The Pleasure Merchant (3 page)

“So you are
Miss
Dray?” asked Callow, looking Hizzy over with obvious approval. “I see that Mr. Dray produces as fine daughters as he does wigs.”

Hizzy laughed. “My father makes the best wigs, so I shall take that as a compliment, Master…”

“Callow Bewit,” he said, with another of his ridiculous bows.

Though still a bit dizzy, Tom stood, and handed over the gentleman’s parcel—he felt he ought to put himself between them, lest Hizzy lie down on the work-table and lift up her skirts right then and there for this fop.

“My apologies for the inconvenience, Master Callow,” said Tom, trying not to let his irritation show, “but as I am sufficiently recovered, allow me to complete our exchange.”

The lad put his five guineas on the table. “I’ll let you get back to dressing your wig, then. I really can’t thank you enough. And as for
you
, madam,” he turned to Hizzy, “please give my father’s
personal
regards to Mr. Dray, and pray tell him we’ll be opening an account here very soon.” The cad had the gall to wink at her!

“Thank you, Master Callow,” said Hizzy, demurely lowering her eyes.

Tom coughed into his fist. “May I show you out?”

“No no, I can find my way.” Callow winked at him, this time. It made Tom feel queer for some reason he couldn’t quite identify…

“What a nice young man,” said Hizzy, after Callow had gone. Tom frowned at her. “What? He was charming!”

“I wonder if you’d like him if you saw him Saturday night,” he remarked. “He’s going to Lord Chandoss’s party dressed as a woman.”

Hizzy giggled. “Those lips! Painted and powdered he’ll look beautiful.”

Tom felt as if a wasp had stung him on the heart. He opened his mouth to say something cutting, but then Mr. Dray came down into the workroom.

“Who will look beautiful?” he asked.

“One of Lord Chandoss’s guests,” said Hizzy, as if nothing at all had happened. Resentment made Tom turn away, lest master or daughter notice. “Callow Bewit, he said his name was. A young gentleman.”

“Never you mind about young gentlemen, Hizzy,” said Mr. Dray, not unkindly. “Go on and help your mother with the chores, and this afternoon we’ll go over the books from last week. I want you to check my maths.”

Hizzy curtseyed to her father before scurrying upstairs. Tom watched her go, feeling even more out of sorts until she blew him a kiss from behind her father’s back. That cheered him up considerably.

“Goodness, my boy,” said Mr. Dray, admiring the Wilmot wig on the stand. “You’ve done a fine job with this one. I doubt Rochester himself could find a thing wrong with it.”

“Thank you very much, sir.” Mr. Dray was a kind father, a good master, and a better wigmaker. Working alongside him was a privilege as well as a pleasure. His compliments meant the world to Tom.

“Anything new? Hizzy said there’d been a customer?”

“Yes… I sold those three hairpieces to the young gentleman.” Tom saw annoyance flit across Mr. Dray’s face, to his surprise. “I apologize if I erred,” he said quickly, “but the lad needed a few locks of hair, for the party, and I hated to disappoint him. He paid five guineas for it all, and promised five more, plus an account.”

“I see,” said Mr. Dray, looking more content. “I do wish you’d gotten it all, but I understand how it goes with the young men these days. We’ll see if he really does come back… but for now, I must see to Mr. Sedley’s barrister’s wig. I was going to use those pieces you sold, but I suppose I can eke it out with horse-hair. It’ll all be powdered white anyways…”

Tom breathed a bit easier after Mr. Dray turned to his work. He was unhappy to have incurred a rebuke, even a mild one. It didn’t happen often, given Tom’s diligence and obedience, but it always made him a bit nervous. It was within Mr. Dray’s rights to terminate Tom’s apprenticeship at any time… not that Tom really thought he would. Still, it never hurt to be cautious—to be dismissed at this juncture would be nothing short of disastrous. All his future plans, professional and personal, depended on completing his apprenticeship.

They were very busy the rest of the day. By the time they closed the shop, hours later than usual, Tom had forgotten all about Master Callow Bewit. But the night of the party, when he was in his attic room, reading by himself, Tom remembered.

What a time Callow Bewit must be having! Rumor had it that fifty cases of champagne had been imported for the event, along with twenty pounds of caviar, and seventeen Wiltshire hams. Someone had declared the kitchens had prepared forty gallons of white soup, and as for the volume of cream, eggs, milk, and flour ordered for fancy puddings—why, it was more food, and finer, than Mrs. Dray bought in a year. The fishmonger had claimed Lord Chandoss’s cook had demanded twelve enormous pikes to be cured for the event, and Jordan, the milliner’s errand-boy, had reported a troupe of gypsy actors had been hired for an entertainment, as well as three different ensembles for musical interludes. Tom couldn’t begin to imagine the spectacle, and he very much doubted he would ever to see anything like it.

A low knock at the door drew Tom’s mind away from these musings.

“Tom?” It was Hizzy. With a sharp snap Tom shut
Robinson Crusoe
and threw it on the bed as he leaped off it. Only once before had Hizzy dared to sneak up to his room, and his memory of that encounter made his heart beat the quicker as he opened the door for her.

“Come in,” he whispered, taking care to shut the door softly. Mr. Dray might be fond of his foundling apprentice, but not fond enough to overlook his trifling with his only daughter.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I kept thinking about the party.”

“Me too,” admitted Tom.

“That boy,” she said, coloring slightly, “how do you think he looked? As a woman, I mean?”

Forgotten jealousy welled inside Tom like black blood in a wound. “He had a womanish look to him already,” he said acidly. “Though you seemed to like him well enough.”

Hizzy seemed a bit taken aback. “I was only being polite,” she said softly.

“Were you?” Tom sniffed and turned his back on her, all his former excitement gone. “You warmed to his advances quicker than you did to mine—but I suppose it’s to be expected. A pretty young gentleman will naturally command more respect from the ladies than lowly orphans.”

“It’s not about respect,” said Hizzy. The girl had the nerve to sound exasperated! “I’m not sneaking out to meet
him
late at night, am I?”

“I suppose not,” Tom allowed.

“Don’t be cross,” she murmured, stepping closer and taking his hand in hers. She was so very beautiful, standing there in her white shift in the dim candlelight, eyes shining. Her shell-pink tongue snaked out, moistening her parted lips so that they gleamed. “I can’t believe you would think I preferred a coxcomb like that to you, Tom.”

Tom’s resentment cooled and softened as something else stiffened and grew hot. He let go of his ire and kissed the back of her hand. “You’re good as gold, Hizzy.” He drew her closer. “Warmer, though… and you smell better…”

“Gold can’t return a kiss, either,” she said, pressing her lips under his ear, which sent a thrill of pleasure straight to his tight groin.

“Oh, Hizzy,” he groaned. “Don’t, you’re making it ache so.”

“You don’t think I’d leave you in such a state?” Her fingers brushed his cock through his breeches, and he almost came right there. “Did you mean it, Tom? Last time, after we… when you asked if I would want to be a wife one day? Your wife?”

“Of course,” he said, thrusting into her palm. “Christ, Hizzy, I’ve loved you since… since… oh God,
don’t
…” She’d unbuttoned him, and snaked a hand down to cup his balls with just the right amount of firmness. “I’ll…”

“Not yet,” she said, leading him by the twist to his bed.

He sat down in something like a daze, as she knelt between his legs. Pushing him back she freed his prick, which sprang free with such force the little dewdrop clinging to the tip spattered her cheek. With a giggle, she wiped it off with a slender finger and sucked it clean.

“Will you…” he licked his lips. Last time, she’d satisfied him with her hand, but he was eager to know more of his future bride. “Will you put it in your mouth?” he asked, all in a rush.

Slowly, delicately, she lowered her lips and kissed it. Pleasure like he’d never known overwhelmed him, took possession of him, and he hauled her up onto the narrow bed. Throwing her shift over her head he buried his face in the hairy patch between her legs. Her strong but not unpleasant odor stiffened him further, and for a moment he considered taking her then and there, satisfying himself inside her. But he still had two years left of his apprenticeship; a pregnancy would ruin all his plans. He contented himself with running a finger around the small pink opening and teasing her a bit, darting it in and out as he kissed the small protuberance above.

“Tom,” she mewled in her kitten-voice. “Oh!”

He licked her there, and after a while she returned the favor, climbing atop him so they could satisfy one another at the same time. She spent first, all over his face, which excited him so much he spent in her mouth, unable to even gasp a warning beyond, “Hizzy!”

Afterwards, as she dabbed at her lips with one of his soiled shirts, Tom stammered out copious professions of love, fidelity, and his ultimate desire: that they spend their lives together, he making wigs, she keeping his books and tending to the house and any children they might have. She agreed to it all, eagerly, before insisting she had lingered too long, leaving him with only the memory of a warm girl beside him.

Tom laughed as he blew out the candle, exhausted but happy. He was certain he’d had a far better time that night than any of Lord Chandoss’s guests.

The next day, Hizzy looked radiant sitting across from him at the table as they broke their fast before church. Gazing at her surreptitiously between sips of tea and bites of bread, he knew he would never want for anything more than to tend to his wigs during the day and have Hizzy, sweet Hizzy, to tend to at night. Tom resolved to forget all about Master Callow Bewit and Lord Chandoss’s party. And he did… until mid-morning, the following Monday.

The wig-shop looked strangely desolate come Monday, with all the commissions gone and bare wig stands everywhere. Without hair framing their painted faces the mannequins looked forlorn; only the three models in the front window retained their crowning glories.

Mr. Dray had gone out early, so Tom set to straightening up the back room and making the front tidy. It didn’t take long. There wasn’t much to be done to the echoing, empty space, but Tom wasn’t the sort of apprentice to laze about while his master was absent. He decided to busy himself with grinding pigments to tint wig-powder. It was not the most interesting of tasks, and he was just considering sneaking upstairs to see if Hizzy was about when Mr. Dray returned.

“Ah, Tom—always busy, aren’t you?” he remarked approvingly. Tom felt the briefest twinge of guilt over betraying the man’s trust, but he would make an honest woman out of Hizzy soon enough. “Not only that, it seems you’ve anticipated my thoughts.” From the pocket of his coat Mr. Dray produced a fragrant sachet, waggling it at Tom before dropping it on the work-table. “Lavender,” he said. “Orange peel,” as he let fall a second, “and orris root.” There went the third. “The orris is particularly fine. Use our best starch and tint it… light blue. I haven’t seen much blue this season. We can sell it as an exclusive.”

“Stand out from the crowd with a daring mid-season change of style?”

“That’s good,” said Mr. Dray, nodding. “Write it under the price, and make sure the illiterate ones know what it says.”

“Yes, sir,” said Tom. “If you like, I’ll also make a display for the window. It looks like we’re closing up shop. Permanently, I mean.”

“I know, it’s ghastly. But I told everyone who bought wigs for the party that we’d buy them back at the price of the hair, so it’s possible we’ll get some returns today. Ah—and there’s the door,” said Mr. Dray. He looked in the glass, patting the sides of his already-impeccably groomed and powdered peruke, and went to answer it.

The sound of heavy boots on the floor and the rough hellos didn’t sound to Tom like a pack of eager customers selling back their wigs. Something was wrong. He had just decided to go and listen at the door when Mr. Dray came into the back, looking pale.

“Come along, Tom, and speak with these gentlemen.”

Tom’s stomach fluttered. “What’s this all about?” he asked, hanging up his apron.

“I’m sure it’s all a mistake,” said Mr. Dray, but Tom noticed his master wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I’ll let them explain.”

There were three men in the front room. Two were Bow Street Runners, officers of the law; the third man, taller and thinner, was Mr. Robert Mauntell. He looked far less jovial than he had when he’d come in to order his John Wilmot wig.

“That’s the boy,” he said, pointing at Tom like an Irish setter after a pheasant. “He’s the one!”

“I beg your pardon?” Tom said with as much dignity as he could muster. “Is something wrong?”