The Pleasure Merchant (20 page)

As the patter of rain drummed on the windows Sabina began, first clumsily, and then went on more confidently. She played and played—played until her fingers bled. Mr. Bewit, who had been “only too delighted” when she had asked if he would like to hear her, sat enraptured the whole while. He did not watch her, just looked out the window or sat with his eyes closed, but appreciating her, more at his ease than Tom had seen him in some weeks.

Having had the pleasure of listening to Sabina on many an afternoon, I can tell you that his pleasure was not based in ignorance of the proper use of instrument. She was—and is—a talented woman.

But I digress. Tom was, I fear, less happy than his master. At first, it had given him nothing but pleasure to oblige Sabina, but after a few hours he began to wish she would cease her strumming. She scarcely paused between songs, not even to rest her voice or ask if everyone was as enthralled by her performance now as they had been when she began. Five songs had kept his attention, but when five became ten, and ten became fifteen, plus a concerto, he began to want for a little silence.

Only when tea was brought in did Sabina step away from her harp, in need of refreshment. So, too, was her husband, who came in noisily ten minutes late, as was his custom, speaking loudly of his need of bread-and-butter to keep his mind limber for the afternoon’s labor. As usual, the man’s clothes and face were so artfully spattered with ink Tom wondered if he had done it in front of a mirror, and his hair was rather romantically mussed. He was obviously pleased with himself and his entrance when all eyes turned toward him. Then he saw the instrument in the corner.

“My darling!” he exclaimed. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I’ve been playing the harp,” she said, after swallowing her Ceylon.

“Playing the harp!” It was as if he had met her for the first time, and a harp was something outlandish for a lady to play, like a bagpipe, or a xylophone.

“It has been so tedious, I had nothing else to do but practice,” she replied, not even looking at him. She seemed wholly content in herself.

Hallux stared at her, growing redder by the moment, hands on his hips like a defiant child.

“She’s been playing monstrous well,” said Mr. Bewit, not helping matters one bit, and totally unaware of it, as usual. “Stay for a moment after tea, Hallux, and listen. It’ll do you a power of good.”

“Music is not healthful for you, my darling—I thought we had agreed on that?” Hallux made it a question, though it obviously wasn’t. “The last time you played, it made you weep and faint, if memory serves.”

“That was a long time ago,” she said serenely.

Hallux pointed to the red smudges on her white teacup. “But your poor fingers!”

“Like many things that start out painful, the pleasure is worth it, in the end.” At last, she looked up at her husband. “But only if you take the time to practice, of course.”

This was an unacceptable answer, Tom saw it in Hallux’s expression. He was shocked—
appalled
. Tom, for his part, was amazed. Had
Sabina Dryden
just made a dirty joke? She was the last person in the world he would have thought capable of such a feat, but she seemed remarkably changed, energized even. As annoyed as he had been, Tom forgave her in an instant—he liked this side of Sabina, and not only because she was giving Hallux a harder time than anyone usually dared.

“Oh, do sit down, Mr. Dryden,” said Sabina, as her husband silently goggled at her. Tom hid a snigger by turning to look out at the rainy grounds, and Mr. Bewit continued on as he always did, without an ounce of understanding. “You’re making us all nervous, towering over us. Have a sandwich, I promise you’ll feel better.”

“I assure you, I feel just fine,” said Hallux, and turning on his heel, he exited the room with his nose sticking up and bottom sticking out.

They saw nothing of him the rest of the day, not until dinner. This was not particularly unusual… but still, Tom felt uneasy. He sensed something was afoot. Perhaps it was Hallux’s angry egress; perhaps it was Sabina’s change. While she was too sore to resume playing, she did not occupy herself as she was usually wont to do—putting in three stitches every half an hour on whatever piece of embroidery she would never finish, or listlessly turning the pages of a book without reading them. Instead, she either read through the stack of dusty, moldering music books as if they were as fascinating as
Clarissa
, or she paced the room impatiently, always returning to her harp, to sigh and glance at her fingertips.

It was still raining when they went up (or in Tom’s case, down) to dress for dinner, and raining when they sat down to eat it. The spell of Sabina’s playing had long been broken, and Mr. Bewit was once again out of spirits, fretting over whether tomorrow would be fair enough for any sport. When Hallux joined them, in the same spattered shirt, he too looked irritable; Sabina alone seemed content, for her hands were better after the application of some salve, and she had high hopes for another long practice very soon.

“I think by the time we return to London I shall be able to take a seat at any party and acquit our family admirably,” she said, as she spooned up her soup with unusual appetite. Though she looked her usual radiant self, she seemed healthier—more awake, and happier. Stronger, without a doubt. “It’s so funny, how I did not even realize I had missed my harp until Tom reminded me of how I had used to play.”

Tom winced, and when Hallux looked at him with narrowed eyes, he felt his heart sink into his now well broken-in boots.

“Interesting you should mention London,” he said, loudly scraping his spoon along the edge of his bowl. “I thought about it this afternoon, and I am of the opinion that we should repair there.
Immediately
.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Bewit seemed to hardly understand what had been said. “London? This time of year?”

“I find the lack of diversion here extraordinarily depressing.” Hallux now slurped his cooling cock-a-leekie. “It is affecting my productivity, and I must finish my monograph soon or not at all. Even with no one being in town I daresay we shall find more companions than in this most unsociable hamlet.”

“But no one will be in London,” said Mr. Bewit, repeating his cousin’s words in his confusion.

“And yet, there will be more people than in Puriton.” Hallux’s logic was cool and unassailable. “I hate this place, cousin, and I cannot stand it another moment.”

“But the shooting,” said Mr. Bewit. “Duck season has but scarcely begun, to say nothing of—”

“What care I for ducks? Their company is not of an intellectual nature, which is what I crave.”

This was actually a lie. Hallux Dryden loved every duck he’d ever met, so long as it was stuffed and roasted. In fact, nothing compelled him to quit his vegetarianism more than a golden crackling bird steaming with sage and onion.

Mr. Bewit, of course, did not point this out.

“Come now, cousin,” he said, and Tom knew the battle was already lost the moment he began to speak. “Do not decide anything in haste. London shall be wet and empty and you shall find nothing to occupy yourself there that you could not have here. The autumn is just the time to be in the country—tomorrow, set aside your pen and quill and come on a tramp with me. I know just the spots to take you. I promise you, by the end of the day you’ll be of an entirely different mind.”

Hallux would not even consider it. “No,” he said. “We go to London.”

“We?”

“Yes, we.”

“Cousin! I would never keep you from your desire. But surely you can spare me? By your own admission, you seek
intellectual
company.” He smiled in a self-deprecating fashion that made Tom ashamed for him. “You know me, I would hate to miss even a day, much less a season of sport. I shall see that everything is ready for you—send servants ahead to ensure your comfort—spare any help you might wish…” He trailed off, seeing, as Tom did, the cruel smile hovering at the edges of Hallux’s plump-lipped mouth.

The man had no real desire to return to London. He was a tyrant, and this was a punishment, revenge on Mr. Bewit for accepting the Jepps’s invitation—and on Sabina, for her small defiance with the harp.

Mr. Bewit saw it too, and gave over with a sigh and a nod, but Sabina would not give over without a fight.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Dryden,” she said, with more surprising vigor. “We would be regarded as eccentrics of the first water if we did such a thing. If you would like to go, then go—but do not make us sacrifice our pleasure for yours.”

“It is unbecoming for anyone, man, but
especially
women, to think only of pleasure,” said Mr. Dryden primly.

“I do not think only of pleasure,” said Sabina, with equal formality. “I think of
health
. I have found country living particularly invigorating this year, and your cousin seems almost recovered from his shock of last spring. You have chosen not to take advantage of what Puriton has to offer, but you might still… the ancient Greeks believed in healthy mind, healthy body, did they not? If you are unable to properly focus your brain, it is because you spend all day cooped up indoors. Before uprooting your entire family, why not try your cousin’s advice? Society will provide nothing that solitary rambles over green pastures could not do better. Go on a walk with your cousin and see if that makes your mind more elastic. Or come with me, if you like. For the first time in a long while I feel equal to a ride, and if tomorrow is fair, I plan on going first thing.”

“Impossible,” declared Hallux. “You are too weak.”

“I am not,” she replied, eyes blazing.

Tom watched the exchange, amazed. Sabina was acting so unlike herself he wondered if she might indeed be suffering from some sort of nervous fit or episode—perhaps Hallux was right, and they ought to call for the apothecary to concoct a draught to settle her spirits.

Sabina’s transformation was agitating Hallux as well. He turned from her, looking disgusted. “Do you see, cousin?” He gestured at Sabina. “My wife is disturbed and unreasonable, and you and I are isolated. We shall go back to London. Don’t look so dismayed—for what did you join Brooks’s if not to go there and play cards? You have not had a rubber with anyone in over a fortnight.” Hallux looked from Mr. Bewit to his wife and back again. “I have every reason to insist upon this course. We shall go.”

Sabina and Mr. Bewit tried to coax Hallux out of his resolve all evening, but he would not be persuaded. The Drydens took their argument upstairs with them, when they went to bed, but Mr. Bewit took only his own poor spirits. Tom did what he could, but his entreaties and offers had no effect.

“Go,” said Mr. Bewit, looking out his window at the rain-soaked hills of Somerset, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders slumped forward in defeat. “We shall see if tomorrow Sabina and I can prevail on my cousin, but I doubt we shall. Ah, leave me! I am in no temper for company.”

“As you like, sir, but remember your nerves. Mr. Fitzwilliam said—”

“Mr. Fitzwilliam shall see me soon enough, I warrant,” said Mr. Bewit, with uncharacteristic sharpness.

Tom bowed and departed, ready for bed though it was early. It had been a trying day. What a strange family this was, that he had come to serve! Then again, he had little context to judge from; an orphan, with few memories of his father and fewer of his mother, his only point of comparison was his time with the Drays. If they had navigated similar intrigues, they had kept them apart from him. Perhaps this household was not so strange—perhaps every family had their ups and downs, their despots and slaves, their sacrifices and secrets.

Guarding his candle-flame with his hand, he trekked along the shadowy corridor toward the stairs, but he paused upon hearing a muffled cry. He’d have bet his front teeth it had been Sabina—which was odd, given her usual quietude after the door was shut and she and Hallux were alone. Sensing something was amiss, Tom blew out his candle, and setting it upon a low table, tiptoed down the hallway to their door, under which light yet spilled. Oddly, it guttered dramatically, going dark and then bright as Tom approached—odd, but then again, Hallux had complained before about the leaks and draughts of Bergamot Mews. Even so, Tom felt a strange sense of dread as he watched the light flicker, though why, he could not say.

“What has changed?” he heard Hallux say. “Your behavior has been
most
unsatisfactory, Sabina. How could you! And now, of all times? My monograph is very nearly complete; my application to the Royal Society hangs in the balance! If you fail me now, I shall never recover from the blow!”

Madly curious, Tom decided to take a risk—for Sabina’s sake, he told himself. She might need…
rescuing
, or something. Pushing steadily down on the door-handle, he tested it to see if it was locked. It wasn’t, and he let the door open barely an inch, to better hear what on earth was happening.

“Look you here!” demanded Hallux.

“Please!” she cried. “Mr. Dryden!”

Tom felt frozen—unable to act. The flickering continued, and from where he lurked Tom could see neither Hallux nor Sabina, but from the shadows cast by the lights, he could see Sabina was sitting in a chair, Hallux looming over her, behind her, holding her head in his hands so that she could not look away from…
something
. Probably one of his strange constructs. Was this, too, one of his ‘revolutionary techniques,’ meant to help Sabina’s nerves?

Whatever it was, she didn’t seem to enjoy it—at least not at first. She was struggling, but after a moment she relaxed, and he released her.

“Now, answer me—what has being a good wife to do with harp-playing?”

“Nothing,” gasped Sabina.

“That’s right. Only a vain man would want his wife to exhibit herself like a performing monkey before a crowd of onlookers.”

“Of course,” said Sabina, dreamily. “What a vulgar thing that would be, to be a monkey.”

“You are an intelligent woman, and more importantly, a modest woman—an ideal, my darling, worthy of any man’s regard. I am so proud of you, how far you’ve come… how far
we’ve
come!”