The Pleasure Merchant (34 page)

“Usually, they go on the head,” said Tom acidly.

“Really! On the head, you say? And all these years, I’ve been putting them on my arse.”

“You’re both being ridiculous!” I cried. I found I was on my feet. “My goodness! The two of you seem to be at cats and dogs over me—my virtue, my happiness, my independence—but neither one of you has so much as asked me how I feel about anything! Or whether I enjoy being spoken of as if I were not in the room.” I glared at them both. “I don’t.”

“Miss Rasa, please except my most heartfelt apologies.” Mr. Blythe stood, and bowed. “It seemed the gentlemanlike thing to do, championing you—but I let myself forget that of course you need no champion.”

The sincerity of his apology diffused my anger. I curtseyed as Tom rose, perhaps realizing he was the only one seated.

“I, too, apologize,” he said. “I should never have allowed my personal feelings about your situation to trump my manners.”

It was not the right thing to say. If my master had a flaw, it was pride—he was not ashamed of who he was or what he did, and anyone who said (or implied) he should be usually got an earful. Considering everything Tom had said
and
implied, Mr. Blythe had actually been on very good behavior, but it seemed he had finally had enough.

“Yes, you have made your
feelings
about her
situation
quite clear,” said Mr. Blythe. “I wonder that you can bear to sit here and eat with us, given what your
feelings
seem to be.”

“Miss Rasa’s inheritance—”

“You could have given it to her anywhere. You did not need to come here, and insult me and my apprentice to our faces, in our own home, which seems to have been your intent.”

“I was not aware one could insult a man such as yourself.” Tom’s chin jutted into the air. “Miss Rasa’s participation in your schemes I excuse. She is young, and a woman. But
you
, sir, should be ashamed to have corrupted something as pure as her. She would have been a respectable woman, mother, and wife one day if you had not turned her into…”

I almost asked what I was, given how annoyed I was… but then I recalled Tom’s offer to introduce me to Hallux Dryden. I bit my tongue, enduring the insult—the urge to find out more about myself proved stronger than my pride.

Mr. Blythe, who had no such compunctions, sat down and tucked the tablecloth into his collars.

“I shall say only one thing,” he said, sawing rather savagely at his partridge, “and that is
this
: my knowledge of the ancient world may be imperfect, but I know this much—statues always topple from their pedestals. It is only real people who may step down off them—or up onto them—as they choose.”

“I think it would be best if you left,” I said quietly, stepping forward and taking Tom by the elbow. The expression on Mr. Blythe’s face did not bespeak amenability to further conversation. “I’m sorry, Tom. You don’t understand…”

“I understand very well,” he said, as we retreated into the parlor. “Miss Rasa—
Tabula
—please. You asked me here tonight to show me why I shouldn’t worry about you, why there was no need for you to use your father’s inheritance to get away from this… life… of yours. I must say, I am not departing convinced.”

I had never once felt a moment’s shame over my chosen profession, but standing there before Tom Dawne, I blushed. His disapproval was almost palpable, and it shook me.

He took this as a sign that he had touched my soul, and took the liberty of embracing me ardently, smiling as if he’d just handed me another five thousand pounds.

“Miss Rasa—forgive me for being so bold, but from almost the moment I saw you in that coffee house I knew I could love you,” he whispered. “Even knowing what I know now… my feelings have not changed. You are wonderful, better than all of this,” he waved, indicating the foyer. “I hate to see you trapped here.”

“But—”

“I understand why a girl with no family, no prospects, would be tempted by a live of ease and comfort, but you—you are a gentleman’s daughter! You have a family, and money. And you have friends.” I wondered if he spoke of those whom he had met in the coffee house—then I realized he dared to speak of himself in such a manner. I tried to pull away, but he only held me closer. “Just think about it, please? For me?” I felt myself nodding, even as I resented the implication that I owed him anything; he had only given me what was mine. “Think tonight, and let’s meet tomorrow afternoon—say, three o’clock?—at Button’s, where we met?”

“All right,” I agreed, hardly knowing what I was saying.

“Tomorrow, then, my delightful Miss Rasa. I’ll see myself out.”

He kissed me. I did not resist, knowing it was the surest way of getting him to leave, and indeed he went away after tenderly caressing my chin.

I walked back to the dining room, rubbing his touch from my mouth with the back of my hand. The nerve of him! It was insulting, the way he thought he could use my person because of who I was, and what he had done for me. I had thought him sweet, but I was finally able to see him for what he was.

Mr. Blythe sat quietly, chewing his supper thoughtfully, another sliver of bird on his fork, his elbows on the table. He said nothing as I sat down and helped myself to some partridge, vegetables, and the jellied calf’s liver. It was all delicious, and I was finally hungry, but I found difficult to swallow in the stony silence of the room.

“My dear girl,” he said at last, after wiping his mouth with the tablecloth, “I thought you possessed of better judgment. Frankly, I’m appalled
that
was the first young man you brought home to meet me.”

“I didn’t bring him home to meet you—I mean, I did, but not… not like that,” I said. “I just thought…”

“You’d met him twice already. Could you not see his character for what it was?”

“I knew he disapproved of what we do, but I brought him home to show him it wasn’t really as he thought. Not that you did much to disabuse him of his notions,” I added.

“Why should I? I won’t beg forgiveness from middle-class moralists. And neither will you, not if I have any say in the matter.” He set aside his fork. “Which… I don’t. You are your own woman, Miss Rasa, and you may do with your life what you wish. The fault, if fault there is, lies with me. I should have spent more time teaching you to be proud of yourself, I suppose. That you could fall for someone like—”

“I’m not in love with him,” I snapped. “Good God, Mr. Blythe, think a little more highly of me than
that
.”

“Then why on earth do you associate with that boy? Only a lover or a mother could forgive such boorishness.”

“There was my inheritance…” Which still sat upon the mantle, I recalled with a start.

He tsked. “Do you fear that I shall fail to remember you in my will? You know very well I inherited much of this wealth from my mistress, rest her soul, and she from her master. Why would I fail to—”

How could I explain it? “It wasn’t only the money,” I said, interrupting him. “He said he would introduce me to my cousin. Mr. Blythe, can’t you understand? I love my life, but I want to know who I was—why I was abandoned! I would have lived my entire life perfectly happy never knowing, when not knowing was my only option. Don’t you see? I have a chance to find out some real answers.”

“Of course I understand that part of it.” He sighed. “I
did
fail you, Miss Rasa—I failed you spectacularly, when it came to your education. Perhaps you are proud of yourself—I sincerely hope that you are, as you should be, you’re a treasure—but you are not
confident
. I have apparently not taught you to rely on yourself, and that is inexcusable.”

“What do you—”

“You think you need that
boy
to introduce you to your cousin, if you want to meet him?” I was shocked—Mr. Blythe sounded more upset than I had ever heard him. “How many hours have I spent, I wonder, teaching you just how to facilitate such a meeting? Miss Rasa! I’m frankly
amazed
I need to remind you of what we do for a living, especially after this evening.
We obtain people’s heart’s desire.
” I was still confused, and he perceived it. “Has it never occurred to you that you might be able to utilize your talents on your own behalf?”

I finally understood his meaning; he must have seen it in my face, for he looked relieved.

“As you recall, I was to have dined with Mrs. Knoyll this evening.” I flushed, embarrassed. “My dear girl, you misunderstand me. In spite of everything, I am glad I put it off. I believe we needed to have this conversation. That said… I shall now excuse myself. Have a pleasant rest of your evening.”

“Good night, Mr. Blythe.”

He stood, and passing by me, he paused to pat me on the hand awkwardly. His touch thrilled me, even if it was—as he had earlier described it—friendly and avuncular.

“Mr. Blythe,” I said, almost stumbling in my haste to rise.

“Yes?”

“Please…” I swallowed. “Please tell Mrs. Knoyll how grateful I am that she gave up your company for part of the evening. It… means a lot to me.”

He nodded once, and left me. I finished my meal, alone, went upstairs—but not to bed.

I paced my room alone, mulling over what Mr. Blythe had said. He was, of course, correct. I did not need Tom to introduce me to Hallux Dryden. I could meet my cousin anytime I liked. I possessed exactly the skills to engineer such an encounter, if I wished it.

Mr. Blythe had seen to that.

But had he seen to my independence? Had he neglected to educate me in the art of self-reliance, along with the other arts he taught me?

I have already mentioned how Mr. Blythe told me my apprenticeship would begin with reading, and so it did. I gobbled up every book my master gave me, even when I discovered the volume of reading I was expected to complete was far vaster than he had initially implied. That was all right with me, I tore through the classics—Homer’s epics, of course, and the
Satyricon
; Plato’s philosophy and Ovid’s poetry (my favorite)—and works of later fiction, too, for the promised
Decameron
and
Fanny Hill
were only the first two on the stack. I also devoured the works of nonfiction he assigned me, for they were all intriguing. I recall being fascinated by manuals on the art of knot-tying, cookery books, tracts on etiquette and religion and fashion, as well as moral tales on every subject, though those Mr. Blythe selected more for their instruction on the arts of revenge, double-dealing, sexual trickery, and escape than their intended lessons. Learning about such things was its own reward, but of course it was incredibly exciting when my unusual, piecemeal education eventually enabled me to help my master with certain jobs—like feast-arranging, which was the first thing to which he allowed me to apply my lessons. Later, I participated in the planning and the execution of acts of vengeance.

And spying, too. I was a quick study when it came to manners, both male and female, as you are already aware, which made me twice as useful.

“When I was your age I was already coming into my beard, and couldn’t pull off feats like this,” I remember him observing one evening as he painted on my face. I was dressed as a page-boy for the purpose of passing unnoticed at a party where some client’s rival was to be much talked of. I must say, I looked ravishing, if page-boys are to your taste. “But
you
, Miss Rasa, will be a terror in trousers for years to come.”

I enjoyed my work, almost every moment of it. Learning Latin and ancient Greek were tricky, yes, but I applied myself to all things. Any skill or accomplishment Mr. Blythe considered useful I set myself to acquiring, for I was never happier than when my master and I could confer as equals on some strange request, and the potential methods for its execution. Or, in later years, when I was sent out on a job to do whatever he needed.

So much for my intellectual education. Reflecting upon these matters, I could find no fault with Mr. Blythe’s tactics. It wasn’t as if he hovered over me as I read; no indeed, in those first months I spent most of my day on my own, working because I liked it. I even read supplementary materials that he suggested or I discovered on my own, in his wonderful library. That, I believe, shows initiative—self-reliance. Even confidence.

But what of my physical education?

When I say physical I speak not of matters carnal, at least not wholly. Mr. Blythe encouraged me to be as active as I was studious, and for almost as many hours as I read, I was required to exert myself.

Some lessons, such as dancing, knife-throwing, flexibility-enhancement, and self-defense, were conducted in our home. For other lessons, we went out. Mr. Blythe dressed me up in trousers—I think he rather enjoyed hoodwinking his friends into believing me a boy—and took me to fencing clubs, to play golf, and to shoot.

We also frequently went out after dark so that he might teach me the arts of moving silently and without being observed, to scale walls with only the simplest of tools, to open windows silently, and perch confidently on rooftops and cornices… those sorts of things.