The Pleasure Merchant (30 page)

“Tom, I’m being truthful. I’m not angry. I have genuinely no idea what you’re talking about.” She bit her red-painted lip. “I have no memories of my life—none—before I was, oh, I’ll say… fourteen. I don’t really know for sure, because I don’t actually know how old I am.”

Tom stared at her, suddenly the dumbfounded one. This was not at all the confession he had expected to hear, nor the conversation he had expected to have.

“I told you… about the Foundling Hospital…” She wouldn’t meet Tom’s eyes; kept her gaze anchored to the table in front of her, tracing the whorls of the wood with the tip of her finger. “When I woke up there, I… I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know anything about myself, even my name. The women… the nurses, I mean… they said I’d suffered a shock, that I’d been sick with a terrible fever. Sometimes, they said, that can make people forget. They gave me the watch—my watch, the one that was left with me—to see if it would trigger any memories, but… it didn’t… it only made me feel so queer…”

When she finally looked up at him, Tom was startled to see that her seemingly unshakable poise and confidence had fled—it excited him, seeing her so open, so helpless, so
vulnerable
. He wanted to reach out and touch her, but he didn’t want to startle her, not when he was on the cusp of finding out what must be the terrible secret that had haunted his former master.

“That was over four years ago,” she continued, “but I’ve never recovered any of my memories. Never knew who I was, not even what my name might have been.”

“But now you do? You remember?” he asked eagerly, pushing her on purpose. He sensed she could be talked into revealing more of herself than she might ordinarily be comfortable with, in light of the strangeness, the suddenness, of this revelation.

He was correct.

“No, nothing like that,” she said, with a sad little shake of her head. “But when you said that name…
Alula Bewit
… even though I’ve no memory of ever being called that, I knew—
I know
—it’s right. That was my name. I’m sure of it.”

“They never called you that at the Foundling Hospital?”

“They didn’t know, for whoever dropped me off departed without filling out paperwork. And anyway, they give all their wards new names, from the Bible mostly… you wouldn’t know, having left so quickly. I was
Judith
. Then Mr. Blythe, when he adopted me, he gave me a new name… Tabula… Tabula Rasa. It’s a joke, do you see?” Tom shook his head, mystified. “It’s not really a name, you know… it’s Latin, it means ‘scraped tablet.’ They—the ancient Romans, I mean—used to use wax tablets to teach children… the wax could be melted and scraped to make a clean writing surface over and over again. In English we translate it as ‘blank slate.’ He thought it was funny, because of my amnesia.”

This sort of joke did not exactly improve Tom’s opinion of the still-obscure Mr. Blythe, but he did not speak his mind on that account. Miss Rasa—
Tabula
—was giving herself up, letting him inside; she was overflowing, and he did not want to stopper her. It cost him nothing to be a good friend, and surely with a smart and sensitive girl like this, that was the first step to securing other, more intimate sorts of affections.

“Tom,” she said, urgently, “Tom… you said you knew who I was… who I used to be… what else can you tell me?”

She was even more fetching when begging for favors. He took a deep breath. “Well…”

Tom wasn’t entirely sure where to begin, but eventually he managed to tell her what he knew—that her father had died not a week ago, but had been a good man. This sad news did not particularly affect her, as she had never known Mr. Bewit, as far as she was concerned, but she was glad to hear that he had been happily married to her mother. Obviously she already knew that she had a brother, given their earlier conversation, and she was intrigued to hear she had a second cousin who was married and living in town. It comforted her to hear she had been loved by her family, and mourned by those who had known her after her ‘untimely death.’

“Mr. Bewit never told me why he left you at the Foundling Hospital,” concluded Tom. “I had wondered why he did so, but didn’t get a chance to ask before he,” Tom swallowed the lump in his throat. When he recovered himself, he began again, “I never imagined the reason would be so sensational! He must have abandoned you because of your… memory problems. But he was such a kind man and devoted father, that hardly makes sense. After all, he has put up with Callow. There must be some other reason…”

They stared at one another for a long time, saying nothing. It was obvious that Tabula was digesting everything. At last she broke his gaze and blew air through her lips like a horse.

“Thank you, Tom,” she said, sitting back in her chair. “I never expected…
this
… when we met tonight. Amazing you learned all this between our first meeting and now. To think, I impersonated my own brother, but never knew it! I would give much to know how I lost… lost my memory…” She sat up a bit straighter, and took out her pocket watch, looking at it as if it might tell her something.

The sight of the instrument gave Tom a very strange idea indeed. “I wonder if it has something to do with your cousin, Hallux Dryden,” he said. “He is a natural philosopher. I’ve seen him use his scientific discoveries about the mind to play tricks on people… things like making them think they’re elsewhere, for example. He is writing a monograph on something called onar… onarprotrepsis, maybe?”

“
Onarprotrepsis
,” said Tabula, puzzling it out. “
Dream-leading
, is what I’d say that means.”

Tom was impressed; Tabula apparently knew Latin
and
Greek, very impressive for a woman. “That’s very close,” he said encouragingly. “Dream-guiding is what Mr. Dryden called it.”

“Guiding.” Tabula looked skeptical; she was concentrating, and did not seem to notice Tom had paid her a compliment. “
Onar
means dream, yes, but
protrepo
means… not really to guide, but to
lead
. It’s odd… I wonder if his Greek is rotten, or if he intends it to evoke a sense of urging someone on. It’s not a neutral act, is what I mean. There’s a purpose behind the verb protrepo, to lead on behalf of the one doing the leading. Do you see?”

“Mr. Dryden said it’s for treating people for anxiety and nerves.”

“I wonder how he does it?”

“With magnets, sometimes, but your watch reminded me—I’ve seen him use his pocket watch in… well, in odd ways…”

“What’s that? How does he use his pocket watch?” she asked quickly.

Tabula’s entire affect had changed; she was intrigued, curious, desperate. Tom took advantage of it, leaning in yet closer. “As I mentioned, Mr. Dryden’s wife is of a delicate constitution… she is receiving treatments from him. Whenever she became upset, he would take out his pocket watch, and open it up, and… well, I think he might have used light in some way, to… what?”

“Dear God!” This description seemed to alarm Tabula more than anything he had yet expressed. “It must be true! I had thought—wondered—but no, it must be…”

“What must be?” he asked.

“I scarcely know how to explain.” Tabula withdrew her pocket watch. “With this, I can make people…
forget
. I can put them in a trance, to sleep, I mean… not for long, but while they’re entranced, I can alter their…well, you know, don’t you?”

“No…”

She grinned at him. “That’s right, you wouldn’t remember.”

“The wig shop…” Tom felt odd all over, he was suddenly lightheaded and a bit nauseous. When he thought about the day he’d first seen that watch, how it made his head ache!

“I won’t admit to tampering with that wig,” she said coyly. “But I can see you, well, you don’t
remember
, but I’d bet you know I’m telling you the truth, don’t you? Queer feeling, isn’t it?”

“Queer is just the word for it.” She was right. Obviously this was how she’d managed to secret playing cards in a wig, by putting him to sleep and then making him forget. But how she had done it, he could not say, for try as he might, he could not remember. It was such a confounding feeling he could not even be angry at her, though it might have been his desire for her that curbed his righteous indignation at being so tricked and manipulated.

“That’s how I felt when you said my… my old name,” she said. “I knew you were right, even if I couldn’t remember ever having been called it, not once. It’s the same thing, with how to use my watch. I never learned how to do it… never remembered how I might have learned it at all. I’ve just always known how. And now you say my cousin Hallux, he does the same thing? I mean, you’ve seen him do it to people?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps? All I know is what I said, that he would show his watch to Sabina—Mrs. Dryden—to calm her.”

“To calm her…”

“As part of her treatments. She has… nerves.” Tabula was confused, he could see it, and he shrugged. “I don’t quite know what it means, except that she gets confused and upset at times. Once, she told me that she had suffered
a
shock
, as she called it, some years ago… she’d fallen into a fever and…”

Tom could see his astonishment reflected in Tabula’s eyes. Had not the Foundling Hospital claimed
she
had ‘suffered a shock’ to explain
her
fever?

It hadn’t ever occurred to Tom that Hallux might have been manipulating Sabina’s memories, or her mind, beyond making her quiet when she became agitated and restless. Perhaps there had been something more sinister at work…

No, Tom decided, surely not. Sabina had all her memories, could recount them with perfect clarity, unlike Tabula. And hadn’t Hallux called Sabina a ‘perfect thing’?

Mrs. Jervis had once described Alula Bewit as high-spirited… Had Hallux attempted to use his onarprotrepsis to curb her willful ways? Could Tabula be an early experiment—a
failed
experiment? One gone wrong… and hushed up?

Tom stared at the strange girl before him. Tabula looked so wistful, so remote and beautiful. He wanted her more than ever—and that’s when it came to him then, a grand plan to win her over. But he needed more time, especially as she was understandably not in a place to think of romance this evening.

Or, for that matter, a plan to help him return to the wig shop… not that he planned to do that anymore, not after Mr. Bewit’s gift, but she had promised to discuss it, as he would remind her at the end of this meeting, to ensure at least one other.

“I know Hallux Dryden, of course,” he said, trying to sound casual about it. “I know his ways, and I know his schedule. If you wanted to meet him, talk to him about all of this, I could help you…”

“You would?” She was so pleased! He thought he detected a change in her, a new and pleasant warmth. That was a very, very good sign. “You’d do that? For me?”

“Of course. We’re friends now, aren’t we? And friends help friends. In fact…” Now was the time for it, he was certain of it. It was beautiful—perfect. He was practically the hero of a novel, wooing a beautiful woman with gifts and then affecting her escape from the clutches of her sinister captor. “I plan on helping you even more than that. You see… I meant to mention this earlier, but we got so wrapped up in… other matters. Your father left you something, Miss Rasa. Money, I mean. Enough to… well, after he realized who you were working for, he wasn’t too pleased, as you might imagine.”

“No, why?” Tabula seemed confused. Well, the poor girl had literally never known anything else, any other way to live.

“Miss Rasa, your father… he left you… ” Tom made his decision, “he left you five thousand pounds. I have it. It’s yours. He wanted to ensure you could leave Mr. Blythe, and live as a… respectable woman.”

He knew he’d done what was right. Five thousand pounds was an astounding sum, one that any woman would be pleased to inherit!

Well, any… except Miss Tabula Rasa, it seemed.

“Aren’t you pleased?”

“But I would never leave Mr. Blythe!”

That wasn’t the reaction he had expected. And there was something else, too—something to the way she’d said it.

Something he didn’t like
at all
.

“Is he your lover?” Tom demanded, feeling hot and annoyed all of a sudden. He’d have the law on the cad! Raping his adopted daughter!

“Don’t be stupid,” she snapped. “He’s my master. I’m his apprentice.”

“Yes, I know… and I know he gets things for people. Things they…
want
.” He shook his head. “Forgive me, but that doesn’t sound like a very stable—or reputable—line of work for a young lady.”

“That’s not for you to say. I love what I do. I give people pleasure, in so many different ways, and that means I get to know them. You only truly know someone when you know their pleasure, Tom. Only then you know their truest self—their darkest secrets and their brightest dreams.”

“Well, pithy bons mots aside, your father had very strong opinions about the character of this Mr. Blythe. He called him a devil, and worse!”

“I can’t imagine why he’d do that.” Tabula looked extremely offended. “We got him his heart’s desire, didn’t we?”

“Yes, but he didn’t know he’d hired his own daughter to commit fraud,” said Tom loftily. “When he figured it out, he seemed to think your… virtue might be endangered by Mangum Blythe.”

She chuckled. “I assure you, Mr. Blythe has never once outraged my virtue.” She was relaxed again, at ease, beautiful. Even so, Tom wasn’t convinced her master was some lovely human being. “You should meet him, Tom. You would like him—and I’m sure it would allay your fears to have a chat with him.”

“Perhaps…”

“Why—why don’t you come to dinner? Tomorrow? 17 Sackville Street. Eight o’clock all right?” She winked at him. “I’m sure he’ll want to meet the only man in London honest enough to deliver five thousand pounds to a girl who died of a fever over four years ago.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just mean you might have kept it all for yourself. I say—
are
you keeping anything for yourself?”

“Ah…” Tom’s heart began to pound.