The Pleasure Merchant (6 page)

“That’s young Master Callow,” said Mrs. Jervis, coming over beside Tom. “He’s away in Geneva. That was painted very recently though—after he graduated from Eton, before he set off on his tour.”

“So he really is in Geneva?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Jervis, sounding confused. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

“Oh, I only meant…” Tom scrambled, “he’s there now? As in, he’s… arrived?”

“I should hope so. He left three months ago.”

Tom looked a little more at the picture; tried to divine something,
anything
, from the portrait’s cold gaze.

“Master Callow is about your age, I believe,” said Mrs. Jervis. “Sixteen this last March.”

“And this must be him as a baby,” said Tom, turning to another portrait, a pretty young woman with sparkling blue eyes and a lighthearted, laughing expression. She was holding a swaddled, chestnut-headed infant in her lap, cradling it with one arm as she held a book in the other. She was richly attired and bejeweled, gems shining in her ears and glistening at her wrists; she even had a beautiful pocket watch depending from the sash at her waist, inlaid with a rose of jade and carnelian. Tom stared at it—he was certain he had seen that design somewhere before… but then Mrs. Jervis interrupted his thoughts with a heavy sigh.

“That’s not Master Callow,” said the housekeeper wistfully. “That is…
was
, I should say, Master Callow’s elder sister, Miss Alula, and Mrs. Bewit, Miss Josian Saynsberry that was. I served her from when she was the same age as that babe there.” Mrs. Jervis smiled sadly. “Mrs. Bewit died two days after giving birth to Master Callow, and Miss Alula… she passed, why, it must be just over four years ago. It was very sad. We all loved Miss Alula, she was high-spirited, but kind and intelligent. Just like her mother, though as you can see she favored her father.”

“What happened?”

“A fever took her,” said Mrs. Bewit. “It was quite a shock to Mr. Bewit when we received the news. She was abroad at the time.”

“I’m very sorry.” Tom turned back to the other portrait, and was once again struck by the boy’s unpleasant aspect. “Is Master Callow… much like his sister?”

“He is Mr. Bewit’s only son. It is not for me to judge him, nor is it anyone’s right to speak ill of him behind his back.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Tom quickly, though privately he thought her reaction had told him more than she’d intended. “I didn’t mean—”

“Of course not. But just the same, you’d be surprised how much low talk happens in a house like this. I don’t hold with it, and I advise you not to engage in it, especially you being so new. The temptation is always there, to gossip, but keeping yourself apart from all that will serve you well.” She looked keenly at Tom, and he nodded his enthusiastic assent. “Good. Well, let’s move along… I want to show you Mr. Hallux Dryden’s chambers. Not that you will have much cause to visit them—Mr. Dryden prides himself on keeping no personal servants, and Mrs. Dryden has a lady’s maid to see to her needs. Still, you should know where they are.”

“Does Mr. Dryden spend much time with his cousin?”

“They go everywhere together,” said Mrs. Jervis. “They grew up together; even went to school together. Mr. Dryden’s mother was a Bewit before she married, and after she was widowed with naught to live on she moved back to keep house for her brother, Mr. Bewit’s father.”

Curiously, in spite of his being the penniless relation, Hallux’s bedchamber was more luxurious than Mr. Bewit’s, and his study was better-appointed—at least, as far as Tom could tell, for not only was the room a disgusting mess, the view of the yard and the kitchen garden was obscured by a collection of the strangest objects Tom had ever seen in his life. Mrs. Jervis said the constructs of colored glass, bits of mirror, springs, and more obscure materials were “scientific equipment,” but Tom couldn’t ascertain the function of a single device. Tom didn’t think he did anything wrong by remarking on the mess or the disparity between Hallux’s rooms and his master’s, but when he did he was rather sternly reminded by Mrs. Jervis that his lot was not to remark upon the goings-on at 12 Bloomsbury Square.

“I beg your pardon,” said Tom, abashed.

Mrs. Jervis pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. “I do not reprimand you for observing the obvious; merely for commenting upon it,” she said, as they made their way down toward the green baize door that marked the entrance to the servant’s quarters. “It is only natural. But, I would advise you to you keep your observations private… even if, I confess, certain things are…
unusual
in this house.”

Mrs. Jervis, like any experienced servant, was a master of understatement.

“Yes, Mrs. Jervis,” said Tom, his curiosity piqued, rather than the reverse.

“Well. As I said, Holland and Mr. Bewit will make clear what’s expected of you,” she said over her shoulder as they descended the servant’s stair. “Mr. Bewit said you were begin in earnest tomorrow. There will be plenty to do before he rises, but when you see that bell,” she pointed to one clearly labeled
T. Bewit
, “bring up tea or coffee immediately, whatever Holland tells you tonight. Other than that…” she hesitated.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“You haven’t asked me for advice—and that’s fine,” she said, smiling and speaking over Tom’s embarrassed apology. “I’m old enough not to wait until asked. So my advice to you is this—do what’s asked of you. Don’t try to do more, and certainly no less. That’s not to say be idle. That’s a great sin in service. When servants are idle, that means there are too many of them, so we make work for ourselves. Come to me, or Holland, if you need something to do—do not ask Mr. Bewit.”

“I understand.”

“I’m cautioning you about all of this because I know from experience how difficult it can be, going from a trade to service. My mother owned a millinery, when I was a girl. I grew up helping customers, and I know you offer them more than they want, carefully, politely, yes—but you put yourself in their way. When you’re in service, you’re not to get in anyone’s way. Your job is to serve, not to suggest or to prompt. Unless Mr. Bewit asks you something direct, think of yourself as a third hand or an extra pair of legs… while you’re working, I mean. Of course I do not mean to suggest you are less of a person now that you’ve joined us.”

“I understand. Thank you.” Tom was grateful for Mrs. Jervis’s candor, even if he found her counsel a bit daunting.

“Tom Dawne?” a handsome young footman with a simply outstanding pair of calves stood in the door, a crate in his arms with another, rectangular box balanced on top. Tom recognized it immediately as a Dray’s box. “This just arrived for you.”

“Oh! Who delivered it?” Tom took the wig box like a drowning man grabbing at a rope. He had a foolish, momentary hope that Hizzy had carried it all this way, and might be waiting for him. “Did they stay?”

The footman set the crate on Tom’s bed. “He didn’t give his name—just said it was everything that was yours, and to send word if something was missing.” Clearly, the story of how Tom came to be in Mr. Bewit’s employ had not circulated among the servants yet; the footman lingered, watching him. Tom set down the wig box to hide from the obvious question in the young man’s eyes.

“I’ll let you unpack,” said Mrs. Jervis, earning yet more of Tom’s gratitude. Seeing every piece of his former life packaged up into two small boxes was making his eyes smart and his nose prickle. “Don’t worry, my boy,” she said, as she shooed away the footman. “You’ll do fine. I’ll have Cook make you up a meat tea so you can go to bed early, and I’ll tell Holland when I see him to come and tell you what you need do tomorrow morning. All right?”

“All right,” he managed.

Tom tore off the lid of the crate the moment she shut the door behind her. On top was a sack of coins containing the balance of his wages, plus a fair parting bonus. Underneath were his clothes and his Sunday shoes. Packaged between his coat and shirts were his few personal items—two pocket-knives, a ball of fine if ancient hempen twine that had been his father’s, and a shell Hizzy had brought him when the Drays went to the sea for a week the previous year. He also found his mother’s Bible and the dog-eared copy of
Robinson Crusoe
that had been a birthday gift from Mr. Dray. That was all.

Tom sat down on the bed, holding the shell, too unhappy to cry anymore. There was no note, as he had hoped—no message from Mr. Dray or Hizzy saying good luck, or expressing regret at the manner of their parting, and it stung Tom as much as if he’d been driven out with a whip.

“So you’re the new bug, eh?” A tall man with face heavily scarred by acne or smallpox poked in his head, startling Tom. “I’m Daniel Holland, Mr. Bewit’s valet. I was told you need some help settling in?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Tom, on his feet in an instant. “Thank you. It’s all very… sudden.”

“Yes, I’d imagine so.” Holland sidled in. He was dressed very finely indeed, in a coat and breeches reminiscent of the footmen’s livery, but simpler, and far more elegant. “I heard you were sacked from some wig shop and Mr. Bewit took you in.” The valet looked at Tom keenly, as if he were some kind of curiosity in a show. His smile was not particularly pleasant. “You know, I haven’t the foggiest idea what purpose you’re to serve here, given that Mr. Bewit has
me
—and more than enough footmen to do what I won’t. He says I’m to ‘make use of you.’ What do you think that means?”

Tom wasn’t so sure he liked Daniel Holland. “That’s for you to decide,” he said, keeping his tone studiously even. His time spent doting on customers at Dray’s had trained him to manage his temper quite effectively—at least that would serve him well in his new life.

“Yes, it is,” Holland drawled. “I could make you do anything I like—you know that, don’t you? I could make you bring me my tea as well as Mr. Bewit’s, or make you polish my shoes—why, I could make you lick my bottom clean when I’m done taking my evening shit. And if you don’t like it, you can kiss my tips.”

“I’m not sure if tips-kissing is quite what Mr. Bewit had in mind when he took me on,” said Tom coolly.

“Perhaps not,” Holland allowed, “but keep this in mind—I’ve been Mr. Bewit’s right hand man for onto five years now. I have his trust and his ear. Whatever I say about you he’ll believe, so I’d advise you curry favor with me first. All Mr. Bewit knows about you is that your master shit-canned you. If he hears you’re being a sauce-box to the staff, or if something went…
missing
… well, you’d find yourself once again out on your rump, mark my words—and this time without a convenient gentleman to pick you up and dust you off. So you’d best watch your step. Oh, and speaking of stepping…”

“Yes?” Tom tried to sound polite, but it was a challenge.

“Be up early tomorrow. He’ll have some correspondence for you to deliver. And he’ll want coffee at nine sharp,” said Holland—and was gone.

Tom wanted to kick something, but didn’t, lest Holland be lurking outside his door, listening for some sign of weakness. It frustrated him, having no outlet for his fury. Mrs. Jervis had seemed like an anchor; Holland, a hurricane. How could he trust such a man—at all, but more specifically, to convey what their mutual master truly wanted?

Tom would just have to establish his own line of communication with his Mr. Bewit. No, more than that—Holland knew that because Tom was in an unusual position, that made him vulnerable. Tom would have to make himself
indispensable
to his new master. He wasn’t quite sure how he would manage it, but he would just have to figure it out.

Tom sighed, his fear giving way to frustration and disgust. He hadn’t even officially begun his new job, and already he was having to fight for his place!

Mr. Dray’s parting bonus wouldn’t last long if Tom lost this position; he had no idea what he would do if things didn’t work out. Become a porter, as his father had been, before the typhus took him? What a thought that was—it wasn’t like any of his father’s cronies had agreed to take him in as a boy, when he might have been trained to the trade. What would they make of him now, with his shopkeeper’s manners and skin pale from a lifetime spent indoors?

There was nothing for it; he would just have to find a way to manage. Tom turned back to his crate. He would likely feel better after he was settled in—not that he had much settling in to do. The clothes all went into the small wardrobe, and his few possessions were quickly placed on the single shelf.

He was pleased to find that the Dray’s wigbox contained his best wig, sitting on what had been his first, halting attempt at painting a wig stand. The eyes were off-center and the nose was too narrow, but looking at it made Tom’s heart ache once again. He’d labored so hard on it; had been so pleased when Mr. Dray praised his efforts.

As he re-settled the wig, which had shifted slightly during transport, Tom noticed one of the curls had been mussed—it had unfurled slightly, and it made the whole piece look uneven. Upon further inspection, he discovered his wig hadn’t been knocked about incidentally—something had been stuck into the gap. Carefully, so very carefully, he retrieved it. To his delight, he found the note he had longed for:

Dear Tom,

I’m so sorry about all this. Mother and I argued with Father, saying he was being cruel, and a villain, but he says he cannot trust you. Well that’s the most foolish thing I ever heard in my life; I don’t believe for a minute you sabotaged Mr. Mauntell’s wig. I watched you labor on it—talked to you about it—and I know you wanted to do your best work for Mr. Mauntell, because he’d been so kind to you! But Father will not hear of granting you a second chance and I suspect there is something behind his wroth. He interrogated me awfully about you—for some reason he will not disclose he suspects we may have reached an understanding, which of course we have. I denied it as thoroughly and casually as I could to him… not in my heart, though, Tom—never. I still love you, and want to be your wife.

I cannot imagine how you must feel, all alone in a strange house. I hope the other servants are kind and helpful. But even if they are all like brothers and sisters to you, you must long to come home again—yes, I still call it home, for I have hope you will once again call it that!