The Pleasure Merchant (16 page)

Hallux Dryden was not a man one would ever call
sociable
. Even during the height of the season in London, he entertained no one, and only grudgingly (as you have seen) joined his cousin’s guests at supper. He breakfasted in his rooms unless Sabina came down, and afterwards spent all morning locked away in his study, working on his various ‘experiments’ which he discussed with nobody. His afternoons were devoted to calling on his philosophical and medical colleagues for professional reasons; his evenings, attending lectures at the university or scientific demonstrations at private residences or the Royal Society—engagements Hallux insisted were not for his personal pleasure, but rather for his scientific edification.

In Puriton, with no fellow scientists to visit, the man had become a veritable hermit. He had resolved to spend the summer finishing his monograph on nervous conditions, in the hopes his application would be complete by Christmas, and the task had wholly absorbed him. He had attended neither balls nor assemblies; graced neither pleasure-parties nor luncheons with his presence. From breakfast until tea-time every day, rain or shine, he holed himself up in the library, scribbling his way through an entire flock’s worth of goose quills and ringing for frequent refreshment in the form of barley-water and oaten cakes with butter.

He consumed an astonishing volume of both, but never missed a mealtime, to no one’s pleasure save his wife’s. The only topic of conversation allowed when Hallux was at the table was, well,
Hallux
. Sabina invariably prompted him with questions regarding his research that seemed specifically designed to elicit the longest, most complex responses—and when she had run out of inquiries, he was always happy to report on such trivia as how much ink he was using, how much paper he wasted, even the number of words he had written in a single afternoon, as if that information could possibly be of interest to anyone. He expounded at length upon the process of composing, as well—in fact, the only matter he would not discuss was the actual content of his writing. Any inquiries beyond the most basic were met with stony silence, especially when guests were present.

Once Tom noticed this pattern in Hallux’s behavior, he suggested using this to their advantage. It worked beautifully; after Mr. Bewit began pressing his cousin to reveal just what he was writing all day every day, Hallux became substantially less interested in discussing his work. The situation improved so dramatically they were even able to invite others to dine with them, which enhanced not only the quality of the society at the Mews, but everyone’s digestion.

This is what had made Mr. Bewit more amenable to hosting a Michaelmas Eve nut-cracking party when Sabina suggested it. She wanted to do something “for the neighborhood,” and Mr. Bewit agreed, after she had made an almost rational case for it. At first, Tom thought it would all come to nothing, for Hallux protested the slaughtering of geese “simply to mark the receiving of our tenant’s rents,” but Sabina seemed to have her heart set on the idea, and was so disappointed when he made a fuss that eventually he relented.

The excitement was palpable the day of the event. Everyone was in a good mood, and Sabina had decorated the house beautifully with bouquets of fall leaves and silk ribbons in glorious autumnal colors. Not only that, she and the more artistic female servants had produced a centerpiece for the table—an enormous cornucopia made of thick hempen twine wound round a paper cone. They had stuffed it with apples, pears, walnuts, sweet buns, and other treats, and it looked magnificent, especially after the sun went down and the candles had been lit.

As was usually the case when Tom was to be one of the party, dinner was an informal affair, a cold collation on the sideboard comprised mainly of cold roast, hot goose, salad, and
pâté
. Walnuts were already set out by the fire, and they had hired a quartet of musicians for the evening, if anyone wished to dance—which they certainly did. Tom stood up twice with Miss Gill, once with Miss Wexcombe, and once with Mrs. Cassel, so he was more than ready to take a rest when Mr. Bewit called for everyone’s attention to make a little speech. The party quieted eventually, and all turned their attention to their red-faced host, who, it must be owned, had drunk quite a bit of cider by that time.

“Thank you all for coming to my little gathering this fine evening.” Behind him, servants brought out rustic baskets filled with traditional seed-studded bannocks. “You are all too kind, honoring Bergamot Mews with your fine dancing and lively conversation. I will now be so bold as to raise a toast to you all, and express a hope that we shall enjoy many more evenings together!”

Glasses were raised, and toasts were sipped. Hallux was the only one who looked nonplussed by the sentiment. Guests had come up to his wife to praise the luxuriousness of the meal and the handsomeness of the decorations, but the attentions paid to her clearly displeased him—surprising none of the family, but all of the guests.

“While our esteemed musicians take some meat and drink, I wonder if anyone has a mind to provide us with an entertainment?” asked Mr. Bewit, still commanding the gathering’s attention. “The pianoforte is tuned, we have books aplenty if someone is of a mind to read to us, and we have enough rags and scarves if anyone wished to play at fortune-telling?”

“Fortune-telling!” ejaculated Hallux, from a dark corner of the room. When the company looked toward him, he glared at them all defiantly, weak chin jutting out as far as it could. “What, I wonder, would be the point of performing—or participating in—such a ridiculous spectacle?”

Poor Mr. Bewit was at a loss. “Yes, well…” was all he managed, eventually, before trailing off.

“What would
you
propose, my darling Mr. Dryden?”

It was obviously not Sabina’s intention to rescue Mr. Bewit—she was as usual gazing at her husband, eyes limpid and full of love, insensible to the discomfort his poor manners had caused. Tom’s heart ached at the sight of her devotion—Hallux Dryden did not deserve such an angel!

“Perhaps you might enlighten us all with some kind of intellectual entertainment?” she proposed. “I know you detest a meaningless passing of an evening. Be our guide, then! There has already been much dancing and frivolity—let us retire tonight having enjoyed both physical and intellectual amusement!”

Sabina’s initial intervention had lessened the general tension, but her conclusion as to what was needed did not prove particularly popular. Even after living with the man for the better part of a year, Tom wasn’t sure what Hallux would deem either “intellectual” or “amusing,” but when he stood and stretched, looking extremely gratified, it was evident they should all find out directly.

“I suppose I could be convinced to help this evening attain
some
sort of distinction,” he drawled. “I had not expected to be called upon in such a manner, so you must give me a few moments to prepare, of course… but…
yes
, I believe an intellectual amusement might be just the thing.”

“Indeed, cousin?” asked Mr. Bewit, a bit nervously. That was understandable—many of the guests looked as if they wished it would not be impolite to rush out the door right then and there. “I hope it is nothing that might upset the ladies…”

Hallux bowed. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Make yourself easy, Mr. Bewit. Tom!” he cried, startling everyone. To Tom’s horror, everyone looked at him. “Fetch me a few of the saffron candles from the chest in my room, as well as the bone pipe you’ll find atop it. And, oh, the larger of the two magnetic stones on my dresser, and the orange banyan and cap hanging in my wardrobe.”

Tom blushed. While it was not unheard of for Hallux to call upon him to go and fetch things, the guests tonight were by and large the sort Mr. Bewit had painstakingly kept in the dark about Tom’s exact position in the household. Perhaps it was not as effective a dissembling as Mr. Bewit had hoped—it was evident his person and his rank had been discussed among them all; from the various expressions of triumph or shock, he was surprised not to see money changing hands as bets were seemingly settled.

“My cousin is very sensitive about who handles his personal items,” said Mr. Bewit quickly, equally aware of what was occurring. “His research materials are extremely delicate. Tom… please, if you would be so kind as to assist us preparing for whatever entertainment Mr. Dryden has in mind…?”

Though disinclined to help Hallux in any way, Tom was only too glad to have an excuse to leave the room. After a low bow he retreated with dignity.

He escaped into the cooler portrait gallery, which served as a shortcut to the grand staircase. Alone and unobserved, Tom strolled through the corridor. He knew he should be hurrying, but his resentment over being treated like a servant made him disinclined to rush. The man had quite a nerve!

Hallux was of course within his rights to order him about as he had—and ordinarily, it did not pique Tom to be sent on the man’s silly errands. But it was obvious Mr. Bewit wanted to obscure Tom’s position in the household when guests were present, and it was disrespectful of Hallux to destroy his cousin’s carefully-constructed illusions.

Knowing he was in no state to rejoin the company, Tom lingered in the hall, gazing at the paintings of Bewits past and present while he recovered his composure. Most were dressed for country sport, posed with falcons on their wrist, to honor their line’s traditional heraldry.

Tom’s master had chosen to stick with this motif, and held a hooded peregrine on his wrist. Beside him hung a portrait of his deceased wife. She was younger here than in the painting that graced Mr. Bewit’s study in London—and dressed not in a mother’s
dishabille
, but in a trim sportswoman’s habit, a delicate merlin on her leather-gloved hand. Her gaze seemed to track toward her husband, and his to hers. It was a fine arrangement, though it made Tom sad; he wondered how different Mr. Bewit’s life might be, had she lived.

Hallux Dryden’s portrait was in a less prominent position on the wall. Given the man’s opinion of himself Tom found this surprising… until he noted that Hallux hung beside his mother. Though she sat like a good Bewit should, elegant, composed, and holding a gyrfalcon that elegantly complimented her calm countenance, Hallux’s portrait was more modern. He leaned against a bookcase, draped in a strange, almost Greco-Roman fashion, looking characteristically plump—and smug. Unlike Mr. Bewit, Hallux looked away from his wife, who, most curiously of all, was sitting at a harp, and was very smartly dressed.

Tom stepped forward, intrigued. He had not paid the family portraits much mind before tonight, being far too occupied with other affairs. He had therefore never noticed that unlike the other subjects Sabina did not look out at the viewer. She was wholly absorbed in playing her elegant instrument, her eyes bright and sharp and her cheeks pink with excitement as she plucked the strings. It seemed an unusual depiction to Tom’s mind; having known her for half a year, he had never once heard her play, though he remembered someone mentioning that she had used to…

He felt discomfited that Sabina’s focus was inward, rather than outward, and strolled past her, to the youngest subjects in the progression of Bewits—Callow, and his deceased sister Alula.

Callow’s youthful depiction failed to captivate Tom, but Alula… in her portrait she was a young beauty, but a beauty nonetheless. The perhaps twelve-year-old girl looked like quite a handful, with her bold stance, her hair wild and unkempt, cheeks red from exercise and eyes bright and full of spirit. She held a ferocious goshawk on her arm, beak open in a screech. Tom found her enchanting, and wondered what she would have been like as a woman, had she survived. What tragedies seemed to plague the female Bewits!

A burst of laughter from the great hall startled Tom out of his reverie. Calmer now, he hurried upstairs. Hallux’s study was a mess, as usual, the walls papered haphazardly with enigmatic diagrams and every available surface strewn with strange…
things
. Knowing how long he had lingered in the portrait hall, he did not waste any time, hastily grabbing everything Hallux had requested, and trotting back down and along the darkened corridors.

“Ah, Tom!” cried Mr. Bewit, when he returned, laden with Hallux’s demands. “There you are! What a shame you missed Miss Gill’s recital. She played ‘The Lincolnshire Farmer’ so sweetly, it was like listening to a bird twittering.”

“I’m sorry to have missed it, but I have had ample opportunities to be impressed by Miss Gill’s flawless high notes,” said Tom, as he set the objects upon a low table.

“Yes, yes,” said Hallux, elbowing Tom rudely aside and shooing poor blushing Miss Gill back into the crowd, a smattering of awkward applause accompanying her return to her brothers’ side.

In arranging the candles, magnets, and bone pipe to his liking, Hallux took more time than seemed necessary. Then again, by the time he finally turned around, everyone was so annoyed by his fussing they were intrigued to see what he would do next, and Tom realized Hallux was actually a born showman. Perhaps, he thought snidely, the man should stop messing about in his chambers all day and set up on the Strand.