The Pleasure Merchant (13 page)

“I thought I was to never judge the Bewits—including how they spend their money?” Embarrassment sharpened Tom’s tongue, but it was none of Mrs. Jervis’s business what Mr. Bewit gave him, and they both knew it.

“He once bought me a pair of combs… on my birthday, after I’d served him faithfully for five years,” said Mrs. Jervis. She spoke slowly as she looked over the piled finery. “You’ve been here two months, and…” For a strange moment, Tom thought she might start to cry, but then she glanced up sharply. “If he has found a kindred spirit in you, Tom, my heart rejoices.”

“If? What do you mean,
if
?” Tom had considered Mrs. Jervis more or less an ally below stairs—or rather, he appreciated that she had not been openly hostile to him during the period where Holland had tried to turn the staff against him. Now he wondered if jealousy had infected her, too. If he would have to watch her as closely he did the rest of them.

“Why, Tom,” she said softly. She had recovered her composure, and now seemed quite cool and disinterested in their conversation. “I did not mean to give offense. You must understand, I came with Miss Josian when she married Mr. Bewit, which means I’ve known my master for close to twenty years. Forgive me if I’ve grown a bit attached… it’s just, I have seen many servants come and go during that time. You see, one of my duties as housekeeper includes keeping a eye out for those who might betray his trust, be it through shirking work, or some other deception.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing he didn’t become angry with you for failing to notice that’s exactly what Kitty and Holland were doing.” He had gone too far. Mrs. Jervis stiffened, obviously insulted, as Tom scrambled to find some way to take the sting out of his words. While Tom resented her threatening him, he did not wish to make an enemy of Mr. Bewit’s housekeeper. “I do hope you aren’t cross that I reported that incident directly to Mr. Bewit,” Tom continued. “It was just that I did not like to speak of such things to a woman, out of respect for your sex. In future, I shall of course come to you with any concerns, if you would prefer…?”

It was obvious Mrs. Jervis did not appreciate being out-fenced. “Indeed I would,” she said coldly. “And of course, given your obvious concern for
propriety
, I suppose I need not worry that you’re nothing but an opportunist who has recognized how lonely Mr. Bewit is for a proper son. Someone with your… strength of character would never use that for personal gain, I’m sure.” She curtseyed as Tom flushed red as a beetroot. “Just keep in mind that the landing between up and downstairs is too narrow to stand on for long—and Sir Issac Newton proved that bodies never fall
up
. Good day, Tom.”

Tom shut the door behind her, taking care not to slam it—he didn’t want to give her the pleasure of knowing she’d rattled him. But of course, she had; throwing himself into his new mahogany chair, another gift from Mr. Bewit, Tom sulked for a few minutes, staring at the finery strewn everywhere around him.

To the devil with Mrs. Jervis—and to the devil with his earlier unease! He had earned all of his good fortune by providing good service to a good man. By
being
a good man. He would enjoy his presents, just like he’d told Mr. Bewit to enjoy his fine things.

Tom stood and began to fold his new clothing, replacing it all carefully in his new trunk, with his more delicate items packaged in between the layers of soft clothes. Thank goodness that tomorrow they would be leaving for Bergamot Mews. Tom was sorely in need of a change of pace.

***

The following morning Tom went up very early with his master’s breakfast, and found Mr. Bewit already dressed and poring over some documents in his unusually barren study. Most of his library had been sent ahead to Puriton with all but the most essential staff, and save for his desk and his favorite chair, all the furniture was covered with cloths to keep off the dust while they were away.

“Just a moment, Tom,” said Mr. Bewit. “I won’t let our eggs get cold, but I simply must finish this…”

Tom poured his master a cup of coffee and doctored it with the impossibly white sugar he’d never seen, much less tasted before coming to work for Mr. Bewit. “Here, to tide you over,” he said, handing it over.

Mr. Bewit shook his head, smiling ruefully. “Get yourself one while you wait. Damn all the lawyers and their paperwork, eh my boy?”

My boy
. Perhaps there was something to what Mrs. Jervis had said—perhaps Mr. Bewit was treating Tom as a surrogate son. That begged the question of what would become of Tom when Mr. Bewit’s actual son came home, as he must one day. Surely Callow would not tolerate a servant usurping his place…

“There we are,” said Mr. Bewit, interrupting Tom’s thoughts. “At last! And now, to breakfast. What have we today, Tom?”

“White toast, fresh baked wheat rolls, some lovely butter, and strawberry preserves,” said Tom, lifting the lid of the breakfast tray.

“Very nice!” Mr. Bewit rubbed his hands together with excitement, which banished Tom’s uneasy feelings. It was wonderful to see how his master took more pleasure in everything these days, including his vittles. But just as Mr. Bewit had taken the top off his egg, and Tom was crunching through a bite of buttered toast, Hallux burst through the door, wild-eyed as a hermit out of some sort of legend or tale.

In spite of the doctor’s orders, and his own alleged interest in nervous complaints, Hallux Dryden showed no respect for Mr. Bewit’s. He threw his hands into the air dramatically as he cried, “Still eating, cousin? Are you man or sloth? Don’t you realize we’ll be late if we don’t start out soon? We’ve at least thirty miles to cover today, and it’s already half seven!”

“I am well aware of the time.” Mr. Bewit, with pointed calmness, spooned out a bite of egg and chewed thoroughly while Hallux paced, clearly annoyed that his cousin hadn’t leapt right up. Tom was deeply annoyed, given Mr. Bewit’s fragile nerves. Not for the first time did he wonder if Hallux was
really
a specialist.

“Even my wife is ready, dressed and waiting for us to depart.” Mr. Dryden tapped his toe on the floorboards with a sharp report amplified by the absence of any rugs. “If a
woman
can get herself together on time, then surely a grown man—”

“Yes, Hallux, I am a grown man, and as such will not be hurried through my breakfast. I will leave on a full stomach; we shan’t get much on the road today.”

“We’ll sup all the earlier if we arrive at the dinner hour!”

“We’ll arrive all the earlier if you leave me to my vittles!”

Tom was as surprised as Hallux at this unexpected show of spirit. Flustered, Mr. Bewit’s cousin ran his hand through his mane of uncombed, and it must be owned, unclean hair, and then shook it out dramatically.

“Butter makes one fat in the stomach,” he snapped, looking pointedly at Tom, “and white bread is bad for the bowels,” he said, turning back to Mr. Bewit, who had his teeth in a slice. “You would both do better to follow a plain diet and keep more regular hours. And with that, I bid you good day. Perhaps this evening, or the end of next year’s season, when at last we set out, we shall meet again.”

Mr. Bewit looked amused as Hallux flounced from the room—that had changed, too, since the night of their conversation. No longer did Mr. Bewit look like a man passing a stone whenever his cousin used him ill; he had clearly reconciled himself to the situation, and decided it was worth it to enjoy a gentleman’s life. He was keeping true to his resolve of honoring his sacrifice—whatever it had been.

“Well, Tom,” said Mr. Bewit, as he polished off an impossibly flaky roll, “what do you think? Should we finish breaking our fast and get on the road?”

“It might do much to keep the peace,” said Tom. “Better to sit on the corner of the footboard than share a carriage with a quarrelsome cousin.”

Mr. Bewit roared with laughter as he slathered preserves on another piece of toast. Pleased with himself, Tom treated himself to another roll—buttered, despite Mr. Dryden’s warnings.

“I concede Hallux is right—it is a long drive to the coaching inn,” said Mr. Bewit, dabbing at his lips. “Better go and get dressed, my boy.”

“Sir?” Tom, as far as he was concerned, was already dressed.

“Go put on a different waistcoat and that country coat I had made up for you,” said Mr. Bewit. “No need for you to wear your livery while you ride in the carriage.”

Tom had assumed he’d be traveling in the stage with the remaining few servants, so he was not displeased to hear he’d be going in Mr. Bewit’s more comfortable equipage—and dressed like a young gentleman, no less. He hoped they’d keep the shades open. Everyone they passed on the street would be fooled into thinking he was some person of note.

“Yes, sir,” said Tom, as he collected their breakfast tray. “Thank you sir.”

“No… thank
you
, Tom. With you along, I’ll have someone with some sense to talk to.”

It was undeniably exciting to settle in beside Mr. Bewit in his fine carriage, dressed elegantly and anticipating imminent views of the countryside… but it didn’t take long for Tom to wonder if he wouldn’t have had a better time traveling by stage with the servants. They had gone on ahead to ensure the family’s arrival would be comfortable, and seemed a most merry party as they departed. By contrast, Hallux was cross and querulous as they rolled away from the family’s town house; Sabina, anxious to mollify him, making neither of them particularly good company. Mr. Bewit was cheerful… only because he was enjoying their mutual displeasure.

Usually Tom could see the humor in the Drydens’ quarreling, but in spite of his enthusiasm for the open shades of the carriage, he found he’d rather wished they’d been shut. As they passed through the market Tom had spied the Dray’s serving girl, Jane, lingering near their usual meeting-spot near the fish-stall. She was obviously keeping an eye out for him—her basket was full, she had no other reason to be there. Likely she had yet another message from Hizzy. Anxious she should not see him, Tom leaned back in his seat as they passed by, but the wench still managed to spot him. For a moment, it was obvious she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her, she rubbed them and then gawped at him, mouth hanging open, eyes like those of the fish beside her.

It had used to be that when Tom thought of Hizzy, he felt a rush of hopefulness over his future. Now, he merely felt a sense of guilt. Whatever would Hizzy think, when she heard the story? He had still not written to her—in part, because in spite of being deeper in Mr. Bewit’s confidence by the day, he had not learned anything definite… and in part because he was, in truth, less anxious than before to return to his former life. Of course he missed Hizzy, and his wigs… but he was fairly certain that if he left Mr. Bewit’s service he’d miss coffee and butter and fine clothing and cognac a lot more.

Not that he was ready to break things off with her… not yet, anyway. He was simply keeping his options open—it was only sensible, in a young man his age, and with his potential. After all, it might be that he could offer Hizzy a life grander than any she’d imagined, if she would only be patient.

Well, patience had never been Hizzy’s greatest virtue—just look at the way she’d seduced him. Perhaps if she hadn’t given herself away so freely, she wouldn’t feel as anxious over their future. Well, that was her problem, not his.

Satisfied, Tom began to listen more attentively to the conversation in the carriage, which was currently a rather tense exchange between the cousins.

“—I don’t know,” Mr. Bewit was saying. They had finally made their way out of the city, and there were clear roads and rolling hills outside the coach-windows. “You know I hold your translations in the highest esteem, but…”

“But what? What? Is it really so much to ask that we use this time to improve ourselves, rather than sitting in stupid idleness, inmates of prisons both physical and mental?”

“I wouldn’t call this carriage a
prison
, cousin,” said Mr. Bewit, looking a little offended. “It’s only five years old, and I just had new cushions made up. Beneath your seat there’s a—”

“Bugger whatever’s under my seat,” rejoined Hallux, drawing a little gasp from Sabina. “It’s what’s beneath my skull—and
yours
—that concerns me.” He looked from Tom to his wife. “And our companions’ skulls as well, I suppose. Neither of them is in possession of any excess of sense, so it could hardly injure them to listen to something worthwhile, like
The Social Contract
, for a few hours.”

Hallux got his way, as he always did. Pulling a bunch of dirty crumpled papers out of a case he rifled through them for a time, and then began in earnest, denying Mr. Bewit even the pleasure of a glass of brandy from the decanter located in the specially-constructed bar under his seat. “A sober mind learns better,” was his final word on the matter.

Tom, as always, felt pained to see this poor treatment of one cousin by the other. Despite what Mrs. Jervis had implied about his motivations, he was really very fond of Mr. Bewit, and did not like to see the man bullied.

At least Hallux read well enough, and for a few moments Tom wondered if Mr. Bewit had been wrong to try and prevent the entertainment. They would be spending hours in the coach, and the diversion was, well, diverting.

“
Even if each man could alienate himself, he could not alienate his offspring
,” read Hallux. “
They are born free; their liberty belongs to them, and no one has the right to dispose of it. While they are too innocent to make decisions for themselves, their father can, in their name, lay down conditions for their preservation and well-being, but he cannot make an irrevocable and unconditional gift of them; such a gift is contrary to nature, and overreaches the rights of paternity. Therefore—
”

“Stop!” cried Mr. Bewit.

Tom startled, worried for Mr. Bewit’s nerves. His cry had sounded most agitated. Hallux also looked up in surprise, and Sabina, who had been dozing, began to shriek.

“Are we beset by highwaymen?” Her eyes were bright and wild, and she clutched at her neck in panic. “Will we be robbed?”