The Pleasure Merchant (45 page)

Tom laughed to himself as he sat back in his chair, cradling the warm cup in his hands. “Oh, Mr. Blythe,” he said, with relish, “what
have
you gotten yourself into?”

***

Tom was surprised to find he was nervous as he rode across town for his meeting with Mrs. Knoyll. Though he had played out predictions for the evening’s events in his mind almost ceaselessly since receiving Mr. Blythe’s letter, he still had not decided upon his final course. Would he be tender, or cruel? Would he take full advantage of her situation, or send her back home in disgrace? Soon, he would have to choose.

The house was indeed respectable and nondescript, a middling townhouse like every other middling townhouse in London. Tom’s heart fluttered when he saw that a light was burning in the topmost right window. He marveled at himself—his conquest would be less troublesome than many he had managed; had been bought and paid for, in fact. Why, then, did he feel as if his bowels might give way at any moment?

Before knocking, Tom checked the letter a final time in the light spilling out from a downstairs window. His hands shook as he re-folded the slightly greasy paper.

“Come on, Tom,” he muttered under his breath. “You know what to do when you’re alone with a female.”

“Good evening, sir.” The woman who answered his triple summons was a tiny, grey-haired thing with a dowager’s hump. The candle illuminating her face showed every wrinkle in sharp relief; the shadows it cast on the wall behind her danced like devils at some unholy rite. “Please, come this way. You are expected.”

“Excellent,” he said, trying to sound bold, but feeling rather like a boy arriving at a birthday party for some richer child. “Has she… I mean, ah…”

“Your guest is already upstairs, and supper has been laid out for you,” she said, far cooler than he.

“Thank you. Yes. Very good. I’ll just… go up, shall I?”

“When you get to the top of the stair, it will be the door on your right. Here’s your key, sir, and do take the candle. It’s rather dark up there.”

“Excellent,” he said again, almost whispering it.

The candle guttered as he ascended the stair, his heart beating a savage tattoo at every creak or pop of the wood beneath his feet. He was sweating under his wig, under his arms, where the band of his trousers pressed against his waist. All his gloating daydreams seemed inane now, and it occurred to him that perhaps he’d been a fool to try to cuckold Mangum Blythe. The man was notoriously unscrupulous—what was to stop him from waiting behind the door for Tom, cudgel in hand? He already had his fee…

Enough
, Tom told himself. Standing up straight, he knocked once, then let himself in.

No villain waited for him, only a nicely furnished room, warm from a good fire burning in the hearth. A cold supper had been set out on a table, a chicken and some salads, and there was wine breathing in a decanter. There was no sign of Mrs. Knoyll. Tom took a deep breath.

“Hello?” he called.

“Just a moment,” came the muffled reply, from behind a door that Tom assumed led to the boudoir.

“Take your time,” he replied, and helped himself to a glass of wine, to steady himself.

He heard the door open, and turning, almost startled at the unexpected sight of Mrs. Knoyll, already in a state of undress, her hair spilling unbound over her shoulders, dark and straight. She had shed her mantua and stood there in her chemise, stays, and petticoats; the whiteness of the linen was almost blinding in the dim chamber. She looked like a saint, or perhaps a sacrificial virgin.

Tom reminded himself that she was neither—she was only a woman.
His
woman, at least for the evening.

“Good evening, Mr. Dawne.” She wasn’t smiling, but nonetheless seemed generally more at ease than he.

“Good evening, Mrs. Knoyll. You look lovely.”

“Thank you.”

“May I pour you a glass of wine?”

“Please.” When she accepted it, the ruby red claret looked like blood.

“Are you hungry?”

“A little.”

“Let us eat, then—and talk.”

He carved her some chicken and dished out the Dutch carrots. They ate in silence for a time, but it was difficult for him to manage much, keenly aware she was staring at him every time he looked away.

“I remember you,” she said at last. “We danced together at a ball, perhaps a month ago.”

“We did,” he agreed. “I found you… entrancing.”

“You are too kind.”

“Not at all.” The chicken, though juicy enough, felt dry in his mouth. He swallowed another mouthful, but then pushed aside his plate. “Mrs. Knoyll… I don’t know what Mr. Blythe told you about me, but…” He swallowed again, unsure if words or the chicken were stuck in his throat. “I came to him… about you…”

“He told me that, yes.” She continued to nibble at her meal, seemingly unperturbed.

“When we danced, you were so beautiful.” He hadn’t thought so at the time, but now, here, in this room, she excited him tremendously. Her eyes were large, though not perfectly even in her oval face, and her figure, while not without its flaws, was ample, and very, very real. Her bosoms, only half-concealed by the lace trimming her chemise, moved as she breathed, shifted as she turned back to her meal. “I… wanted to meet you again, but I did not see how it would be possible.”

“Likely it was not,” she said, “save for a situation like this.”

“Are you pleased to see me?”

She looked at him levelly. “What do you think, Mr. Dawne?”

“Ah…” He was sweating again. “I hope you’re not… too unhappy?” It mattered to him now that they were together, and she was a real person, not an object of his imagination, a vehicle for his fantasies.

“Not at all. These carrots are delicious.”

“And as for… later…”

“Later?”

“I had hoped… and thought perhaps
you
hoped, given your… lack of… clothes…”

“Are you speaking of love?” She smiled. There was no scorn in her tone, but just the same, he felt small and ashamed. “Mr. Dawne, I was made to understand my personal feelings about this meeting were immaterial. You wanted to meet, so here we are. You wanted a chance to prove yourself a most devoted lover, and so you have it. I have made myself comfortable, but—forgive me if I’m wrong—you do not seem to be so.”

“I had hoped…” What had he hoped? A better question—what had he hoped that he would willingly admit to this strange woman? “I am glad you are comfortable,” he said, instead.

“Why should I be otherwise?”

“Because you are alone and undressed with a man not your husband!” He knew he sounded shrill, but this creature was absolutely confounding! Tears, he would have understood, or anger, but this polite distance was bewildering.

Only then did he recognize how much he had counted on terrorizing her. This self-knowledge made him feel cross, which made him wish to be brutal. If he could not scandalize her, he would settle for humiliating her.

“I suppose you are already an adulteress,” he said, and then froze. He had not intended to give away his knowledge of her affair with Mr. Blythe, but to his surprise, she did not seem the least disturbed to be confronted with her crime.

“I am,” she said. “There is no use denying it, if you already know. But that is not why I am comfortable.”

“Why, then? Are you really such a wanton?”

“Not at all. I simply find it useful to take a philosophic attitude toward life. Shall I explain?” Tom’s confusion must have been evident; he nodded. “Well, Mr. Dawne, I am a woman, neither young nor old, neither rich nor poor. Are you familiar with
Robinson Crusoe
—the novel as a whole, not just the character? Then you have read the argument Crusoe’s father makes about my situation—the middling one—being the best of all. That may be true for men, but the middle class is, I’m afraid, most inelastic for women.”

Tom remembered the passage in question, but he couldn’t quite discern her meaning. “How so?”

“Were I the subject of a scandal such as the one our mutual acquaintance suggested might become public if I failed to meet with you, it would cause significant, unpleasant, and permanent changes to my lifestyle, given who and what I am. A rich woman, even a rich married woman, may take what lovers she likes, especially if she is independent; she is protected by her class. A poor woman has precious few reasons to marry in the first place, unless it is really for love, which renders my point moot. But women like me… we are told we
must
marry
, and by the time we are wise enough to question that bit of wisdom, it is too late. We are attached forever, for better or for worse, and should our reputation become tarnished, there is no polish that can brighten it.” She poured herself more wine. “I am not complaining, you understand—I am most aware of what privileges my marriage has afforded me. I am simply stating the reality of my situation, at least, as
I
see it.”

“Forgive me, but what exactly is your situation?”

“I am the wife of an indifferent husband,” she said, without a trace of rancor. “I knew this would be the case, to be honest, during our courtship. We never bothered much with pretending. My family had connections; his, money. It was a most adventitious match. I was able to pay the doctors’ bills that were very soon to put my mother in debtors’ prison unless funds materialized, and he was introduced to the kind of society that helps further the career of an ambitious barrister. It also gave him the appearance of respectability in… other ways, which I shall not get into here, as I have no wish or reason to betray my husband’s secrets. Let me say that our union was fertile only in the ways I have mentioned. I had no real wish for children, you understand, but they do occupy a married woman’s time. No matter; I have found that my volunteer work, and my association with our…. mutual acquaintance… have made me happy. Happy enough, at any rate.”

Tom was completely undone by this frankness. He had known Mrs. Knoyll was an adulteress, but it had never occurred to that she might be…
unnatural
. To hear her speak so candidly of such vulgar matters alarmed him, even as it made him curious.

“Why not leave him? Your husband, I mean.”

“Oh, he would never grant me a divorce.”

“Then I fail to understand why it is you are comfortable here with me, Mrs. Knoyll!”

She smiled gently. “Of course. I realize I have only explained why I should not be. Well, Mr. Dawne, the maze that mankind has created for women to navigate is far from fairly designed. Cruel are its traps, and dire are the consequences for those who take a wrong turn. But men must navigate their own mazes, too, and while the pitfalls might be different, they can be just as dangerous. A scandal, were one to occur at this point in my husband’s career, would ruin all his chances for advancement. He wishes to be a judge one day, and a messy divorce, one smeared all over the papers, would undo all he has striven for, especially given how very salacious the details would be. Therefore, by mutual agreement, we turn a blind eye to one another’s… extramarital activities.”

“I say!”

“It may interest you to know it was my husband who first introduced me to Mangum Blythe, and when Mr. Knoyll learned of our desire to continue the connection, he was not at all averse. My husband knows how very, very discrete Mr. Blythe is, after all.”

Tom felt lightheaded. His assumptions were sluicing away like wastewater down a sewer. She was safe from him. He could not expose her to her husband, for he was as invested, if not more, in maintaining the façade of their marriage.

But it was not revenge on Mr. Knoyll that Tom was after. The thought rallied him.

“So you are protected from infamy,” he sniffed, “but not from being used. You are mine for the evening, Mrs. Knoyll, and I did not intend for us to spend our evening conversing.”

“Ah—so you do wish to go to bed!” She rose gracefully as he sat there like an idiot, mouth open. “I had thought, after our discussion, that you would not want to. But I’m quite prepared for a romp if you are. Conversation excites me, rather than the reverse.”

“It… does?” He was astounded, and honestly a bit repulsed. “You want to go to bed with me?”

“Why not?”

“But what of Mr. Blythe?”

“What of him? I have helped him often enough when he needed a woman of my appearance and proportions. I am of a naturally lubricious nature, and enjoy such assignments more often than not. And between you and me,” she leaned in, offering him her hand, as if to help him rise, “I do believe he enjoys hearing about it, after all is said and done. Any pleasure I find lacking in such unions is usually made up for by the giving of such to he whom I esteem so highly.”

Tom was more than disappointed—he was
horrified
. He had not defeated Mr. Blythe—he had spent a thousand pounds to be talked over the next time the man had his wicked way with his lover! With a yelp of rage, Tom leaped to his feet, shoving aside Mrs. Knoyll. She cried out as she collided with the edge of table, whereupon she sank to her knees. The astonishment in her eyes was worse than anything she had said; she seemed surprised he would be at all upset about this state of affairs. He wanted to strike her, but he also did not wish to touch her. He settled for spitting on the floor beside her.

“You disgust me.” He knew how petty he sounded, but dismay sharpened his tongue as it loosened it. Mr. Blythe had sent her here with his blessing; the only option Tom had left was to insult her, and hope some of the insult got back to Mangum Blythe. “I wouldn’t touch a whore like you for all the world. Madam!
You do not satisfy
. Perhaps one such as yourself might do a man willing to sully himself with an infamous slut, but I respect myself too much to handle any part of you. Get out before I cast you into the street by your hair!”

“As you wish,” she said coldly, and after rising with as much dignity as she could, she limped into the bedroom. Tom poured himself more wine, and drank it as he listened to the sound of cloth rustling.

She emerged, dressed. She did not look at him once as she left, and shut the door quietly behind her.