The Pleasure Merchant (22 page)

Though at the beginning of his tenure at 12 Bloomsbury Square the staff table had delighted Tom, it now seemed a punishment. Taking all his meals with his fellow servants gave them ample opportunity to cut him, and as he went out with Mr. Bewit but rarely, he also spent his evenings in their company—but not a part of it. And of course they had no sympathy for him; they all clearly felt it was only his just deserts, even—or rather,
especially
—Mrs. Jervis. Usually quick to put an end to any bullying, she merely smiled to see Tom so hassled and plagued, and so it went on, and on… and on.

With all this upon him, heavy as any a burden, it will not, I think, amaze you to hear that Tom’s loyalty to Mr. Bewit was tested… and found wanting. Within a fortnight the ex-apprentice began once again to think longingly of his time at Dray’s, and as people began to wish one another “Happy Christmas!” in the street he began to daydream of helping deck the shop-window with holly and pine-boughs, or making wigs long into the December nights with a cup of Hizzy’s mulled cider at his elbow. All the hot breakfasts and fine clothes that had made him rejoice in his change of situation the previous spring lost much of their charm as winter arrived and Tom found himself in the difficult position of having no friends below stairs, and his only ally above them the weakest-willed member of the house. It was not lost on Tom that had he pursued his enquiry into the matter of whether Mr. Bewit had truly gotten him sacked from Dray’s, instead of sucking up to the man, he might have somewhere else to go. It was too late now; he hardly saw Mr. Bewit, and when he did, the man did not speak with him as he had used to do.

It was only a few days until Christmas when Tom decided he could endure his situation no longer. As Mr. Bewit had out gone to a comic opera, Hallux to a gathering of other Royal Society hopefuls, and Callow to wherever he went, Mr. Bewit had told the servants to make merry with some very nice fruitcake and a cauldron of wassail as a special treat. Tom had drunk and eaten his share with the rest, though in the corner with a book instead of in their midst. Though his bacchanal was more solitary than theirs, he had enjoyed the night well enough… until a few more cups than were good for everyone had been imbibed, and he became the subject of some sport.

“Master Tom is such a great reader,” observed Dick, the footman. “I’d wager a sovereign he’d rather poke his nose in a book than his cock in a cunt.”

Ribald laughter rang out as Tom tried to pretend he had not heard. Perhaps, he hoped, they would cease to torment him if he ignored them.

“I never learned to read, but the way he goes at it, it makes me think there might be something to it,” observed another wag, Lucas, who also served at table. “Could it be as fun, do you think?”

“Possibly. I tell you, sir, I almost fell asleep once, during
the
act
I mean, though the girl was trying her hardest atop me. But as you can see, Master Tom seems quite engrossed.”

Tom licked his finger, turning an page of volume nine of
Tristam Shandy
with deliberate care, and ignoring them.

“Maybe it’s grand, reading—but I doubt it could ever be as warm!”

Tom had not noticed Lucas approaching him, but he certainly noticed when the footman grabbed the book from his hands and tossed it into the fire. With a shout Tom leaped to his feet, hoping it might not be too late to save it, but both Dick and Lucas stood between him and the fireplace, and blocking his path with a stupid little dance while all howled at the great joke.

“That book is Mr. Bewit’s!” cried Tom, hoping against hope this would cause Dick to get out of his way. He could smell the burning paper and singeing leather. “Please!”

“It’s too late now,” said Dick, shoving him. Tom stumbled backwards into the ample lap of Cook, who pushed him away and then administered an undignified smack to his bottom.

As Tom rubbed the sore spot, Dick and Lucas finally got out of his way, but one look at the ashes told Tom all he needed to know.

“Maybe you can get him another,” suggested Lucas. “Aren’t shops open late this time of year? You’d know better than any of us, wouldn’t you?” Oh, how everyone laughed at that! “Go on—run along, if you’re so worried about it, and pick up a replacement. Surely you have enough to cover it—if not, just sell off some of your clothes.”

Tom stalked off. He was furious, but he was also afraid for what Mr. Bewit would say if Tom did not return his novel, especially in light of him no longer being the man’s favorite. That fear is what decided his course that evening—he would go out, and see if he could find a bookseller open late. It wasn’t his night off, but it was a servants’ holiday; he doubted there’d be any trouble over it.

The night was cold but dry. Frozen shit and dirty slush rimed the streets, but Tom persevered, his hopes having been raised by the few lights he saw burning in the shop-windows… unfortunately, as it turned out, every bookseller was closed for the night.

A gust of icy wind found its way through his coat and down his neck. Tom shivered. Feeling even more depressed and downcast than before, he decided it might be nice to take some refreshment—something warm and bracing to make his journey home more pleasant. He recalled there was a coffee-house somewhere close by, in Russell Street, he remembered passing it in Mr. Bewit’s coach. It had a funny name… Button’s, maybe.

When he found it, the foggy window was brightly lit and hung with living green. It looked warm and inviting, and the crowd inside seemed happy which was just what he needed.

Tom had not had much cause to visit coffee-houses before. Once popular, they had fallen largely out of fashion in recent years, but he knew enough not to be surprised to see men from all walks of life once he went inside, and to buy his cup first thing. One penny was the price of admission, and with the steaming proof of his payment in hand, Tom picked up a newspaper and made his way carefully among the occupied armchairs and clusters of standing people. Having not a single friend in all the world, and truth be told not much in the mood for further conversation that night anyway, Tom repaired to a quiet corner with a little table where he could let his cup to cool a little.

Tom wasn’t the only one who peered over the top of his well-thumbed broadsheet when he heard a great crash and then raucous wild laughter coming from a party of perhaps six or seven youths. As they cleaned up the mess, shouting at one another, Tom watched them with interest, as they were an attractive and diverse coterie, comprised of men and, surprisingly, two women. It wasn’t common to see females in coffee-houses, especially this late at night; any sensible person would doubt the virtue of any girl who would set foot in to such a place at that hour, so they tended to keep away.

“Another round!” cried one of the gentlemen gaily. “And then we’ll decide what to do about Charles, won’t we?”

The darker-haired of the two women bowed in a decidedly un-feminine fashion, and turned so that Tom could see her profile.

He gasped, and set aside his paper.

That was no woman. It was Callow Bewit.

Tom had heard of mollies—men who donned wigs and stays and gowns and took to the streets in giggling packs—but he’d never seen one before. Not in the wild, at any rate. The comic plays Mr. Bewit liked often featured men dressed as women, and Tom agreed that there was little funnier than a fellow in a dress, talking in a high voice and mincing about upon the stage. But a
true
molly… that was something he had only ever read about. In fact, he’d always assumed they were just a myth. Not so, apparently.

Oh, it was simply too delicious, to discover
this
was what Callow did with his time and his money. Well! Tom would use this new knowledge to his advantage, oh yes he fucking would. Catching Callow Bewit sneaking away from his father to dress as a lady! It was simply too delicious for words.

The question was, should he wait to reveal his newfound knowledge to Callow, or go and confront him here and now? Waiting had its attractions; he could spring it on the youth the next time he was being an utter shit, and see what happened. But going over now—casually sidling up alongside his nemesis, maybe making a comment about his lovely bubbies… no, it was too tempting! He had to do it.

Normally, it would be impossible to greet his better in a public place, but such a breach of courtesy was considered quite common within the confines of the coffee-house. Additionally, the strict rules of conduct would protect him if Callow took it as an insult; he’d buy Callow’s next cup, for that was the cost of offending a fellow patron. Really, Tom could think of no better use for a penny!

It would be a perfect coup. Tom was invincible. Any father in the world would be ashamed of a son who was a fop, a liar, and a spendthrift—but to find out he was also the lowest, most reprehensible kind of cross-dresser would be nothing short devastating—at least, Tom knew he’d feel that way, if he ever had a son.

This Christmas was about to become a
lot
more cheerful.

Tom took his time re-folding his paper and set it aside so slowly, delaying his pleasure in every possible way. Then he took a long pull of his cooling coffee, waiting, watching. He observed the lad as he returned to his fellows, glorying in seeing him but not being seen, fixing everything firmly in his mind. Oh, when he was old and grey, he would look back on this night as one of the best of his life!

When the lad had delivered the coffees, Tom began to creep over to the merry company, trying to look nonchalant. But, wanting to catch Callow before he sat down, he ended up hot-footing the last few steps. Seeing him, one of Callow’s crew began to say something, but it was too late. Tom threw his arm around the lad, hugged him tight, and grinning from ear to ear, looked sidelong at his quarry.

“Hello,
Callow
,” he drawled. “Fancy meeting you here! And in such a
lovely
frock!” He toyed with the lace around the bosom. “Wherever did you get it? I simply
must
get one of my own. Will you help me pick out the fabric?”

“Oh shit,” said the person beside him, in a voice that was not—could
never
have been—Callow’s. “It’s you!”

She pulled away as Tom released the girl, horrified, blind and deaf to everything but his grave error.

“The boy from the wig shop!” she exclaimed. “Upon my word, I never thought I’d see
you
again.”

“I could say the same for you!” For it was Callow Bewit—just not the
real
Callow Bewit. It was the impostor who had claimed to be him, all those months ago. A girl! And a very good looking girl, too! He’d never in a thousand years have guessed the possibility of such a thing. The illusion had been too complete; her manners too perfect. But his admiration was shortly supplanted by anger—for
here
was the cause of all his troubles.

“You cunning little vixen!” he spat, suddenly furious. “How dare you trick me!”

As she gawped at him, something else occurred to him—if she didn’t have the decency to actually be Callow Bewit, she could jolly well tell him the truth of the affair so he could get his place back.

“What the devil did you mean by coming into Dray’s and pretending to be someone else’s son? Or
anyone’s
son, for that matter?” He sniffed indignantly. “I lost my apprenticeship because of you—lost every hope of happiness I had in the world!”

“Shall I fetch the proprietor, Rasa?” said one of the company, the other woman—who, Tom was surprised to note was not actually a woman at all. Her face was too manly, her figure too broad in the shoulders. Here was his molly! Too bad he had too much else on his mind to fully appreciate such a unique encounter. “Wouldn’t be but the work of a minute to have him booted.”

“No,” said ‘Rasa.’ The girl was staring at Tom as if she’d seen a ghost. “Not… not yet.”

“Not yet!” Tom had half a mind to slap her across her beardless cheek. “Madam, you are too brazen. Do you have any notion of what I’ve endured because of your freak?”

“I’m sincerely sorry you were injured,” she said, and the strange thing was, he believed her. It brought him up short; calmed him substantially. “I didn’t know—if I had known—but he never told us.”

He advanced on her. “
He
who?
Us
who?”

Only when she drew back, and all eyes in the coffee house turned toward them did it occur to Tom that he was giving this woman precious little reason to tell him anything about anything. He softened his tone immediately.

“My lady.” He bowed. “Pray forgive my discourtesy. I was surprised, as I mistook you for someone else. For… Master Callow Bewit, whom I have met since you impersonated him so perfectly. You look very much like him from… from the back.” Tom didn’t pay attention to the sniggers of her companions, he was looking at her in amazement. Even now that he could see the whole of her face, it struck him how uncannily alike they really were. He could understand his mistake, thinking she was he, even up close. “I was disappointed to find you were not Master Callow, but now that I have recovered myself, I find I should be rejoicing in my error. It would be an honor to become further acquainted with a young lady as lovely as yourself.”