The Pleasure Merchant (25 page)

He took a long, but careful sip. His hands were trembling as if he had St. Vitus Dance! “And she… she had a pocket watch? Like my wife’s?”

“I would swear it was the pocket watch in that painting.”

“That watch was custom-made… for my wife, when she was just a girl.” Then, all of a sudden, he shuddered so violently he dropped his glass on the carpet as he groaned like a cow giving birth. “Oh God! Oh God!” he cried.

Tom was concerned for his master’s health, of course he was, but he was also desperate for answers. He knelt at Mr. Bewit’s feet; dared to put his hand on the man’s knee.

“Mr. Bewit! What is the meaning of this?”

“Alula!” Tears were running down his cheeks now, and he bent forward, wracked with sobs, forehead to Tom’s hand. “Oh, Alula, my daughter! How I have betrayed you!” He reared up again, clapped a hand to his mouth, and shook with the force of keeping in his wails.

“You will burst if you keep this inside a moment longer!” Tom urged him on, heedless of the consequences. “Alula Bewit died—you and everyone else said she died! Far from here, and long ago! How, then, could this girl have been she? Why, she told me herself that she was an orphan! Why would she say so if she were really your daughter?”

“God has seen fit to punish this foolish man,” blubbered Mr. Bewit, snot and tears running over his lips in equal measure. “But not so much as I have punished my dear Alula, my flesh and blood, an innocent if ever there was one! She is
not
dead, Tom. I gave her up—abandoned her in her hour of need! Hallux said—it doesn’t matter what he said. I should never have listened to him, but I was a younger man, foolish, and frightened to lose the fortune I had but lately gained, even second-hand. But my folly was a poisonous tree, and it has surely borne wicked fruit. To hear of all things that she is working for
Mangum Blythe!
God only knows what horrors and degradations she has endured, and all because I am weak—spineless—a selfish sinner ruled by pride and greed rather than any nobler sentiments!” And with that, he beat his fist upon the arm of the chair so hard the wood creaked.

“Please, Mr. Bewit, calm yourself!” Tom’s curiosity finally yielded to alarm. “You will do yourself an injury! Please—it might not have been the same watch, it was foolish for me to even mention it to you!”

“Tom, that watch was what I left her—a token, from her family, so she might not think herself completely abandoned,” he whimpered, leaning forward to clutch Tom’s lapels, much to his alarm. “I chose it… in case she ever… in case it reminded her…”

“Sir?”

“I must speak with him.” Mr. Bewit lurched to his feet. “I have business with my cousin, and I would do it alone. It will be an ugly affair.” He dashed the tears from his eyes. “As it has been from its inception!”

He fairly flew out of the room after that, leaving Tom upon the rug before the fire, ruminating upon what he had just heard. He sat there for a long time, heedless of the cramps in his legs, or the lateness of the hour.

Miss Rasa. Alula Bewit. Could they be the same girl? Miss Rasa hadn’t mentioned anything about impersonating her own brother for whatever strange errand she had been on, that morning. Then again, she had been loath to discuss the matter at all…

Regardless, Tom now knew Mr. Bewit had abandoned his daughter at an orphanage, telling everyone she had died, and maintained that deception for years and years! What on earth had precipitated such a strange decision? Alula would have been in her early teens when he gave her up. Why had she stood for it? Why had she never come home, to demand her rights, as a gentleman’s daughter?

And how was Hallux Dryden involved? At the end of their Michaelmas party, Tom had overheard the Jepps agreeing Mr. Dryden had once loved the girl, but now the man was happily (more or less) married to Sabina, after apparently convincing Mr. Bewit to give up his daughter, forever…

It was all extremely mysterious—vexingly so. The only thing Tom could think to explain it all was Hallux Dryden had got Alula with child and then refused to marry her. But why would he do that, if he had loved her? And even if that had been the case, the Foundling Hospital was an odd choice for a hushed-up lying-in, when there were so many boarding houses that catered to such circumspect circumstances. And to leave her there, afterwards,
forever
… no, it was too cruel. Mr. Bewit would never have consented to such an outrage.

Shaking his head, Tom turned his thoughts from that to the other name involved in the scandal: ‘Mangum Blythe.’ Who was he? Mr. Bewit had never mentioned him as an acquaintance, even in passing, Tom was sure of it… but he had not stumbled over the name, nor struggled to recall it.
Working for Mangum Blythe
, he had said.

Blythe must be the master Alula had referenced. Mr. Bewit must have hired them to humiliate Mr. Mauntell. That would actually quite neatly explain his guilt over Tom’s being sacked…

But no, that didn’t make sense. Mr. Bewit had obviously never known his own daughter was working for this Blythe, so he couldn’t have hired her to impersonate his son.

Yes, vexing was just the word for it!

Tom thought so long on the matter he must have dozed off. Next thing he knew, his head was pillowed on the seat of Mr. Bewit’s chair and Mrs. Jervis was shaking him by the shoulder. Tom looked up at her, bewildered. It was still dark beyond the curtains. She looked very worried.

“Mrs. Jervis?”

“At last, you’re awake!” She wrung her apron between her hands. “You must come—quickly. We need all the help we have; all the house is in an uproar. Mr. Bewit has collapsed!”

The doctor had been sent for, and Mr. Bewit had been moved to his chambers, so there was nothing for Tom to do besides apply cool cloths to his master’s feverish cheeks. He did so assiduously, driven by a nagging sense of guilt to keep a watchful eye.

Mr. Bewit’s fever was high and his color poor; the only thing to do was keep him comfortable until Mr. Fitzwilliam arrived to do what he could. Tom cursed himself for a fool—it had been cruel to bring up the matter when his master was already so upset. He had been thinking only of Miss Rasa and her mysterious pocket watch—only of himself, in other words.

“Unggh,” moaned Mr. Bewit, turning over in his delirious sleep. Tom snatched away the cloth, wrung it out, and dipped it in the bowl of water. When he pressed it to Mr. Bewit’s brow, the man sighed happily.

Then the door opened, and Mr. Fitzwilliam was there at last, with his black bag and his pleasant, reassuring manners. But when he saw Mr. Bewit, his countenance fell.

“How is his pulse?” he asked, but Tom had no answer. Taking the man’s wrist in his, the doctor looked at his own pocket watch and shook his head. “So light and fast!”

Half an hour’s examination later, the surgeon looked no less grim. “It is as I feared,” he murmured. “It has taken hold.”

“No!” whispered Mrs. Jervis hoarsely, hand at her throat.

“What precipitated this?” Mr. Fitzwilliam looked from the housekeeper to Tom.

“I do not know,” said Mrs. Jervis, saving him from answering. “Mr. Dryden would not say when he rang for us.”

“Bring him here!” Mr. Fitzwilliam did not look pleased. “I would speak with him.”

Mrs. Jervis bustled out, which was when the doctor fixed Tom in his gaze.

“Do you have any other information?” he asked shrewdly.

Tom waited just a moment too long as he decided what to say.

“Out with it, boy!” cried Mr. Fitzwilliam.

“Master Callow disgraced himself tonight,” said Tom. “He caused quite a commotion upon returning from a night out. Mr. Bewit was most displeased.” It was not the whole of it, he knew—and so did Mr. Fitzwilliam.

“And?”
he prompted.

“And I… instead of comforting him, I selfishly enquired about something regarding his deceased wife and daughter,” said Tom, flushing. Mr. Fitzwilliam nodded.

“I see. The latter is not a topic that rests well with Mr. Bewit.”

“I know. It was on my mind, and Mr. Bewit noticed I seemed… preoccupied…”

The apothecary sighed. “It is not to be wondered at, then, that he became so worked up. But you were not with him when…”

“No,” said Tom. “He left me to go speak with Mr. Dryden.”

“Where he made a perfect ass of himself, and is reaping what he sowed,” said Hallux, stomping through the door without the slightest heed of what a racket he made.

“Good God, man!” cried Mr. Fitzwilliam. “Have some respect!”

“And where, pray, is
my
respect?” Hallux looked mightily annoyed. “I was in the middle of my evening ablutions when Mrs. Jervis burst in upon me—”

“I knocked!” said Mrs. Jervis, offended.

“—to demand I come in here to look at my cousin sweating, or whatever is needed,” he sneered. “What am
I
do to? Aren’t
you
the apothecary?”

“He was with you when he collapsed,” Mr. Fitzwilliam said evenly. “I am surprised, Mr. Dryden, having heard many times from your own mouth about your skill helping those with nervous complaints, that you apparently alarmed your cousin so mightily that he fell into a fever. Pray tell me, what were you discussing? It may help me treat him, to know the origin of this malady.”

Hallux glanced at Tom and sniffed. “He wanted to discuss something irrelevant,” he said.

Tom was tempted to pry, but decided not to… he did not wish to find out what Hallux would do if he learned Tom knew the truth.

“I see,” said Mr. Fitzwilliam. “Well, I’m surprised at you, Mr. Dryden. You know better than anyone how delicate someone can be, after suffering a shock. It has not been six months since your cousin’s last episode, and this one, as I predicted, is much more severe.”

“Then leech him, or bleed him, or do whatever would be best,” said Hallux. “I can’t imagine you’ll do him much good by scolding me all night.”

“As you say,” said Mr. Fitzwilliam, his tone bordering on the hostile.

It was a grisly thing, watching a man being bled. Tom had never seen it done, and hoped he never would again. He hadn’t wanted to watch in the first place, but Mr. Fitzwilliam all but begged Tom to remain. That way, if Mr. Bewit awoke he would first see a friendly and familiar face.

That left Tom holding the bowl, his hands wrapped in fresh-boiled cloths, as the blood from Mr. Bewit’s veins dripped over his elbow and slowly away. He hadn’t expected it to be closer to black than red. More than once he hid a retch.

“There,” said Mr. Fitzwilliam at last, pressing a cloth to Mr. Bewit’s arm. “I daren’t take any more. Hopefully this will ease his pain.”

Tom couldn’t see how that would be the case, but he was a shop-boy turned boot-fetcher; what did he know?

“Keep the cool cloths on him. I will take this outside and fetch some wine to bathe the incision.” Mr. Fitzwilliam smiled. “You did well, boy. You’d have made an excellent apprentice sawbones, once we toughened you up a little. Why don’t you pour yourself a drink? Surely your master wouldn’t begrudge you a snort of something steadying.” Mr. Fitzwilliam looked meaningfully at the decanter on Mr. Bewit’s dresser. “I may need you again before this night is out.”

Tom did indeed pour himself a bit of brandy, but he had only time enough to take two sips before Mr. Bewit stirred.

“Tom,” he said weakly. “Tom… come here.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam had said nothing of what Tom should do if his master awakened. Mildly terrified, Tom went to Mr. Bewit’s unbled side and took the man’s hand.

“I’m here, Mr. Bewit,” he said. “I’m here. Be still—you collapsed, and you…”

“I know,” he wheezed. “I… my vision is dimming, Tom, and my body… I fear…”

“Shh,” said Tom. “Fear nothing. Mr. Fitzwilliam is here—he just stepped out for a moment. He’ll be back soon, and—”

“Mr. Fitzwilliam is the best of doctors.” His voice was so faint, merely a whisper. “But only you can help me, Tom.”

“What can I do? Name it, and I shall see it done.”

“Go and wake Mr. Wallace,” he said, as Tom leaned closer so as not to miss a word. “Knock until you rouse him, and tell him I must see him—now, or he shall never see me alive again.”

“Mr. Bewit!”

“Tom, I tell you truly!” He was becoming agitated again, so Tom agreed at once. Exhausted though he was, he would do this for his master.

“Let me tell Mr. Fitzwilliam, and—”

“No! It is an errand of the utmost urgency,” said Mr. Bewit. “go and saddle a horse, and—”

“I cannot ride well enough to—”

“You must!”

Certain he would be hanged as a horse-thief (or bucked off and left with his head cracked in a gutter), Tom promised Mr. Bewit he would do all he could, and sneaked out of the room. Down the stairs he went, and out the back door, avoiding everyone he saw. He did not know why Mr. Bewit needed his lawyer, but then again, he did not need to know. It was enough that his master desired it, as he had learned over the last few months.

He slipped past Mr. Bewit’s groom and found Blackie, Mr. Bewit’s favorite riding horse. The horse whickered at him, confused, but Tom spoke to the beast calmly as he had seen actual riders do as he put the saddle on its back and tightened it best he could. Praying he’d done everything right he hopped on, as the creature danced beneath him, and took off into the night.