The Pleasure Merchant (33 page)

But there was something in his tone that told me he was not at all convinced of that.

The dinner did not go well.

To be fair, I should say the dinner itself went beautifully—our cook outdid herself. The fish in particular was wonderful, as was the calf’s tongue in aspic. It was the company that left a bad taste in everyone’s mouths.

I had spent my day planning—fretting, really—over the meal, and the wine, and the table-setting, and even my dress. Usually I only put that sort of level of attention into parties planned for our clients, but I wanted so much for everything to be perfect. I foolishly thought that if I could show Tom that Mr. Blythe was no ogre, and let Mr. Blythe see that Tom was (I thought) a well-meaning young man with my best interests at heart, they would get on well enough. It was important to me that they like one another, believing as I did that they would both be a part of my life for many years to come.

Full of nervous energy, I was dressed and coiffed and ready for dinner before Mr. Blythe had even taken his bath, which amused him greatly as he strutted out to the tub in his altogether, a towel slung over his shoulder.

“Don’t spill any jam on yourself, my dear girl,” he called over his shoulder, bottom winking at me in the dwindling sunlight. “You’ll have to start all over!”

I held my tongue, for I would not let him mortify me, I could not see why he would want to. Now that so much time has passed, and I am so much older, I can see that I was of course giving Mr. Blythe every reason to think I felt differently about Tom than I really did. But, damn it all, how could I not but be flustered and on edge? Not only had Tom solved the mystery of who I had been, he was making me independent.
Of course
I wanted everything to go well.

Mr. Blythe took a long, long bath that night—so long that I began to despair of his being out of the tub by the time Tom arrived. I could take no comfort in his attentions to his ablutions. I knew they were not for Tom—he always bathed before visiting Mrs. Knoyll. I began to pace at half seven, but then at last he appeared, pink and steaming, and trotted upstairs. That was fine by me—he could come down as late as he wanted, but after my reassurances to Tom about Mr. Blythe’s moral fiber, my master showing up naked and dripping to shake hands would likely not make my case seem especially strong.

I was just contemplating taking a glass of wine to steady myself when Tom knocked. After smoothing my skirts and taking a deep breath I went into the foyer, where Reed was just relieving Tom of his cloak. He was dressed very smartly, and I remember feeling pleased that my father had clearly provided for him, as well.

“Miss Rasa.” He bowed. “You look lovely this evening.”

“You’re very kind.” I allowed him to kiss my hand, which Reed thought was absolutely hilarious. Thankfully, he kept his chuckles to himself. “Please, come into the parlor. Mr. Blythe will be down shortly. Would you like a drink? Champagne—or an Italian aperitif, perhaps?”

“Champagne, please,” said Tom.

“Perfect. Come along with me.”

As I led him through to the parlor I could tell Tom was trying very hard to mind his manners, both in speech and in not goggling at the grandeur of our home. I wondered what he’d assumed about our style of living—certainly not this fine, by his obvious astonishment.

Or, on the other hand, perhaps he had merely expected our residence to look more like a bordello than it did.

A bottle on ice was already waiting for us, sweating in the warmth from the good fire in the hearth. I uncorked it myself, alarming Tom still further, and poured him a bumper. He looked like he needed it.

“I’m so glad you could come,” I said, pouring myself a glass. “Mr. Blythe is excited to meet you.”

“Yes,” said Tom vaguely, taking in everything from the deep settees to our gilded mantle-clock to the Turkish carpet to the velvet-draped picture-frames. I smiled to myself—perhaps later I’d unveil some of Mr. Blythe’s Hogarths and similarly bawdy images if Tom loosened up a bit.

“I do hope you’re excited to meet him, too?”

“What’s that? Oh, yes—yes, of course,” he said. “Miss Rasa, I must say… I am impressed. This is not at all what I expected.”

“No?”

“I mean to say… well, Mr. Bewit’s house might be larger, but it is no finer.”

I looked at him, but said nothing. The remark had not been strictly polite, and I hoped my silence would make it apparent. If he spoke in such a vulgar manner to Mr. Blythe, they were unlikely to get on.

“Good champagne,” Tom said, and sipped again.

“I’m very glad it is to your taste. Will you sit?”

“Ah… yes?” said Tom, hopefully, as if he wasn’t sure it was the correct answer.

We settled ourselves on either end of the couch as an awkward silence descended. For some reason I could not name we had lost all the ease with which we had spoken to one another during the previous times we had met. I found myself hoping he would gulp his wine, just to give me an excuse to get up and refill it—it would be something to do.

“I brought the money,” he blurted. “So you wouldn’t think…”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It seemed best. To settle things quickly, I mean.” He set down his glass, and reaching into the pocket of his coat withdrew a stack of notes. “Here—Miss Rasa, please, take it… with your father’s compliments.”

“Thank you.” I accepted the bills gingerly. I did not know quite what to do with the handful of money, so I elected to get up, and set the stack on the mantle. Being unused to handling large sums, it made me uncomfortable that the notes should weigh so little, being worth so much; I resolved that at the first possible opportunity I would lock it up in Mr. Blythe’s safe. “Tom, I’m… very grateful.”

“Just… do keep in mind that it was intended for your independence,” he said. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to leave all…
this
… but…”

“What?” I didn’t like where this was going, not at all.

“If you wanted to get away from… and become a, you know, an honest woman…”

“It would take more than new lodgings to make an honest woman out of our Miss Rasa!”

I startled, not realizing my master had come in. Indeed, he hadn’t, but was lounging in the doorway, out of both our lines of sight, and had obviously been listening to every word. I blushed, and Tom knocked over his champagne in his haste to rise.

“Don’t worry, I have the cushions cleaned regularly,” said Mr. Blythe, pouring himself a glass of wine and refilling ours as Tom apologized profusely. “Well, well,
well
. Tom Dawne, is it? Mr. Dawne, welcome to my home. I’ve heard so much about you, it’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

“Really?” Tom looked as if he might be sick, his arm wobbled as Mr. Blythe pumped his hand. “I mean, the pleasure is mine… sir…”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Mr. Blythe sat down between us, but closer to me—so I was forced to scoot over. He was grinning. That wasn’t a good sign. “Well! This
is
cosy, isn’t it? So, Mr. Dawne, how are you this evening?”

“Very well, thank you,” he mumbled, sitting back down. “Very pleased to be here.”

“Are you? Pleased to be in a house of ill repute? I say! But, perhaps you’re used to them?”

“Yes, sir. I mean,
no
sir. I mean… I don’t consider this a house of, you know. What you said.”

“Don’t you? How nice.”

I was in agonies. At least I was not alone. Tom was, if possible, more uncomfortable than I, shifting and squirming as if he suffered from piles.

“I seem to be the only one talking! That will never do. Mr. Dawne, what do you do for a living? Miss Rasa wasn’t quite clear on that point. You used to be in… wigs, is that correct? But then you became a cup-bearer? What is that, exactly?”

“Service,” said Tom. “But… well… my employer, he recently passed away—”

“Mr. Bewit, yes, I’d heard. I’m terribly sorry. I thought he was a very nice man.”

“He felt the same way about you, sir,” Tom lied, with impressive ease. I raised my eyebrows at him, which made him blush again.

Mr. Blythe was enjoying himself. “Did he now! How interesting. You know, Miss Rasa was under the impression Mr. Bewit didn’t think I was a proper guardian for his daughter—but then again, given that he abandoned this lovely creature at an orphanage—she
is
lovely, isn’t she?—what are we to think of
his
character?”

Tom’s mouth was hanging open. I knew I should interject and save my guest from my master’s sallies, but I, too, was at a loss.

“What did Mr. Bewit tell you about me, I wonder?” Mr. Blythe would not let up. “Come now, Mr. Dawne—Miss Rasa tells me we are to be friends, and I would have it all out in the open. What is it you think I do? And why do you think it is a profession inappropriate for our Miss Rasa?”

Tom drained his glass and set it aside. At last! I rose, and poured more for everyone as he stammered.

“Well, sir, Mr. Bewit said… he said you… procured things. For people, I mean. That you could get anything for anyone, and would, as long as it gave them… pleasure.”

“Oh, is that all? Is that so scandalous?”

“I don’t believe he meant fetching a pound of pork from the market, Mr. Blythe.”

Mr. Blythe pursed his lips. “No, no indeed—though of course, I would, if said pork would make a client deliriously happy. And they felt like paying my absolutely exorbitant delivery fee.”

“So you admit it?”

“Admit what?”

“You… you would fetch Miss Rasa for a client. If it would make him deliriously happy, I mean.”

The room went very quiet. I didn’t know what to say. Mr. Blythe looked annoyed; Tom, defiant. I couldn’t blame either—my master was being deliberately impossible, but Tom wasn’t making anything easier with his prudishness.

“Tom,” I said gently, “you misunderstand…”

“How so?” he asked. “I was given to understand that Mr. Blythe sells people their desires; he has confirmed that. What if someone desired you? It’s not… beyond the realm of possibility.” Mr. Blythe cackled knowingly; Tom, blushing, pretended to ignore him. “So my question is,
sir
, would you sell her? Because if you would, I don’t think it’s so laughable that Mr. Bewit would have wanted his only daughter… what? Why are you laughing? This is a serious matter!”

“My dear girl, I’m not sure if your Mr. Dawne is aware that you possess free will,” said Mr. Blythe, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. “Oh, well. I assume it won’t be long before you disabuse him of that notion.”

“You said he’d never outraged you,” said Tom, right to me. “That’s not the impression I’m receiving.”

“Outrage Miss Rasa?” Mr. Bewit’s hand flew to his breast. “Never! She is my apprentice, that is all. You have my word on the matter, Mr. Dawne. I’ve never laid a finger on her, except in a… friendly, avuncular manner. A hand on the small of the back when crossing a busy street, for example. Or helping her up from a particularly deep chair when she’s corseted too tightly, I suppose.”

“Has anyone else?”

“Helped her out of a chair? Yes, I think so. Or is that not what you are asking about?” Mr. Blythe was becoming angry, I could tell, though his smile was still as bright as summer. “Are you perhaps assessing her bride price? You know, Mr. Dawne, I wonder at your choice of conversation topics. Is it common these days among the young to be so indelicate on first acquaintance? I can’t say I think much of the fashion. I don’t know your history, of course, but I was taught never to embarrass a lady. They weren’t overly concerned with manners at the Foundling Hospital, but at least they taught me
that
.”

“Isn’t it so interesting that we all have that in common?” I might have been remarking on the weather, so cool was I. “Tom’s an orphan too, Mr. Blythe.”

It was an idiotic thing to say, but it interrupted the flow of unpleasantries. Thankfully, before anyone could say anything else Mrs. Gibbs, our housekeeper, let us know that dinner was ready.

No one moved.

“Shall we go in?” I croaked, after too long. Neither of the gentlemen were able to speak yet, it seemed. It was up to me. “Mr. Blythe, speaking of friendly and avuncular touches, would you please escort me into the dining room?”

“Of course, my dear girl,” he said, offering me his arm. More strained: “Mr. Dawne… please join us.”

“Thank you.”

The soup was et in silence, though I knew it was not out of appreciation for the fine broth. Mr. Blythe was fuming, and Tom appeared beside himself. I tried to enjoy my meal in spite of them, but when at last the tureens were carried off, and Mr. Blythe began to offer around slices of rabbit, calf’s liver, and partridge, that became impossible.

“The birds are very fine, Master Dawne, may I offer you some?”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Are you a breast man, or a thigh man?”

“I beg your pardon!”

“Wing, then?” asked Mr. Blythe, all innocence.

“I think I shall just have some liver,” said Tom.

“Very good.” Several thin slices were deposited on his plate, glistening with aspic as if bejeweled. “Well, Mr. Dawne. Now that we are settled nicely, let us have some talk. What can you tell me about wigs?”