The Pleasure Merchant (8 page)

The worst day of Tom’s new life began much like any other. During breakfast one of the footmen handed him a delivery, a heavy leather tube containing some of Hallux’s diagrams, to go to some doctor in Westminster. As he was going out anyways, Cook told him to pick up a few items at the market, a simple enough task… but to Tom’s dismay, Jane was there, with yet another letter from Hizzy tucked up her skirts.

Hizzy had written to Tom several times during their month-long separation, but Tom had replied only once—after her first missive, to tell her that he would do exactly as she suggested. Jane made disapproving noises when once again he replied he had no return; nor did he appreciate her broad hint that her mistress should like to hear back from him sooner rather than later.

It wasn’t that he didn’t think of Hizzy—he did! He just had no idea what to say to her. He had made no progress in the investigation, and the prospect of admitting that to Hizzy in writing was intolerable. Mr. Bewit had not so much as mentioned Brooks’s since Tom entered his service, and there was no way to pry without seeming obvious. He had to wait for the right moment. Anyone could see that—anyone except Hizzy, apparently.

At least he had his reasons for fleeing Jane’s furrowed brow and low tut-tutting. Mr. Bewit had decided to take Tom with him to a luncheon appointment at Vauxhall Gardens, but Tom didn’t mention that, sensing Jane would not appreciate being brushed off in favor of a visit to a pleasure-garden. He still told her the truth, however; Cook needed her shopping quick as he could pelt back to Bloomsbury Square, as that evening Mr. Bewit had invited several of his friends over for supper that night.

Such a full day meant an early start for a gentleman like Mr. Bewit, so Tom was unsurprised to find Daniel Holland already seeing to his master’s toilet when Tom came in with breakfast.

“Thank you, Tom,” said Mr. Bewit, though he scarcely looked at the rolls, butter, spiced peaches with cream, and boiled egg. He had a gloomy air about him that morning, as he accepted the cup of coffee Tom handed him. “No need to run off just yet. Stay a while, won’t you?”

“It would be my pleasure, sir.”

“May as well butter yourself one of those rolls—and get yourself a cup of coffee, too.”

The look Holland shot Tom was unmistakably annoyed, but that was just too bad. How could he eat anything while filing Mr. Bewit’s nails?

“I do hope I’m not keeping you from any pressing duties?”

In reality, Tom had ten thousand things to do before they departed for Vauxhall—minimum—but he said, “No, sir, of course not.”

“Good… I’d like some company this morning.”

To Tom’s mind, the only flaw in Mr. Bewit’s character—if flaw one could call such a trifle—was his master’s tendency to suffer from bouts of melancholy. Yet even at those times, Mr. Bewit was never cross—he was just inclined to sigh and stare into the middle distance. Though the man was an open book about most things, he never spoke of what might make him so disconsolate, which was odd—and even more intriguing was that these episodes tended to come upon Mr. Bewit before an especially pleasant-sounding day, or after a good night playing cards. Tom had come to expect that Mr. Bewit would always be “a little down” after meeting with his lawyers and finding out how much his wealth had increased due to this or that investment. While understandably curious about the source of these moods, Tom knew instinctively it would be an impertinence to ask, so he did not.

“They say that Queen Caroline of Denmark has appealed to our king regarding her situation with her court, and her son the prince,” said Holland, as he finished up Mr. Bewit’s left hand and went on to begin manicuring his right. “The goose wants to take her gosling back under her wing, I suppose.”

“Such a scandal,” agreed Mr. Bewit. “I thought it would all end with Doctor Struensse’s beheading, and yet…”

They discussed the queen’s compromised position for a time. Holland made several amusing remarks regarding her virtue that made Mr. Bewit laugh heartily, improving his mood; once he had finished with Mr. Bewit’s manicure, Holland was also invited to partake of the repast, which then mollified him.

The trouble began after they had polished off the last of the rolls and butter, when it came time for Mr. Bewit to put on his wig. Tom had not yet observed Holland’s method of powdering Mr. Bewit’s wigs, and frankly, what he saw
appalled
him. To begin with, the valet used three times the amount of wig-powder needed because he didn’t first mist the damn thing with pomade or oil. No wonder Tom was sent out so often to buy it! And due to Holland’s powdering technique, the majority of the disgraceful amount of powder he used flew around the room, settling not on Mr. Bewit’s wig, but on his desk, his rug, and his silk dressing gown. Tom experienced something akin to horror when Holland finally noticed his error and began brushing at the silk like a drunk hostler tending to a nag.

Tom resolved to hold his tongue watching the first part of this disaster, knowing it would be better to speak to Holland in private—but when he saw him scraping at Mr. Bewit’s silk gown, he could bear it no longer.

“I say,” he interjected, sidling over, “have you ever tried a damp sponge instead of… brushing at it like that? The silk I mean?”

“I think I know how to brush wig-powder from a coat,” snapped Holland, all his improved humor gone.

“Now now, Holland, the boy’s just trying to be helpful,” said Mr. Bewit, removing the paper cone from his face. “You should hear him out—you know what he used to do for a living.”

“Yes, and we tried all sorts of ways to remove powder from every kind of cloth,” supplied Tom, hoping to smooth things over with Holland, who was now looking murderous. “We liked to be able to advise our clients on every matter concerning wigs. You know,” he continued, figuring in for a penny, in for a pound, “we also sold a pomade for wigs, so one doesn’t have to use so much powder and risk getting it on clothes and… things,” he said, looking around at the snowy chamber. “I could duplicate the recipe very easily.”

“Oh, just pick some up next time you’re out! You’ll only get in Cook’s way if you take over the kitchen, compounding tinctures and unguents,” said Mr. Bewit, with a wave of his nicely-manicured hand. “Make a note of that, Holland, please? Have Tom run out for some of this wig-oil tomorrow, I imagine the cost will be balanced out by the reduction in the volume of powder I must buy. Don’t you think?”

“Oh, absolutely,” said Holland icily.

Tom certainly felt the chill.

***

Tom wanted to apologize to Holland as quickly as possible, to staunch any bad blood. Though he was as busy as he’d ever been, he kept popping downstairs all that day until his calves ached for overuse. Sadly, it was all for naught; he did not manage to catch the valet alone.

This was only one of Tom’s frustrations that day. After his uncomfortable early meeting with Jane at the market, and the awkward interaction with Holland mid-morning, Tom had looked forward to relaxing at Vauxhall. Unfortunately, they were rained out so completely they ended up leaving early. Mr. Bewit and his lawyer had been out strolling when the sky opened up, Tom trailing behind, and by the time they found shelter, they were all so wet that Mr. Bewit and Mr. Wallace took their leave of one another as soon as their carriages could be summoned.

On their sodden drive home it was unclear if the meeting or the weather had depressed Tom’s master. Mr. Wallace had reported a substantial increase in the value of certain tea plantations owned in part by Mr. Bewit, so it was only to be expected that Mr. Bewit should feel some crushing anxiety or dismay over the happy news. Whatever the cause, it was a drive as cold as it was quiet; as damp as it was depressing.

As if they were not a somber enough party, they had come home still dripping to find that Sabina Dryden had gone into the kitchens to check on the dinner preparations only to suffer a fainting spell and burn her hand when she overturned a very complicated white sauce Cook had been laboring over. Everyone was upset, out of worry for Sabina, but also because Hallux Dryden was now storming around the house half-dressed, raging at everyone he could find about “vanities” like parties, and white sauces.

Sabina had not been harmed more than incurring a light redness of the wrist from the hot cream, but that she had gone downstairs at all seemed to enrage Hallux, and he was in a devil of a mood. As he told everyone that day, while it was seemly for women to take an interest in household affairs, Sabina was delicate, and prone to fainting in hot environs like a kitchen, where she would be overwhelmed with scents and motion. Sabina tried to laugh off his concern but he then turned his ire on her, ranting at her for so long that she fainted
again
, and it was discussed whether or not the party should be put off until another evening. But, as it was simply too late to send word to all who were invited, the servants were kept extra-busy attending to any number of things beyond readying the house, preparing the food, and helping the family dress.

“She wasn’t always like this,” commented Cook, when Tom asked if he should regularly expect this sort of occurrence. “When Mr. Dryden brought her home, she was plenty featherbrained, but she could butter her own bread without cutting herself on the blunt edge of the knife. Gave him a bit of his own back, too, every once in a while. Now…” Cook clucked her tongue. “Never met a young woman more useless.”

“I’m amazed her bottom hasn’t grown into a chair,” opined Kitty, one of the maids. “Might be easier for us if it did—there’d be a lot less fussing if we could just pick her up and move her around into a patch of sunlight, like an orchid. Funny though, I’ve heard she used to ride and play and do all sorts of things, even, whachacall it,
archery
. Before Mr. Dryden sacked her to hire that damn Frenchwoman, her maid said she could scarce be kept indoors for love of the sunshine, except to play her harp.”

“Ah, but what
use
is archery, or harp-playing?” replied Cook. “But, I’ll own she used to be less trouble for us. Even if she just took up riding again, it might be good for her.”

“Oh, I think she’s kept up with her riding,” said Kitty, with a saucy wink at Tom.

Tom blushed to hear he wasn’t the only one who’d overheard the couple, and made his excuses before he embarrassed himself.

Really, it was for the best, as it wasn’t only the female servants kept busy by all the excitement. On top of attending to everything Mr. Bewit needed, Tom was sent out to fetch a pomade from the apothecary to revive Sabina’s strength, and a length of ribbon from the milliners to trim her gloves so that her burned wrist would not be noticed. The weather was still very wet, which meant Tom was very wet by the time he returned, not to mention his boots being covered in the sort of unspeakable substances London produced during a rainstorm. All he wanted was to bathe and go to bed, but as Holland was just as occupied as everyone else, Mr. Bewit commanded Tom to help Hallux Dryden make himself look respectable, as he was still coatless and wigless and stomping about in his stocking feet when Lady Sanburne was announced. Hallux loudly protested this indignity, but in the end he submitted—and when Tom had finished, for once Mr. Bewit’s cousin looked quite the dashing figure… much to his dismay.

“An ape with a mop on his head,” was his final pronouncement, as he looked at himself in the glass. “You might have a future ahead of you, my boy, at either the circus—or the
zoo
.”

“Thank you, sir,” Tom replied automatically, wondering how it was that Hallux Dryden and Tiercel Bewit had grown up together, for the men were as dissimilar as they could be.

Expected to join the footman during dinner, Tom was present when the guests came in to eat, and thus he heard their remarks favorably comparing Hallux’s appearance to other occasions. It gave him a sense of pride in his work; it would turn out their praise should have elicited nothing but dread.

“Have you hired a valet, Mr. Dryden?” asked Lady Sanburne, as she took her seat. “You look positively handsome this evening.”

Tom saw Hallux shoot a sharp look his way, as if the Lady had told him he looked an utter fright and should go back upstairs, ashamed.

“If handsome in the mouths of ladies today means taking pleasure in seeing a man stuffed into silk like sausage-meat into intestines, then I’m not sure if I approve of handsomeness. Or ladies.”

“But Mr. Dryden,” said Sabina sleepily, “you
married
one.”

“It is the way of men to marry women, is it not? Approval of your sex hardly factors into it.”

“My cousin is such a wit, is he not?” said Mr. Bewit, forcing a laugh as the company exchanged significant looks. “But, Hallux, it’s a bit early, is it not, for philosophy? We have not even sipped the soup.”

“Is soup a requirement for philosophy? I suppose it is lubricating to the throat.” Hallux looked amused. Everyone, including the servants, relaxed—given his mercurial temper, things could have gone either way. “All right then. But once it’s cleared away I cannot make any promises.”

To everyone’s displeasure, Hallux forgot his vow before they were halfway through the first course, and by the time sweets and nuts were set out, the party had discussed (meaning listened to) his current views on religion, sexual desire, the ideal behavior of wives, and English table manners. He was in rare form, ruling the table from the foot as if it were the head, and it was only when he had bored them all with a long speech on the proper education of children that at last he noticed everyone’s attention wavering—long after the trend had become fashionable. That was when he cleared his throat… and looked to Tom.

“See this boy?” he had said, gesturing at Tom with a piece of hard cheese.

“Boy?” Mr. Bewit looked up from his walnuts. “Tom, you mean?”

“Tom, Dick, Harry,
whatever
. He’s really more of an object lesson than a boy. This
Tom
,” continued Mr. Dryden, “has clearly been
indoctrinated
to value politeness above all else—even reason, freedom, and liberty! Hallo, Tom, what would you say if I told you the shade of green of your coat makes you look a silly ass?”