The Pleasure Merchant (2 page)

It was the peak of that year’s season and the entertainments were so constant it seemed at times there was more to be enjoyed than people to enjoy it all. Among the delights to be taken in,
Artaxerxes
was drawing tears from every eye at Covent Garden, and David Garrick was still playing Jaffer in
Venice Preserved
at Drury Lane. Ranelagh Gardens were pleasant enough, in spite of the cold, and on the Strand there was a dancing pig, and a chained giant who would snap whole logs in half, hurl boulders out into the Thames, and drink any man under the table who dared challenge him. Bethlehem Hospital was not wanting for inmates, nor parties for society; the clubs were all packed with gentlemen, and young ladies in London for their first season were popping up everywhere like early roses, their new swains buzzing about them like eager bees.

Even with so much to occupy the crowds, there was one soir
é
e that stood out among all the rest; if half the rumors proved true, it would be the affair of the century. Lord Chandoss’s imminent fancy-dress party was discussed daily in parlors and bedrooms, courtyards and mews, and everywhere else you might imagine. Every tailor, draper, milliner, and costumier was completely booked up until the day of the grand event. Those who waited too long or were of lesser means had to sew or embroider anything that was wanted—and out of whatever they had on hand, for nothing of worth could be purchased in shops, not a scrap of lace nor a nicely-trimmed feather. It seemed that everything had been bought by those with invitations for a wild night spent among highwaymen and angels, harem girls and savage devils, pirates, bacchantes, knights, caesars, bards and queens.

Busier than usual, too, were the wig-shops—shops such as Dray’s, a small but exclusive barber-
cum
-wiggery in St. Martin’s Lane. Dray’s had received so many orders that Tom, Mr. Dray’s almost-nephew and journeyman apprentice, wondered at the sheer volume of hair they had lying about. Given the trade at the back door of the shop, he was convinced none of the prostitutes in St. James, St. Giles, or Marylebone could possibly be wearing their own hair; it wasn’t only Dray’s paying three times the usual rate for locks of any quality and any color. Add to that all the women who were a few inches short of making ends meet and you had yourself a city of bald-headed females, all for the sake of one night.

The wig upon which Tom currently labored was, at least in terms of volume, the grandest of the recent orders. Mr. Robert Mauntell was attending Lord Chandoss’s party as John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester, and Wilmot had certainly been a bigwig in his day. Thrilled to be in charge of such a grand commission, Tom had spent hours in the back room of the shop, painstakingly dying every luscious lock a shade of winsome oak-brown before curling them with hot irons. The finished ringlets he had affixed with the special proprietary serum designed by Mr. Dray to help hair keep its shape. It also made the whole affair shine and glimmer—under candlelight, it would be spectacular.

That morning, Tom was dusting the curls with scented powder. He was alone in the shop; Mr. Dray, Mrs. Dray, and their daughter Hizziah were still upstairs, enjoying their breakfast, but Tom didn’t mind working while they lingered over their rolls and tea. He liked being alone in the shop. It meant he could talk to his wigs.

“You’re a beauty,” he said. “You look soft as a kitten and natural as mother’s milk. What a shame you’ll be worn once and discarded. Taken off halfway through the night, given your weight, I’d wager. A few hours gracing the head of Mr. Mauntell and
pouf!
You’ll be torn off and tossed on the back of a…”

A knock at the front door startled him, for it was early yet. Dusting off his hands and hanging up his apron, he hurried to the front of the shop. A youth in a wide-skirted coat and a tricorn hovered in the street, craning his neck to try to see in past the glare of the shop-window. Tom hoped it was someone coming by to check on a current order instead of another last-minute party guest trying to squeeze in a request; yesterday, Mr. Dray had said they must turn away any new clients needing work done before Saturday. The responses of those who had called afterwards ranged from disappointed to irate.

As he reached the door the youth knocked again.

“Just a moment,” called Tom as he unlocked the door; opening it, he bowed. “Welcome to Dray’s. How may I be of help?”

“Shockingly enough, I need a wig.” The boy winked at him as he swept off his hat; he was as cheerful and smiling and handsome a fellow as Tom had ever seen in his life. “I
do
hope that’s all right? Ah, but how rude of me—I am Callow Bewit. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is mine, Master Callow,” said Tom, for he reckoned the boy at ages with him, around sixteen—though it was hard to tell, with all that powder and rouge. “My name is Tom. I’m Mr. Dray’s apprentice.”

“Very good. Well! About this wig—you make all kinds?”

“Yes, we do… but Master Callow, if I might ask… how soon would you need this wig?” Better to let him down quickly, if he wanted something for Lord Chandoss’s ball.

“Saturday. Is that a problem?”

Tom winced. “I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid we’re not able to accommodate any more commissions at this time.”

“Damn.” Callow sucked his teeth and leaned on his stick. “That’s what I get for waiting until the last minute. And it was such a good idea for a costume…”

“What are you going as?” Tom had been cataloguing all the different customer’s notions.

“A woman.”

“What?” Tom knew his tone was impertinent, but he was just so surprised. “Really?”

Master Callow pursed his lips together, making them appear fuller, as he raised his shoulder coquettishly. “With some false bubbies it should look all right. I think I can pull it off—don’t you?”

“Well…”

“Come on—tell me honest.”

Tom chuckled. “I fear you have me at a disadvantage, Master Callow, for I do not know whether it would be more polite to agree or disagree.”

Callow laughed merrily. “I see! Ah, it doesn’t really matter, I suppose, it will make people laugh either way. Oh, if only I hadn’t forgotten about the wig! I have everything else at hand, even the bubbies. The dress is so lovely, it would have been sensational… but I can’t go wearing my own hair. It’s too short.”

A quick inspection of Callow’s waving chestnut locks inspired Tom. “Actually, perhaps we
can
help you, Master Callow…”

“Oh?”

“Most ladies don’t wear wigs,” he said. “They just wear locks of false hair dressed into their own, lightly powdered to make it all the same color.”

“I say, really?” Callow looked impressed. “I’d no idea.”

“In France, women will often wear full wigs, but that style is a bit too European for most English girls of good breeding and taste. False locks create the illusion of fullness without being so vulgar.”

“Clever creatures, aren’t they—the fairer sex, I mean? They’d dupe us all with their wiles… if it weren’t for the honest tradesmen willing to betray their secrets.”

“Too true, sir! But, I mention this because a lady just yesterday returned three pieces. She overbought, and knew we were wanting for hair. Mr. Dray hasn’t decided what to use them for as they’re of a distinctive shade, but it’s not too far off from your own. If you bought a bit of… let’s say, pink-tinted wig-powder, it should do you all right for a fancy-dress party if you’ve a lady’s maid to pin it all for you.”

“I do; my aunt’s,” said Callow thoughtfully. “She’d agreed to cinch my corset-strings and whatever else, so surely she can help with my hair. Yes, that’s just the thing! I’ll take the hair and the powder both. Thank you very much—you’ve saved me!”

“You are most welcome, I’m glad we could help. Excuse me a moment, and I’ll fetch them for you.” With a bow, Tom repaired to the back room. Retrieving the locks from the shelf where the thick braids sat coiled like serpents, he swaddled them in tissue, tied it all with a ribbon, and then wrapped the parcel and the wig-powder together in brown paper, tying it with twine.

“I say. Look at the size of that wig!”

Master Callow had followed him; he was peeking into the workroom and staring at the massive hairpiece on the stand. Tom opened his mouth to request that he leave—customers were not typically allowed in the back room—but bit off his protest, afraid of seeming rude.

“Is the owner going as Charles the Second?”

“No, John Wilmot,” said Tom absently as he tied the knot on the parcel. “Mr. Maun—ah, the gentleman’s tastes run to the poetic rather than the political. But, I say, would you mind not…” Callow was thoughtfully fingering one of the perfect curls he’d been laboring over, and it took all Tom’s willpower not to strike the boy’s soft hand away from it. The nerve! Even though he could see no harm had been done, it annoyed Tom that the young scoundrel had put his hands on it in the first place.

“I beg your pardon!” Callow dropped it and raised his hands, backing away slowly, making a show of it. “Well, it’s a very fine piece; I imagine it will cost him a pretty penny. Speaking of which, how much will my odds and ends be?”

“The hairpieces? Altogether, ten guineas, with the powder.”

“
Ten guineas?
I bought myself a decent enough wig for seven pounds just last month!”

“Hair is very dear right now…”

Master Callow sighed. “I suppose it serves me right. Well… I only have five on me…”

“Does Mr. Bewit have an account here?”

“I expect we’ll open one as you’ve been so kind in my time of need. Will five be enough to…”

Tom hesitated. Mr. Dray did not like to extend credit to strangers, but neither would he want Tom to refuse service to gentlefolk. “Of course, Master Callow.”

“Good, good.”

Tom thought the lad was reaching for his coin purse, but instead he withdrew a fine pocket watch. It was silver, with a rose inlaid in what looked like carnelian and jade. Callow checked the time.

“How nice, I’ll be early for my next appointment,” he said, sounding most satisfied. He noticed Tom looking at the watch. “Pretty little thing, isn’t it? It was made in Versailles, for my mother.”

“It’s exquisite.”

“Inside and out.” Callow opened the watch to show the face. The silver backing caught the early morning sunlight streaming through the window, catching Tom square in the eyes.

“I find its sound most soothing, don’t you?”

Callow Bewit seemed unaware he kept blinding Tom with flashes of light. Between that and listening to the ticking Tom began to feel queer and a bit sick, like the time he’d lost his breakfast to the Thames during a windy crossing. He felt his heart beating in his ears, he was going to faint…

“Steady now!”

Callow helped him into a chair, and he had just settled himself when Mr. Dray’s daughter Hizziah came into the room. Even feeling as queasy as he did, he noticed she was looking particularly lovely in a pale blue morning gown trimmed with foamy white lace. Her light brown hair tumbled naturally all about her rose-pink cheeks, curling around her neck.

“Tom? Oh, I
do
beg your pardon,” she said, dipping into a curtsey. Callow left Tom’s side, looking at Hizziah with considerable interest.

“It is I who should beg
your
pardon, madam,” said Master Callow, bowing gracefully to the young lady. Hizziah blushed to be addressed so familiarly by the young stranger.

“Is he—are you quite all right, Tom?”

“He just came over queer all of a sudden,” supplied Callow.

“Yes, I’m fine now, Hizzy—Miss Dray,” he said. Indeed, just as suddenly as it had come upon him, Tom’s nausea and disorientation were gone; he couldn’t even remember what had precipitated it. He and Callow had been concluding their transaction, and then…

“You don’t look fine.” Hizzy came over and put her cool hand on his warm forehead.

“Really, I’m all right.”

Tom had loved Hizziah Dray since the morning he had first seen her, as he stood awkwardly on Mr. Dray’s doorstep while the woman from the Foundling Hospital explained their almost-blood connection, practically begging Mr. Dray to take Tom in due to the crowding at the orphanage. He had been so grateful when Mr. Dray agreed to make him an apprentice, and he was grateful to Mr. Dray’s daughter, now, for her concern… but his mood soured when, after declaring his health, her attention immediately turned to Callow. She was clearly quite taken with the lad.

Though he did not consider himself a jealous person, Tom felt something stirring inside him, a green serpent writhing deep within his stomach. He did not like seeing her so interested in this Callow Bewit. She was beautiful enough to be a lord’s consort, but Hizzy also had a fine head for figures; she was the ideal shopkeeper’s wife. A month ago he’d grown bold enough to ask if one day she would like to be such, and her shy but undeniably favorable response had given him high hopes for the future—higher than a mere orphan with no connections in the world could reasonably expect. The notion that some good-looking young gentleman with dashing manners might snatch all that away disturbed Tom deeply. How could Hizzy fail to see that a man like that would jilt her and leave her with big regrets and a bigger belly?