The Pleasure Merchant (9 page)

“You go too far,” said Lady Sanburne. Tom felt a rush of gratitude; the lady was the only one who had been willing to gainsay Mr. Dryden all evening.

“Oh, for once let me make my point,” he cried. “You’ve every one of you been interrupting me all night. All I’m asking is you just
look
at the boy. See? See him blush to be called to our attention? And now, you can see he’s mortified that I’ve noticed his discomfort! A man—a
real
man—would have stood up and challenged me for insulting him. But he shan’t.
That
is the problem with England, and with Englishmen. We breed up lads to hold their tongues rather than exercise their minds! Do you see now? Education must begin in infancy, as Rousseau says in his wonderful
Émile
. It’s too late for this one—trust me. He’s ruined.” Hallux’s countenance grew momentarily dark. “I have seen first-hand the poor results yielded by trying to educate half-grown subjects. Now, had I or some other teacher gotten my hands on him when he was a lad, perhaps today he would not be little more than a trained dog awaiting his master’s next command. Perhaps he could be made to think and feel. As it stands, he will always be a servile blockhead, and that shame should be felt by us all, not just those who bred him up!”

Tom might have taken very understandable offense at these words if not for Sabina unexpectedly piping up in the shocked silence that followed her husband’s extraordinary speech.

“Mr. Dryden is so brilliant, is he not?” she breathed, her eyes limpid and sparkling. “He is free of the fear that binds other men like chains. His only desire is to help us all by educating us. I have never known him to be wrong about anything—we are so lucky, are we not, to have the privilege of knowing his broad and remarkable intelligence through the benefit of his conversation?”

“My darling,” said Hallux sternly, though he was clearly delighted, “if you are not more moderate in your praise then everyone will think I put you up to complimenting me!”

Given the disbelieving expressions on some of the faces around the table, Hallux had indeed divined their thoughts.

“Surely not,” said she, seemingly shocked. “I allow that a few nights ago you said something similar about your cousin having improved by means of your influence, but—”

“
Silence
is a woman’s wit, Mrs. Dryden,” said Hallux, coloring. He withdrew his pocket watch and made a distracting show of checking the time, as though he couldn’t read it despite the brightness of the candle before him. As he fussed about with the object, opening and shutting it several times, Sabina became once again quiet and distant, and after a few moments, asked to be excused, pleading a headache.

Tom was outraged by Hallux’s behavior, and it was obvious that neither did Mr. Bewit’s guests esteem Hallux’s treatment of his wife, nor her evaluation of his virtues. Mr. Bewit appeared nothing short of dismayed, but as usual he did not call Hallux to task. It occurred to Tom that he had never seen the ostensible head of the household chide his cousin for anything. Instead, Mr. Bewit cleared his throat, thanked Sabina kindly for her contribution to the conversation, and then suggested it might be time for brandy and cigars, if the ladies were of a mind to make their way to the parlor?

“Yes, yes, send them away,” said Hallux, with a wave of his lace-framed hand. “You, cousin, have ever been one of those who would hide a light under a bushel, out of the same fear that holds us
all
back—that those first moments of true illumination may smart the eyes. Just remember—only savages and animals fear fire. Though it interests me that such a sensible man as yourself would protest shedding a few tears, especially after seeing you reading
The Vicar of Wakefield.
”

“I say, Dryden,” said one of the gentlemen, “’tis no crime for a man to let himself feel the admirable emotions authors wish to induce in their readership.”

“Recall yourself—you speak to one who studies nervous complaints in men and women. I know better than you that tears are often a symptom of release—of joy—of sensibility! But should not we feel and express yet stronger emotions over ignorance, emasculation, and waste? For what I see too often is men like my cousin, who are more sensitive to the plight of the imagined than the real!”

The men did not linger over their port that night, nor did the ladies, with their sherry and tea. Once Mr. Bewit and his friends joined the women in the parlor, all took their leave as soon as it was polite.

It was fair to say the evening had not gone well. Indeed, it had seemed to drag on for ages, in spite of ending so early—though curiously, when Mr. Bewit at last dismissed Tom, he looked less preoccupied than earlier. In fact, he seemed downright cheerful, and Tom wondered if whatever was behind Mr. Bewit’s melancholy made him feel he deserved miserable evenings.

It seemed Hallux had also felt invigorated by the events of the evening. As Tom passed by the Drydens’ darkened bedroom, he heard the familiar sounds of Hallux enjoying his privileges as a husband. The ecstatic cries indicated his enjoyment was rapidly reaching a crescendo, and a rather entertaining image of Hallux, red-faced and clench-jawed, grunting like a pig at the slop-trough, flitted through Tom’s mind.

As to what Sabina might be feeling, Tom had little idea. As often as he had overheard Hallux taking his pleasure, Tom never heard any answering sounds from her—neither cries of delight, nor protests of pain. Briefly, Tom wondered if perhaps she did not notice what he did to her, but he quickly dismissed that thought. Hallux did not seem the sort of man who would tolerate a woman sleeping through his attentions. And yet, even as the banging of their headboard against the wall indicated Hallux had reached the short thrusts, Sabina uttered nothing… or at least, nothing loud enough to be heard through the closed door. Well, perhaps she whispered in his ear about what a brilliant lover he was.

Tom was so preoccupied by these thoughts that he did not observe much beyond the tip of his nose as he descended into the servants’ quarters—not even that a light shone from under Holland’s door, and that he might have spoken to the valet about their misunderstanding. No, what finally interrupted his musings was Hizzy’s most recent letter still waiting for him, unopened and unread on his bed. With a sigh he broke the seal and skimmed it.

Haven’t heard from you… worried about you… have you had any luck with Mr. Bewit… do write when you can… miss you… think every day of our future shop and family… please do write to me…

Tom frowned. He knew Hizzy well enough to know she did not mean to nag him, worrying at him like a dog worries a bone, but the girl should understand that he was no magician. He couldn’t just
make
things happen. She should trust her future husband to know he was doing his best.

He tossed the letter aside and it fluttered pathetically to the floor like a broken-winged dove as he fell into bed. He could not help but compare Hizzy to Sabina. Sabina did not plague Hallux; no, it was quite clear she saw Hallux as infallible, at a minimum. Her love seemed less like that of a woman for her husband, and more like a heirophant for a god.

It would be a fine thing indeed to find himself a girl like that—a girl who saw him as her lord and master, a king, a godling. Perhaps Hizzy might learn, given enough time. And if she didn’t, well, he’d find someone else. An
ideal
mate, not just a convenient one.

As he drifted off, it seemed to Tom he could see before him the face of the woman he would one day marry. Chestnut curls framed her sweet face, her cheeks rosy with laughter, her skin pearl-pale, only lightly dusted with powder. She was fussing with an enormous old-fashioned wig, doing
something
with fine catgut and a needle, lifting the curls one by one as her fingers flew.

“It was made in Versailles,” she said, not looking up from her work.

“The wig?”

“No, the time,” she said, withdrawing a silver pocket watch from her… frock coat?

Tom sat up in bed with a start, very awake with his heart pounding and his cock standing, pressing gently but urgently against his smallclothes and lifting the duvet. He tried to urge it down; it troubled him deeply that the girl in his dream had turned out to be Callow Bewit—or, at least, the boy who had come into Mr. Dray’s shop pretending at being Callow Bewit. Giving the nightmare up as a bad job, Tom leaned back on his pillow and closed his eyes. Eventually his cockstand subsided. He fell asleep, and by morning he had forgotten all about the dream.

First thing the next morning Tom cornered Holland to sincerely and profusely apologize for stepping on the valet’s toes, if indeed he had done so. He might have overdone it a bit, actually, but he did not want the man harboring a grudge; Tom hated to think he’d lost all the ground he might have gained by making himself pleasant and cheerful.

Holland assured him that he wasn’t displeased with Tom at all. His first duty was to Mr. Bewit, as he put it, and if Tom’s unique expertise helped him better please the man, well, that was
wonderful
. Holland was perfectly polite about it… but Tom suspected it wouldn’t be the end of the matter, even after several days of unforced cordiality between valet and cup-bearer.

Unfortunately, the results of Tom’s indiscretion did end up materializing… but as a change in the
other
servants toward him. Tom could not fail to notice that where the staff had been friendly, they now treated him more like a visitor and less as one of their number. Even Mrs. Jervis seemed distant. Tom was curious just what Holland had told them—for he was sure that must be the source of the coolness—but decided to carry on as normal. All he could do was hope his new unpopularity would blow over, as he had learned most things did in the servant’s quarters, like the time one of the serving girls was found to have snuck the fishmonger’s boy into her room during working hours. She had been called a slut and a piper’s wife, and had her bottom pinched by housemaid and footman alike for a few merry days, but now was let alone for the most part. Sadly, even after a fortnight, Tom saw no evidence of a sea change.

At least Mr. Bewit’s favor had not waned; if anything, he kept Tom closer. It was a rare evening that Tom spent alone in his room; usually, he was summoned to Mr. Bewit’s side the moment he was dressed, if not before, and was bid to remain until the man was ready for bed. The hours were long, but that was just fine by Tom. The less time he spent below stairs the better—for his peace of mind, and for the other servants’. After all, he reasoned, eventually they would forget about whatever canard Holland had spread that prejudiced them against him.

His optimism was not rewarded.

One afternoon late in the spring Mr. Bewit could not find a book that a friend had asked to borrow. It was not in the library, nor had any of the family taken it. Mr. Bewit prided himself on keeping an excellent record of what books he had lent, and to whom; thus, he was convinced it had to be somewhere on the premises. Thinking he might have shelved it in one of the guest rooms, he sent Tom to the third floor to check the bookshelves there.

As Tom gained the landing, he heard what sounded an awful lot like fucking. Intrigued, he crept along the hallway as quietly as he could. The first room was empty, but the second had two occupants. For a time, Tom idly listened to the giggling, rustling, and groaning, not particularly curious beyond natural human prurience. He rubbed himself through his trousers, adjusting the angle of his stiffening cock, wondering who was having a go with whom, and where they were in the act. If it was early enough in the proceedings he might be able to get in a quick frig, and had just decided to press the advantage when he heard his name.

“I do hope you’re not disappointed that,
ungh
, it’s not,
ungh
, Tom doing this to you. I know you,
ungh
, fancied him for a time.”

It was Holland’s voice! Tom’s arousal subsided, replaced with burning curiosity.
Who
had fancied him? And if so, why was she fucking Holland?

“Well, from what you,
ah
, said, he never would have looked at me even if I’d,
ah
, snuck into his room and climbed atop him with my skirts raised. It’s a shame, but I ain’t,
ah
, in the habit of offering what’s not,
ah
, wanted.”

It was Kitty! Tom grew rather warm under the collar—Kitty wouldn’t have been his first choice among the serving girls, but neither would she have been his last. Regardless, he certainly wouldn’t have turned her down under those circumstances. In fact, without Hizzy around, he’d hesitate before turning down an offer from one of the more girlish footmen.

“He’s an,
ungh
, arrogant,
ungh
, bastard. You’re much better off,
ungh
, with me,
ungh
. I might currently be,
ungh
, atop you, but I’d never,
ungh
, look down my nose at you.”