The Pleasure Merchant (5 page)

“I see.” Mr. Bewit nodded. “Just what did this boy look like?”

“Like you, sir… he had the same color hair, at least. He was about my height, pleasant, dressed smartly, and well-mannered.”

“Then he wasn’t my son,” said Mr. Bewit decisively. “You might have described Callow’s appearance, but no one has ever called the boy
pleasant
.”

“An act, then!” Mr. Mauntell would not be put off. “He was trying to deceive the boy, wasn’t he?”

“By telling him his real name?” Mr. Bewit chuckled. “That would be foolish, even for Callow. Regardless, it couldn’t have been him. He’s abroad, away on his tour. Spending my money in ways just as silly as hairpieces for a party, no doubt.” He smiled thinly at Mr. Mauntell. “If indeed you were the victim of a prank, and you’re not simply a cheat with a flair for the dramatic, you’ve been duped twice, I’m sorry to say. This alleged proxy who was sent to this man’s shop to tamper with your costume… he must have known using Callow’s name would have you jumping to the worst of conclusions about me.” He shrugged. “You may apply to my solicitor to find out whether or not I am lying regarding my son’s absence if you like, but I’d suggest wasting your time more pleasantly.”

Mr. Mauntell gawped at Mr. Bewit.

“What…” he recovered himself, “what’s to say you didn’t hire someone to impersonate Callow?” he managed to sputter.

Mr. Bewit laughed. “After my son proved to be such a rotten investment do you really think I’m so silly as to pay for a copy?”

“This is no laughing matter! A crime has been committed!”

“Because a wig shop sold you a wig?” Mr. Bewit shook his head. “Do you Bow Street Runners really have nothing better to do? Was no one murdered last night? Were no maidens raped, no widows robbed, that you may safely spend your morning indulging the specious accusations of a man whose only complaint is he was embarrassed in front of his friends?”

Mr. Bewit had won. The constabulary looked abashed, and Mr. Mauntell’s sails were clearly wanting for the slightest breath of wind. Only Mr. Dray looked as somber as he had five minutes before.

“Mr. Mauntell…” said one of the officers.

“I’m not giving up,” he spat. “I know you’re at the bottom of this!”

“And there’s a man in Bedlam who know’s he’s Julius Caesar.” Mr. Bewit pushed away from the table and stood again. “I, however, know only that I am hungry. My breakfast was interrupted, you see. May I show you out?”

“I know the way,” muttered Mr. Mauntell.

“I insist,” said Mr. Bewit.

It was a quieter party that made their way through the townhouse to the front door. Only Mr. Bewit smiled as he shooed away a footman to open the grand front door himself.

“May your collective days end more satisfactorily than they began,” he said, bowing to them all.

“Very sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Bewit,” said one of the officers, as Mr. Mauntell stormed down the steps. “And you, Mr. Dray. Glad to hear your apprentice is innocent of any wrongdoing. Must be a real relief.”

“Not exactly,” said Mr. Dray. “I feel I can no longer employ Tom as my apprentice.”

“What?”

Tom, the remaining Bow Street Runner, and Mr. Bewit all said it at once.

“But Mr. Dray,” he managed, after a long horrifying moment during which it seemed like he saw his whole life flash before his eyes. “Please, I—”

His master held up his hand. “Dray’s cannot afford such slights to its reputation. This matter has been an embarrassment that will likely cost me one of my most reliable customers. Scandal has never before darkened our door, and I will do what I must to see it never does again.”

“Surely this won’t be seen as a stain on your shop’s reputation,” said Mr. Bewit kindly. “The boy is innocent!”

“My apprentice has not been cleared of wrongdoing simply because you have convinced everyone that
you
are not to blame.” Mr. Bewit looked rather taken aback at Mr. Dray’s bluntness. “At the very least, Tom allowed a stranger into our back room, which is what began this sordid affair.” Mr. Dray sighed. “Good day, gentlemen. Tom—come along. We will settle the matter between us, back at the shop.”

Tom, fit to burst, exclaimed, “Mr. Dray, no! I love making wigs—I love working with you! Ever since I came to live with you I have had no other ambition in life! And Hizzy and I, we—”

“What has my daughter to do with any of this?” Mr. Dray became instantly livid, and Tom realized he had erred in thinking that announcing his promises to Hizziah would sway his master’s inclinations in his favor. “Never mind—I won’t have her name brought into this, before strangers!” He took a deep breath. “Perhaps you should not return home with me. Here,” he counted several sovereigns out of his pocket. “This should get you lodgings and keep you fed until you can find other work—send word where you end up, and I shall have your money and things sent to you.” He dropped the coins into Tom’s shaking hand. “To think that my charity to you should be repaid with such—such villainy!”

“By Jove! That’s a harsh thing. Won’t you reconsider?” said Mr. Bewit, who had become visibly upset.

“Trust me, I have duly considered how best to preserve the reputation of my business and my daughter. Good day, Mr. Bewit—Tom.” And with that, Mr. Dray took his leave of them. He did not look back.

Mr. Bewit was clearly not accustomed to being contradicted; he stood there in silence as the icy winter air whirled into his home. Tom, too, watched his master’s retreat without a word. There would be no arguing with Mr. Dray. He’d known the man long enough to read his moods, and his master—
former
master, rather—had made up his mind.

It was the end of everything. Tom would never be a wigmaker. He would never open his own shop, much less with Hizzy by his side. He could scarce contemplate the enormity of what had just happened. Everything had seemed so assured. Now, he could not see any future for himself, save becoming one of those ragged street-people…

“My poor boy…” Mr. Bewit at last shut the door. “I owe you the most sincere of apologies.”

Tom looked up at him. “Sir?”

“The rivalry between myself and Mr. Mauntell is… long-standing, and to be fair, absurd.” He looked almost sheepish. “I cannot even recall why it began, only that it has grown out of all proportion. We have both acted foolishly because of it… but until today it had only ever been a quarrel between ourselves.” Tom didn’t understand what the man was driving at. “What I am trying to say is that it pains me that you’ve lost your living all because of a silly prank.”

“You mean… you
did
send your son to our shop?”

“Certainly not. Callow is in Geneva, just as I said.”

“Oh. I see.”

“What I am saying is that you were unwittingly caught in a web woven by others,” Mr. Bewit continued, “and for that I am sorry—Tom, was it?
Tom
. You seem like a good boy. Are you? A good boy, I mean?”

Tom shrugged. “I tried to be. I did all that was asked of me and more, for six years.” He fought to keep the bitterness from his voice, but was not entirely successful. “I loved making wigs, sir, and wanted to do it all my life. With Mr. Dray’s daughter beside me… that’s all I meant when I mentioned her. I never harmed the girl, we had only talked about… such matters.” It was close enough to the truth.

Mr. Bewit made a grave, pained sound. “I see. Well then, I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“A choice, sir?” Tom was growing more perplexed by the moment. “What are you choosing?”

“Actually, it’s
you
who will be doing the choosing, my boy.” Mr. Bewit gave him a warm, lopsided smile. “All I’m going to do is offer you a job. It’s up to you whether or not you take it.”

Whatever Mr. Bewit might believe, Tom didn’t
really
have a choice, being so suddenly without food, shelter, or wages. As to what he would be doing to earn said food, shelter, and wages… well, Mr. Bewit had called the position ‘cup-bearer,’ but promised, chuckling, that he would not ‘make a Ganymede’ of Tom, whatever
that
meant. Tom hadn’t asked; he felt so fortunate to be offered the job in the first place that he could think of no task he would balk at performing.

As far as Tom could tell from Mr. Bewit’s brief discussion with his housekeeper, Tom would be running little errands and fetching things—basically, whatever Holland, Mr. Bewit’s valet, didn’t feel like doing at any given moment. That didn’t sound like such a bad job… in fact, it seemed like his days would be far easier than those spent laboring in Mr. Dray’s shop.

Even so, Tom couldn’t help but feel bitter over his time as a wig-maker coming to such an abrupt end. As he wrote to Mr. Dray telling him of his new lodgings, and where to send on his effects, more than once he wiped his eyes. He had slept in the same bed every night for close to half his life, had eaten his breakfast at the very same table every morning, labored the same hours, and so on. The mattress in his new closet felt strange beneath his bottom, and being idle at this hour of the day felt…
wrong
. But what could he do? He’d been shoved into this room by the busy but unflustered housekeeper, Mrs. Jervis, and told to wait there until she had a moment to show him around the house and teach him his duties.

I beg you, do not judge Tom too harshly for his melancholy thoughts, or for his fear. Changing from one thing into another is never easy. Ask any butterfly.

Or you might take my word for it. Over the course of my life, I, like Tom, have changed dramatically—multiple times, actually—and while it was always painful, it was always rewarding.

Tom knew he was being terribly ungrateful, sitting on his bed, moping. Mr. Bewit had offered him more than a job—he had offered him the opportunity to save himself from the treadmill or the poorhouse. The wages promised by Mr. Bewit were thoroughly decent, and Tom would live in the household with the rest of the servants, meaning he would sleep more comfortably, eat better, and be more entertained than he had while apprenticed to Mr. Dray. Mr. Bewit would even buy all of Tom’s clothes, not just his livery, so he could save virtually all of what he made.

Still, it troubled him that in all likelihood he would never again craft another peruke; never feel the joy of seeing disparate locks come together as one seamless head of hair; never tint a box of wig-powder the perfect shade of shell-pink; never experience the thrill of seeing something he made with his own hands gracing the head of a gentleman. No… even if he managed to save every guinea he earned serving Mr. Bewit it wasn’t likely he’d ever have enough to open his own shop, to say nothing of how he’d be run out of any town if the wigmaker’s guild found out he was trying to do business without having completed his apprenticeship.

A brief knock and a quiet “Hello Tom?” alerted Tom that Mrs. Jervis had come for him. A handsome woman in her mid-fifties, with steel-grey hair and a jaw that looked like it could batter in a door, she exuded strength and competence; it was obvious that it would be to her that he answered.

He stood quickly. “Good morning—afternoon,” he said, hoping his face wasn’t too puffy and red.

“How would you like to see the house?”

“Very much, madam.”

“You may call me Mrs. Jervis,” she said firmly. “You’re not a shop boy now, Tom Dawne.”

“Yes, mad—yes ma’am. Yes, Mrs. Jervis.” Tom felt a pang—he had always been praised for his manners; it was disheartening to say the least, realizing that yet another skill he had worked so hard to perfect was now worthless.

“You’ll figure it out,” she said, smiling. “Come along with me.”

***

12 Bloomsbury Square was a grand townhouse. The servant’s quarters alone were larger than the apartment above Mr. Dray’s shop, and as for the rest… well, Tom was extremely grateful Mrs. Jervis gave him such a thorough tour—especially the attention she paid to showing him the ways that he, as a servant, should move through the house as unobtrusively as possible.

“I’ll let Holland tell you about Mr. Bewit’s habits,” she said, as she showed him into his new master’s study. “He’s a very simple man, though, and keeps regular hours except for nights when he’s at his club, so you oughtn’t have much trouble about it.”

“Brooks’s?” asked Tom absently. He was paying more attention to the room. Large windows looked down on the tree-lined street below; two walls were entirely taken up with books, and the other, portraits and paintings. A desk sat in the center of the room, covered in papers. It was not as grand as he might imagine, but perfectly serviceable. “Is that his club, I mean?”

“No,” said Mrs. Jervis. “Mr. Bewit is a member of Waddles’s, though what it is to you, I don’t know. If he takes you along, you’ll be waiting on him, not gambling or drinking—not that Mr. Bewit does so much of that, mind. Now, come along, this way is—”

“Pray—a moment,” said Tom. One of the portraits had caught his eye, a full-length painting of a young man. Entranced, Tom stood before it.

In spite of Mr. Bewit’s protests, the boy in the picture looked uncannily like the lad who had come into Dray’s claiming to be Callow Bewit. He had the same posture, the same height and build, and was dressed in a similar fashion. Even his face was the same, save for a hardness to his gaze, and a weakness in his mouth and chin. The artist had clearly tried his best to make his subject seem lordly and commanding; unfortunately, the lad looked petulant and demanding, and thus strangely unlike the boy from the shop.