The Pleasure Merchant (10 page)

“You’re
ah
, awfully hard on him. I wonder if,
ah
, he doesn’t realize how he comes across, oh,
ow
—I say, that’s too deep!” The volume of swishing fabric and thumping reduced somewhat. Tom felt a renewed tightness in the twist of his trousers, and in his jealous heart as well. “That’s better.”

“Oh, trust me, I,
ungh
, spend more time around him than,
ungh
, any of you lot. He knows exactly how he,
ungh
, comes across. Thinks he’s,
ungh
, better than,
ungh
, the rest of us, as if working in a shop was some sort of pedigree,
ungh
,
ungh,
to brag of. Stop that, woman, it’s nearly coming as it,
ungh
, is.”

Tom startled, nearly giving himself away when he knocked into a pedestal table with a loathsome little china stag on it. The nerve of the man, lying to her like that! It was an outrage!

“The funniest part of it,
ungh
, is how he brags and brags of it, given,
ungh
, that he got,
ungh
, sacked. You should have seen it, when he tried to,
ungh
, embarrass me in front of old Bean-Wits. I think he wants my,
ungh
, job.”

Tom would have laughed at this rather broad pun but for his rage. If these were the stories Holland was telling, no wonder everyone was cold and unforgiving!

“He’d be surprised,
ah
, how many extra duties he’d have to,
ah
, take on.” Kitty giggled. “You,
ah
, do so much around the house! And for the staff—like that, yes, please, oh! It’s so nice!”

“Very nice,” gasped Holland, before starting to grunt with a great slapping of flesh on flesh that drew squeals from Kitty and panicked appeals that he withdraw and spend into a cloth at the crisis.

Listening to the climax of their rutting, Tom fumed. How dare they speak about him so candidly—and hatefully—and most of all
inaccurately
—all while performing the act of love! Tom prided himself on being an agreeable fellow to everyone in the house,
especially
the girls, so hearing such sordid lies about his character was unendurable.

Tom felt like a kettle left overlong on the hob as he slunk back along the corridor to look for Mr. Bewit’s book in the first guest room. All the water in him had been boiled away; he was at risk of heating up too much—and cracking.

He’d done his best to follow the rules, to settle in without making waves. Yes, he had erred by correcting Holland in front of Mr. Bewit, but he’d owned it—he’d apologized! That Holland would pretend to his face that it was water under the bridge, and then go on to actively prejudice the staff behind his back seemed the lowest, pettiest sort of skullduggery.

Spying the desired book Tom seized it with unnecessary force, and clutching it to his chest, he shook with righteous indignation. He would not let Holland win this war against him. He would defeat him—would defeat
all
of them.

He had been polite, kind, and solicitous—and what had it gotten him?

What had it
ever
gotten him, actually?

Chucked out by his former master, to start with, and now he was in trouble with his immediate superior as well as his fellow servants. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Tom tried to get hold of his anger—to use his reason instead of his rage.
Think
, Tom, he told himself, and it was then that it occurred to him that he was not without recourse.

He might only have one friend in this house—but that friend was its master.

If Holland wanted to do things this way,
fine
. Tom could—and
would
—fight back. And he wouldn’t be nice about it, either. Holland wasn’t being honorable. He’d just have to fight fire with fire.

“Oh, Tom!” Passing by the open door, Kitty called to him, looking charmingly rumpled. She seemed nervous, as well she might. “How… how long have you been there?”

“Long enough,” he said coolly. “Funny time for it, though, don’t you think?”

“Beg pardon?” said Kitty, coloring.

“Well, you know what they say. All cats are grey… but only
in the dark
.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she gasped, before running for it.

Tom smiled to himself in the empty room as he listened to Kitty’s feet padding down the hall, away from him. She might be in a hurry, but he wasn’t. He had all the time in the world to figure out what to do, and he’d make good use of it—oh yes he would.

***

Some days later, as he shut Mr. Bewit’s curtains against the intense afternoon light, Tom made his move. “Mr. Bewit,” he said, “I wonder if I might be so bold as to ask for your opinion on something?”

“Of course, my boy,” said Mr. Bewit, not looking up from the letter he was mulling over. “Just let me finish this, and I’ll give you my full attention. I’m always happy to lend you my ear. ”

While it was true that Holland had been more civil to Tom since the incident in the upstairs bedroom, Tom knew in his heart that the reconciliation was not real repentance. Kitty must have informed the valet that Tom had overheard part if not all of their conversation, and it wouldn’t be good for Holland’s reputation among the servants if it got out he was a blackguard and a backstabber. Holland was simply trying to pour oil on troubled waters, but anyone who knew anything knew the truth about oil and water. Even if staff were no longer treating Tom like quite so much of a pariah, he would never again attempt to mix with Holland—indeed, he would see them separated forever, if he could manage it.

Tom was less enthusiastic about the notion of being separated from Kitty, who despite the reservations she had expressed
in flagrante delicto
with Holland, had come to Tom one night and climbed atop him with her skirts raised. The romp had been as delightful as it had been educational; Kitty allowed him liberties he would never have taken with Hizzy, though not so many as she had granted Holland. Even so, the affair was only an imperfect enjoyment for Tom, as he knew she, same as Holland, was only making up to him. That was what had decided the matter for him—well, that, and her refusal to meet him in the upstairs bedroom for a mid-day romp. She put him off, claiming evening engagements were so much more enjoyable and relaxed… but Tom sensed it was because she was still meeting Holland up there.

By means of a few veiled questions Tom had ascertained that Kitty was assigned to clean those upstairs rooms every Tuesday and Thursday. While his inclination to ruin them both had waned in the wake of her pleasant attentions, Tom knew there was more at stake here than his personal pleasure. It was his life—his
livelihood
—that he had to protect, and that meant being as ruthless as everyone else in this most ruthless of worlds.

“All right, Tom.” Mr. Bewit took off his pince-nez and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “What is it?”

This was it. Tom took a deep breath.

“Thank you, sir… it’s just…”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Mr. Bewit indicated that Tom should take a seat. “I trust you know by now that I am always delighted by your conversation… even if I see by your expression that what you wish to discuss is troubling rather than gay.”

“Well, sir… as you know sir, I’ve never worked in a house before… in service I mean. Mrs. Jervis told me I was never to gossip about the family—not that I’d never consider it.” Mr. Bewit smiled indulgently. “But I wonder what constitutes
gossip
when it’s about, well… the other servants.”

“The other servants?” Mr. Bewit was clearly bemused. “If you’re on good terms with Mrs. Jervis, perhaps you should speak with her about this?”

“I should not like to mention it to a woman of her… respectability.”

Mr. Bewit leaned forward, intrigued. “I think I understand. Go on, and tell me all.”

Tom had already crafted an edited version of events where he had simply overheard ‘two servants’ engaged in some pully-hauly in one of the upstairs guest rooms. Being so new, he did not know whether this was a matter that should concern him or not.

“I know it must seem strange, my boy, but things like this will happen in a large household.” To Tom’s annoyance, Mr. Bewit seemed amused, rather than outraged; he sensed he needed to up the ante to make his master take this seriously. Maintaining the air of an innocent just trying to do the right thing, Tom shook his head.

“It’s just… I heard them at it twice… around the same time, three o’clock, as I was sent up there by chance a second time.”

“Twice, you say,” said Mr. Bewit thoughtfully. “Once might be forgiven, but I suppose it would not do for them to make a habit of it, for the household’s sake—and for hers. Nothing worse than turning out a maid when she starts to show. You’ve no notion of who it was?”

Tom looked down, pretending modesty to hide his elation. “I wouldn’t have looked in for my life, sir.”

“Of course.” Mr. Bewit drummed his fingers on his desk. “I’m glad you came to me, boy. You’re right, this is far too delicate a matter for Mrs. Jervis, I can see why you wouldn’t have wished to trouble her.” Then Mr. Bewit chuckled, a twinkle in his eye. “You’ve done well, coming to me about this. Now run along, and don’t trouble yourself further about it.”

Tom bowed himself out of the room feeling rather disappointed—he’d hoped Mr. Bewit would take the slight to his trust and his money more seriously than he appeared to. But an hour later, when a riot of shouting and shrieking and sobbing drew every person in the house to the foyer like hot water drawing pus from a wound, Tom found he wasn’t disappointed at all. In fact, his machinations had resulted in a reprisal far more dramatic than he had ever hoped for.

At the top of the stairs stood Mr. Bewit, red-faced and furious, shaking his finger for all he was worth at Daniel Holland, who was backing down the stairs and away from the onslaught of imprecations and remonstrances with his shirt-tails hanging out of his trousers and his wig askew. Also condemned by Mr. Bewit’s rantings was poor Kitty, who was similarly mussed and loudly wailing into her apron, great fat teardrops running down her red cheeks, leaving streaks in her face-powder.

“Snakes!” cried Mr. Bewit. “Fiends! How dare you! Never in all my life have I been so abused, I don’t think! Mr.
Bean-Wits,
indeed!”

“What is all this racket?” Hallux joined his cousin, looking worse even than Holland with a smudge of ink on his nose, and his lace cuffs spattered nearly to the elbows. “Poor Mrs. Dryden fainted, convinced there must be a fire, and I cannot possibly work under these conditions!”

“Apparently, neither can they!” Mr. Bewit gestured angrily at the valet and housemaid. “So be it then,” he said, turning back to the disgraced couple, “as you find your service to a
bean-wit
so distasteful, then be done with it! I expect you both gone by nightfall, and don’t you
dare
ask for a recommendation!”

He might have said more, but at that moment a knock at the door brought everyone up short—save for Kitty, who was still sobbing into her apron. The five or so footmen scattered among the crowd looked at one another, unsure what to do.

“Someone answer it!” cried Mr. Bewit, when a second knock echoed through the entryway. Then all the footmen leaped forward at once, creating quite the scuffle as they jockeyed for the handle.

On the opposite side of the door was another liveried young man, bearing a note on a silver tray. He looked quite surprised to see the entire household gathered in the foyer, but at least Kitty had stopped weeping and was now just snuffling.

“A missive for Mr. Bewit, from Brooks’s,” announced the messenger, after a long moment.

Tom was distracted from his quiet triumph—Brooks’s was the club Mr. Mauntell had wanted so badly to join! He was madly curious to know what the note said. Perhaps it contained some information that would be of use to his investigation… such as it was…

“We, ah, thank you,” stammered Dick, the tallest of Mr. Bewit’s footmen. He took the envelope and bowed. “I’ll see that he receives it—are you… expecting a return?”

“No,” said the lackey, eyeing the assembly. “Good day.”

Dick shut the door, and looked from the note to Mr. Bewit.

“Bring it here,” said Mr. Bewit, obviously intrigued. Not only did the man practically tear it open, he scanned it eagerly in front of everyone.

“By Jove!” he cried, and then collapsed.

***

Before I tell you what happened next, I think it would be wise if I revealed what had caused the usually mild Mr. Bewit to become so furious at Daniel Holland and Kitty the maid. Of course, this is mostly extrapolation, but given my knowledge of the principle players, and the interviews I have conducted over the years, I believe it to be as accurate an account as everything else I have reported to you.

Though at first disinclined to investigate what he had declared a relatively minor infraction, Mr. Bewit’s mind had returned time and again to what Tom had told him. Inevitably, perhaps, when the clock struck three he found himself possessed of a burning curiosity regarding the affair. That, as Tom had told him, was the fatal hour—and before the bell for quarter-past sounded Mr. Bewit found he could resist no longer. Quietly he slipped into the hall; after ascending the staircase, he kept to the carpet when he gained the corridor to dampen his footfalls.

First he heard, as Tom had, the grunts and creaks and moans that usually accompany the act of love, but also whispered conversation. Intrigued, Mr. Bewit crept yet closer.

It might not have gone as badly for the couple if they had not once again decided to speak of others when they had better reason to be focusing on themselves. Unfortunately, Holland was rather cross that afternoon, and was using Kitty’s ear as well as her more personal parts to vent his frustrations. Angrily, he spoke of how Mr. Bewit had spoken fondly of Tom that morning—their master had noted with pleasure how Tom’s suggestion of using pomade had greatly reduced the amount of wig-powder Holland used to make his wigs look smart. Holland had taken the remark as a slight, and was complaining in the strongest of terms to Kitty of what it was like to serve “an oaf who cannot discern a flatterer,” and accused “Mr. Bean-Wits” of being “less sensible than a violin to when he is being played.”