasy window of the carriage he looked more like a young child than a grown man. “My! Just look at the height of that yew-hedge around the formal garden! And the greenhouses! It’s possible we shall taste pomegranates grown in our own soil this year, isn’t that exciting?”

“All I hope is that Sebell saw to the leaks and drafts,” said Hallux. “I can take my walking exercise on a bare moor as easily as in a garden, but I cannot sleep comfortably with rainwater dripping on my nose.”

The man was in as black a mood as Tom had ever seen him, for they had taken two days longer than expected to get to Puriton. The roads had been very bad, and they had often been forced to stop and rest the horses at inns with little but cold roast or pie for hungry travelers. With Hallux refusing all but vegetarian fare, he had been subsisting on bread, and sometimes millet porridge; in spite of his claims that the diet was good for the humors, it seemed to have put his out of sorts.

“How do you like it, Tom?” asked Sabina, as they drew nearer, and could admire how the curving drive stood out handsomely from the straight, rather Grecian lines of the house. “Do not you think it a fair prospect?”

Sabina rarely addressed Tom, or even noticed his presence, so her attention surprised him. “Yes—yes ma’am, I do,” he stammered. “I like it very much.”

“I thought you would,” she replied. “A few weeks ago, when Lady Frideswide came to tea, she asked you how you liked our London residence… you replied so elegantly, and with such heartfelt praise, I knew you could not fail to appreciate the charms of Bergamot Mews.”

“Every mule loves his paddock,” said Hallux shrewishly, glaring at his wife.

“Not
every
mule,” contradicted Mr. Bewit. “I say, cousin, do you not recall the summer my father bought that piebald hinny from Farmer Cox? That she-demon bit every one of us, and kicked you so hard in the twist that you—”

“I remember well enough,” said Hallux, coloring.

Tom was pleased; he recalled the exchange Sabina had spoken of, but would never have guessed Sabina might. Studiously keeping his eyes from her face or person, Tom cultivated a look of curiosity about the approaching manor, but in truth, it was Sabina who occupied his thoughts. That she might recall anything he said—anything at all, really—came as a surprise. Could it be that her general stupidity was merely an act to please her husband? The man did seem happiest when his wife sat quietly, attracting no more attention to herself than a particularly artful flower arrangement or well-painted fire screen. It was said that the deepest rivers flow without sound…

“And here we are!” cried Mr. Bewit, as the carriage crunched to a stop in front of the house, scattering chickens, and disturbing the peace of the bees that buzzed in among the wild stands of lavender and tangled rosebushes. The staff were already assembled to greet them, squinting in the summer sunlight, standing quite straight and still, save for a young man who rushed up with a step to aid Sabina’s descent from the carriage.

“Hello all!” cried Mr. Bewit heartily, as he clambered out after her. Tom hoped his master would not overtax himself in his enthusiasm; his stay in the country was intended to be restful. “My goodness, you’re all a sight for sore eyes! I had hoped to see you yesterday, but the roads were so very poor. Mrs. Jervis, is everything ready?”

“Yes, Mr. Bewit,” said Mrs. Jervis, who was holding the leash of an enormous but stolid wolfhound. “Everything is waiting for you.” She seemed genuinely glad to greet her master, but when Tom came up behind him, her expression soured slightly. “The
family
rooms,” she put a distinct emphasis on those words, “are all in order, and your gamekeeper would like you to know that the ponds have all been stocked, and the snares and guns polished.”

“Excellent! Excellent!” Tom had never seen this side of Mr. Bewit; the man was experiencing unalloyed rapture over every thing. He seemed far more at ease in this rustic environ than in the streets and halls of London. “My word, but it is
nice
to be home.”

“Shall we go in, cousin?” Hallux, shading his eyes. “Mrs. Dryden is wilting.”

“Yes!” Mr. Bewit clapped his hands together. “Yes of course! Let us go in! Tom—come with me, I’ll give you a tour!”

Tom flushed as every servant looked at him, their expressions ranging from bewilderment to contempt.

“I can’t imagine anyone would want anything of the sort before getting a cup of tea and some refreshment,” hinted Hallux as he tapped his toe, waiting for Mr. Bewit to go in first. “Don’t you agree?”

“Tea! What a capital idea!” cried Mr. Bewit, as if Hallux had just at that moment invented the idea of drinking and eating something after a long journey. “Yes—in the orangerie perhaps, under the Roman pavilion?”

“
Wherever
,” said Hallux, now openly edging toward the doorway, “as long as we get out of the sun.”

“Ah, of course!” Mr. Bewit finally began to move. His cousin followed, Sabina steadying herself on his arm, but Tom stood awkwardly, unsure what he should do. He elected to wait until Mrs. Jervis and the other senior staff had gone in, but before they took a single step Mr. Bewit called to him to hurry along.

“Go on,” said Mrs. Jervis, and Tom blushed again to be looked at so keenly by everyone, as if he were some kind of oddity at a gypsy circus. Even the damn dog was staring at him with the same goggle-eyed expression as all the maids and cooks and footmen. “Don’t keep the master waiting.”

Tom bowed to her, and followed quickly after Mr. Bewit, though he refused to break into an undignified trot to catch up. It made him feel queer, knowing he was going in before those who should have had the honor, given their seniority, but there was nothing he could do about it. All he could do was hope that this awkward introduction wasn’t an ill omen for his summer.

***

To a boy who had lived in London his whole life, the ramshackle victualler, small millinery, ancient church, mill, white-washed dance hall, moldy-looking primary school, and smoky, low-ceilinged pub of Puriton were not much to behold. Pigs and sheep wandered the streets of the village, adding their turds to the mud, and chickens and cats coexisted more or less happily on rooftops, doorsteps, and on midden-heaps. Even the Castle Bally disappointed, being little more than a mound of earth—Mr. Bewit’s remarks about playing at being the Knights of the Round Table as a boy had made Tom imagine something akin to Camelot, but that was assuredly not the case.

Tom had been through some truly dreadful neighborhoods in London, but Puriton, while the air was fresher, seemed somehow more squalid. To Mr. Bewit, however, the village was as full of delights as any pleasure-garden, as sociable as any club, and as worthy as any cathedral. First thing their first morning Mr. Bewit dragged Tom the three miles from the front door of Bergamot Mews to the church, all the while regaling him with tales of the mischief he used to get up to when he was a lad. Tom worried for his master’s health, but the exercise seemed to invigorate him… soon enough, however, he came to wish he’d invoked Mr. Fitzwilliam’s advice, or really
anything
that would have prevented hiking so long over rough terrain in new boots. Getting monstrous blisters in order to “see the sights” when the sights were all indistinguishably shabby structures seemed a fool’s errand, and did little to endear Tom to ‘country living.’