The Pleasure Merchant Read online

  “My poor boy…” Mr. Bewit at last shut the door. “I owe you the most sincere of apologies.”

  Tom looked up at him. “Sir?”

  “The rivalry between myself and Mr. Mauntell is… long-standing, and to be fair, absurd.” He looked almost sheepish. “I cannot even recall why it began, only that it has grown out of all proportion. We have both acted foolishly because of it… but until today it had only ever been a quarrel between ourselves.” Tom didn’t understand what the man was driving at. “What I am trying to say is that it pains me that you’ve lost your living all because of a silly prank.”

  “You mean… you did send your son to our shop?”

  “Certainly not. Callow is in Geneva, just as I said.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “What I am saying is that you were unwittingly caught in a web woven by others,” Mr. Bewit continued, “and for that I am sorry—Tom, was it? Tom. You seem like a good boy. Are you? A good boy, I mean?”

  Tom shrugged. “I tried to be. I did all that was asked of me and more, for six years.” He fought to keep the bitterness from his voice, but was not entirely successful. “I loved making wigs, sir, and wanted to do it all my life. With Mr. Dray’s daughter beside me… that’s all I meant when I mentioned her. I never harmed the girl, we had only talked about… such matters.” It was close enough to the truth.

  Mr. Bewit made a grave, pained sound. “I see. Well then, I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

  “A choice, sir?” Tom was growing more perplexed by the moment. “What are you choosing?”

  “Actually, it’s you who will be doing the choosing, my boy.” Mr. Bewit gave him a warm, lopsided smile. “All I’m going to do is offer you a job. It’s up to you whether or not you take it.”

  Whatever Mr. Bewit might believe, Tom didn’t really have a choice, being so suddenly without food, shelter, or wages. As to what he would be doing to earn said food, shelter, and wages… well, Mr. Bewit had called the position ‘cup-bearer,’ but promised, chuckling, that he would not ‘make a Ganymede’ of Tom, whatever that meant. Tom hadn’t asked; he felt so fortunate to be offered the job in the first place that he could think of no task he would balk at performing.

  As far as Tom could tell from Mr. Bewit’s brief discussion with his housekeeper, Tom would be running little errands and fetching things—basically, whatever Holland, Mr. Bewit’s valet, didn’t feel like doing at any given moment. That didn’t sound like such a bad job… in fact, it seemed like his days would be far easier than those spent laboring in Mr. Dray’s shop.

  Even so, Tom couldn’t help but feel bitter over his time as a wig-maker coming to such an abrupt end. As he wrote to Mr. Dray telling him of his new lodgings, and where to send on his effects, more than once he wiped his eyes. He had slept in the same bed every night for close to half his life, had eaten his breakfast at the very same table every morning, labored the same hours, and so on. The mattress in his new closet felt strange beneath his bottom, and being idle at this hour of the day felt… wrong. But what could he do? He’d been shoved into this room by the busy but unflustered housekeeper, Mrs. Jervis, and told to wait there until she had a moment to show him around the house and teach him his duties.

  I beg you, do not judge Tom too harshly for his melancholy thoughts, or for his fear. Changing from one thing into another is never easy. Ask any butterfly.

  Or you might take my word for it. Over the course of my life, I, like Tom, have changed dramatically—multiple times, actually—and while it was always painful, it was always rewarding.

  Tom knew he was being terribly ungrateful, sitting on his bed, moping. Mr. Bewit had offered him more than a job—he had offered him the opportunity to save himself from the treadmill or the poorhouse. The wages promised by Mr. Bewit were thoroughly decent, and Tom would live in the household with the rest of the servants, meaning he would sleep more comfortably, eat better, and be more entertained than he had while apprenticed to Mr. Dray. Mr. Bewit would even buy all of Tom’s clothes, not just his livery, so he could save virtually all of what he made.

  Still, it troubled him that in all likelihood he would never again craft another peruke; never feel the joy of seeing disparate locks come together as one seamless head of hair; never tint a box of wig-powder the perfect shade of shell-pink; never experience the thrill of seeing something he made with his own hands gracing the head of a gentleman. No… even if he managed to save every guinea he earned serving Mr. Bewit it wasn’t likely he’d ever have enough to open his own shop, to say nothing of how he’d be run out of any town if the wigmaker’s guild found out he was trying to do business without having completed his apprenticeship.

  A brief knock and a quiet “Hello Tom?” alerted Tom that Mrs. Jervis had come for him. A handsome woman in her mid-fifties, with steel-grey hair and a jaw that looked like it could batter in a door, she exuded strength and competence; it was obvious that it would be to her that he answered.

  He stood quickly. “Good morning—afternoon,” he said, hoping his face wasn’t too puffy and red.

  “How would you like to see the house?”

  “Very much, madam.”

  “You may call me Mrs. Jervis,” she said firmly. “You’re not a shop boy now, Tom Dawne.”

  “Yes, mad—yes ma’am. Yes, Mrs. Jervis.” Tom felt a pang—he had always been praised for his manners; it was disheartening to say the least, realizing that yet another skill he had worked so hard to perfect was now worthless.

  “You’ll figure it out,” she said, smiling. “Come along with me.”

  ***

  12 Bloomsbury Square was a grand townhouse. The servant’s quarters alone were larger than the apartment above Mr. Dray’s shop, and as for the rest… well, Tom was extremely grateful Mrs. Jervis gave him such a thorough tour—especially the attention she paid to showing him the ways that he, as a servant, should move through the house as unobtrusively as possible.

  “I’ll let Holland tell you about Mr. Bewit’s habits,” she said, as she showed him into his new master’s study. “He’s a very simple man, though, and keeps regular hours except for nights when he’s at his club, so you oughtn’t have much trouble about it.”

  “Brooks’s?” asked Tom absently. He was paying more attention to the room. Large windows looked down on the tree-lined street below; two walls were entirely taken up with books, and the other, portraits and paintings. A desk sat in the center of the room, covered in papers. It was not as grand as he might imagine, but perfectly serviceable. “Is that his club, I mean?”

  “No,” said Mrs. Jervis. “Mr. Bewit is a member of Waddles’s, though what it is to you, I don’t know. If he takes you along, you’ll be waiting on him, not gambling or drinking—not that Mr. Bewit does so much of that, mind. Now, come along, this way is—”

  “Pray—a moment,” said Tom. One of the portraits had caught his eye, a full-length painting of a young man. Entranced, Tom stood before it.

  In spite of Mr. Bewit’s protests, the boy in the picture looked uncannily like the lad who had come into Dray’s claiming to be Callow Bewit. He had the same posture, the same height and build, and was dressed in a similar fashion. Even his face was the same, save for a hardness to his gaze, and a weakness in his mouth and chin. The artist had clearly tried his best to make his subject seem lordly and commanding; unfortunately, the lad looked petulant and demanding, and thus strangely unlike the boy from the shop.

  “That’s young Master Callow,” said Mrs. Jervis, coming over beside Tom. “He’s away in Geneva. That was painted very recently though—after he graduated from Eton, before he set off on his tour.”

  “So he really is in Geneva?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Jervis, sounding confused. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

  “Oh, I only meant…” Tom scrambled, “he’s there now? As in, he’s… arrived?”

  “I should hope so. He left three months ago.”

  Tom looked a little more at the picture; tried to
divine something, anything, from the portrait’s cold gaze.

  “Master Callow is about your age, I believe,” said Mrs. Jervis. “Sixteen this last March.”

  “And this must be him as a baby,” said Tom, turning to another portrait, a pretty young woman with sparkling blue eyes and a lighthearted, laughing expression. She was holding a swaddled, chestnut-headed infant in her lap, cradling it with one arm as she held a book in the other. She was richly attired and bejeweled, gems shining in her ears and glistening at her wrists; she even had a beautiful pocket watch depending from the sash at her waist, inlaid with a rose of jade and carnelian. Tom stared at it—he was certain he had seen that design somewhere before… but then Mrs. Jervis interrupted his thoughts with a heavy sigh.

  “That’s not Master Callow,” said the housekeeper wistfully. “That is… was, I should say, Master Callow’s elder sister, Miss Alula, and Mrs. Bewit, Miss Josian Saynsberry that was. I served her from when she was the same age as that babe there.” Mrs. Jervis smiled sadly. “Mrs. Bewit died two days after giving birth to Master Callow, and Miss Alula… she passed, why, it must be just over four years ago. It was very sad. We all loved Miss Alula, she was high-spirited, but kind and intelligent. Just like her mother, though as you can see she favored her father.”

  “What happened?”

  “A fever took her,” said Mrs. Bewit. “It was quite a shock to Mr. Bewit when we received the news. She was abroad at the time.”

  “I’m very sorry.” Tom turned back to the other portrait, and was once again struck by the boy’s unpleasant aspect. “Is Master Callow… much like his sister?”

  “He is Mr. Bewit’s only son. It is not for me to judge him, nor is it anyone’s right to speak ill of him behind his back.”

  “Yes ma’am,” said Tom quickly, though privately he thought her reaction had told him more than she’d intended. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Of course not. But just the same, you’d be surprised how much low talk happens in a house like this. I don’t hold with it, and I advise you not to engage in it, especially you being so new. The temptation is always there, to gossip, but keeping yourself apart from all that will serve you well.” She looked keenly at Tom, and he nodded his enthusiastic assent. “Good. Well, let’s move along… I want to show you Mr. Hallux Dryden’s chambers. Not that you will have much cause to visit them—Mr. Dryden prides himself on keeping no personal servants, and Mrs. Dryden has a lady’s maid to see to her needs. Still, you should know where they are.”

  “Does Mr. Dryden spend much time with his cousin?”

  “They go everywhere together,” said Mrs. Jervis. “They grew up together; even went to school together. Mr. Dryden’s mother was a Bewit before she married, and after she was widowed with naught to live on she moved back to keep house for her brother, Mr. Bewit’s father.”

  Curiously, in spite of his being the penniless relation, Hallux’s bedchamber was more luxurious than Mr. Bewit’s, and his study was better-appointed—at least, as far as Tom could tell, for not only was the room a disgusting mess, the view of the yard and the kitchen garden was obscured by a collection of the strangest objects Tom had ever seen in his life. Mrs. Jervis said the constructs of colored glass, bits of mirror, springs, and more obscure materials were “scientific equipment,” but Tom couldn’t ascertain the function of a single device. Tom didn’t think he did anything wrong by remarking on the mess or the disparity between Hallux’s rooms and his master’s, but when he did he was rather sternly reminded by Mrs. Jervis that his lot was not to remark upon the goings-on at 12 Bloomsbury Square.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Tom, abashed.

  Mrs. Jervis pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. “I do not reprimand you for observing the obvious; merely for commenting upon it,” she said, as they made their way down toward the green baize door that marked the entrance to the servant’s quarters. “It is only natural. But, I would advise you to you keep your observations private… even if, I confess, certain things are… unusual in this house.”

  Mrs. Jervis, like any experienced servant, was a master of understatement.

  “Yes, Mrs. Jervis,” said Tom, his curiosity piqued, rather than the reverse.

  “Well. As I said, Holland and Mr. Bewit will make clear what’s expected of you,” she said over her shoulder as they descended the servant’s stair. “Mr. Bewit said you were begin in earnest tomorrow. There will be plenty to do before he rises, but when you see that bell,” she pointed to one clearly labeled T. Bewit, “bring up tea or coffee immediately, whatever Holland tells you tonight. Other than that…” she hesitated.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “You haven’t asked me for advice—and that’s fine,” she said, smiling and speaking over Tom’s embarrassed apology. “I’m old enough not to wait until asked. So my advice to you is this—do what’s asked of you. Don’t try to do more, and certainly no less. That’s not to say be idle. That’s a great sin in service. When servants are idle, that means there are too many of them, so we make work for ourselves. Come to me, or Holland, if you need something to do—do not ask Mr. Bewit.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m cautioning you about all of this because I know from experience how difficult it can be, going from a trade to service. My mother owned a millinery, when I was a girl. I grew up helping customers, and I know you offer them more than they want, carefully, politely, yes—but you put yourself in their way. When you’re in service, you’re not to get in anyone’s way. Your job is to serve, not to suggest or to prompt. Unless Mr. Bewit asks you something direct, think of yourself as a third hand or an extra pair of legs… while you’re working, I mean. Of course I do not mean to suggest you are less of a person now that you’ve joined us.”

  “I understand. Thank you.” Tom was grateful for Mrs. Jervis’s candor, even if he found her counsel a bit daunting.

  “Tom Dawne?” a handsome young footman with a simply outstanding pair of calves stood in the door, a crate in his arms with another, rectangular box balanced on top. Tom recognized it immediately as a Dray’s box. “This just arrived for you.”

  “Oh! Who delivered it?” Tom took the wig box like a drowning man grabbing at a rope. He had a foolish, momentary hope that Hizzy had carried it all this way, and might be waiting for him. “Did they stay?”

  The footman set the crate on Tom’s bed. “He didn’t give his name—just said it was everything that was yours, and to send word if something was missing.” Clearly, the story of how Tom came to be in Mr. Bewit’s employ had not circulated among the servants yet; the footman lingered, watching him. Tom set down the wig box to hide from the obvious question in the young man’s eyes.

  “I’ll let you unpack,” said Mrs. Jervis, earning yet more of Tom’s gratitude. Seeing every piece of his former life packaged up into two small boxes was making his eyes smart and his nose prickle. “Don’t worry, my boy,” she said, as she shooed away the footman. “You’ll do fine. I’ll have Cook make you up a meat tea so you can go to bed early, and I’ll tell Holland when I see him to come and tell you what you need do tomorrow morning. All right?”

  “All right,” he managed.

  Tom tore off the lid of the crate the moment she shut the door behind her. On top was a sack of coins containing the balance of his wages, plus a fair parting bonus. Underneath were his clothes and his Sunday shoes. Packaged between his coat and shirts were his few personal items—two pocket-knives, a ball of fine if ancient hempen twine that had been his father’s, and a shell Hizzy had brought him when the Drays went to the sea for a week the previous year. He also found his mother’s Bible and the dog-eared copy of Robinson Crusoe that had been a birthday gift from Mr. Dray. That was all.

  Tom sat down on the bed, holding the shell, too unhappy to cry anymore. There was no note, as he had hoped—no message from Mr. Dray or Hizzy saying good luck, or expressing regret at the manner of their parting, and it stung Tom as much as if he’d been driven out with a whip.
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  “So you’re the new bug, eh?” A tall man with face heavily scarred by acne or smallpox poked in his head, startling Tom. “I’m Daniel Holland, Mr. Bewit’s valet. I was told you need some help settling in?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Tom, on his feet in an instant. “Thank you. It’s all very… sudden.”

  “Yes, I’d imagine so.” Holland sidled in. He was dressed very finely indeed, in a coat and breeches reminiscent of the footmen’s livery, but simpler, and far more elegant. “I heard you were sacked from some wig shop and Mr. Bewit took you in.” The valet looked at Tom keenly, as if he were some kind of curiosity in a show. His smile was not particularly pleasant. “You know, I haven’t the foggiest idea what purpose you’re to serve here, given that Mr. Bewit has me—and more than enough footmen to do what I won’t. He says I’m to ‘make use of you.’ What do you think that means?”

  Tom wasn’t so sure he liked Daniel Holland. “That’s for you to decide,” he said, keeping his tone studiously even. His time spent doting on customers at Dray’s had trained him to manage his temper quite effectively—at least that would serve him well in his new life.

  “Yes, it is,” Holland drawled. “I could make you do anything I like—you know that, don’t you? I could make you bring me my tea as well as Mr. Bewit’s, or make you polish my shoes—why, I could make you lick my bottom clean when I’m done taking my evening shit. And if you don’t like it, you can kiss my tips.”

  “I’m not sure if tips-kissing is quite what Mr. Bewit had in mind when he took me on,” said Tom coolly.

  “Perhaps not,” Holland allowed, “but keep this in mind—I’ve been Mr. Bewit’s right hand man for onto five years now. I have his trust and his ear. Whatever I say about you he’ll believe, so I’d advise you curry favor with me first. All Mr. Bewit knows about you is that your master shit-canned you. If he hears you’re being a sauce-box to the staff, or if something went… missing… well, you’d find yourself once again out on your rump, mark my words—and this time without a convenient gentleman to pick you up and dust you off. So you’d best watch your step. Oh, and speaking of stepping…”