The Pleasure Merchant (46 page)

Only after she had gone did he begin to weep. Oh, how he hated Mangum Blythe! Every time their paths crossed, by accident or by design, the villain emerged the victor. It just wasn’t fair!

Most of the wine was gone now, but Tom poured himself what was left, lees and all. His tears salted it as he sipped. So much time spent—so much money wasted! And for
nothing
.

He had tried to play a game, a game he had rigged, and still he had lost. Better had he gone to Mangum Blythe and demanded the man orchestrate his own humiliation! Then, perhaps, Tom would have come away from the affair satisfied.

He looked over the uneaten supper. A thousand pounds for a few mouthfuls of chicken and some unsatisfying conversation. What a fool he was!
A thousand pounds!
More than that, even—he had no notion of how much of his loan he had spent in the course of orchestrating everything that had led him to this awful room. When it came due he would very likely be ruined. He began to mentally tally up what he would lose, and gave it up as a bad job. Instead, he reached for a chicken wing, and gnawing it to the bones, began to laugh, spraying meat and fat across the board.

Then it came to him—he could withdraw a bit more capital, for he still had some credit at Merchant and Mills. If he left enough in his account to cover the majority of the terms of his loan, he could liquidate his wardrobe and his things, and disappear without fear of creditors hounding him to the ends of the earth.

He flexed his greasy hands, noting how soft they had become. With a bit of practice he could surely regain most of what he had lost in his year away from wig-making.

He would use the remainder of Mr. Bewit’s money to open a small shop, somewhere obscure, where no one would ever recognize him. Somewhere like Puriton, where the wig-makers guild would be unlikely to target a tradesman who hadn’t completed his apprenticeship. He had once had the skill to please the picky, which meant he could certainly please those with neither taste nor discernment. Yes—that was exactly what he would do. A quiet life, keeping regular hours… maybe one day he might even find a girl almost as useful as Hizzy to marry, and if he was lucky, nearly as pretty.

Then, undoubtedly, he would be happy.

I never learned what happened to Tom Dawne after that night, but then again, I did not try to find out. I’m certain I could have discovered what decisions he made in the wake of his failure to humiliate my master, but I had so much to do upon my return to London I had no time to waste on trifles.

I suppose I have come to the end of my account. But, now that I have finished relaying all I know of the matter, I find I doubt my reasons for ever beginning it in the first place.

I had intended this novel to be a moral tale—no, a
cautionary
tale. A warning, not to the ambitious, but to the unsatisfied—or rather, the unsatisfiable.

Instead, I find I have written… I know not what. A grotesque of a grotesque; a novel as morally bankrupt as its protagonist. And I say that not knowing who should be called the protagonist…

I intended this to be an honest depiction of that fateful year, but I know it is not—and worse than that, even, I realize in the writing of it, I have betrayed myself. I have shown more of my flaws than those of my intended subject, simply because whenever it was impossible to know something, I have had to fill in any missing details with likely-seeming falsifications. At least I may take some comfort in knowing that you will likely never guess which parts are true, and which are inventions.

Yes… you may think I have painted a flattering portrait of myself, but I assure you, looking over what I have written, my depiction of Tom bears more similarity to myself than I am wholly comfortable with—and the more flattering depictions of myself are simply narcissism and vainglory flavored with an old woman’s desire to memorialize her youth. I am content, but there is a certain pleasure to be found in spinning a yarn other than the sort that covers one’s hands with wool-oil and sheep-smell…

I have forgotten so much that was real, and remembered many things that may never have happened. Was Tom really the person who has appeared in these pages? Was Mr. Blythe, or even Hallux Dryden?

Was I?

Ah, but what is the purpose of an epilogue? Certainly not to muse at length on what a novel
contains
—no, it is to elaborate upon that which was left out. I think, having come this far, you may wish to know what happened to those who played a more minor part in this story than Tom—Mrs. Knoyll, Mr. Blythe, Sabina… and myself, though that may just be my arrogance whispering to me, alongside the rest of these ghosts.

First, Mrs. Knoyll. I am happy to say that her tumble in the rented rooms did her no lasting damage. She suffered some bruising about her ribs, side waist, and posterior, and knocked her knee rather badly, but within a month she was perfectly recovered.

When I interviewed her about Tom’s conduct that night, I had to extrapolate much. She was far less willing to report on his folly than Mr. Blythe, who went so far as to write down the contents of their conversations, when I told him I wished to keep a personal record of these events. Those passages are likely the most accurate, now that I have decided to make that private record public…

I get the impression Mrs. Knoyll was embarrassed for Tom—that she pitied him. I was not able to devote as much time as I might have liked to her, given the complexity of her character; know, then, that she was a queer creature, hard and soft in equal measure. At public rallies and in private salons I saw her viciously denounce politicians and individuals who supported the institution of slavery, resisted the advancement of women’s rights, or supported the enclosure of commons. But whenever Tom Dawne was mentioned, she would go quiet, shake her head, and excuse herself until she was certain the subject had changed.

It is my pleasure to tell you that she and Mr. Blythe lived quite happily in their own unconventional way. Their lives, while divided by circumstance, were cleaved together through mutual affection, confidence in the heart of the other, and patience. Only that patience went unrewarded, for Mrs. Knoyll predeceased her husband, succumbing to a suppurating tumor in her breast when she still had more dark hairs on her head than gray. Her husband, good man, allowed Mr. Blythe to stay with her during her final days, and aid her in any way he could while she faded.

If Mr. Blythe ever connected with another as he did with Mrs. Knoyll, I never knew of it. He was most affected by her passing, but before and afterwards he continued to work, and to take immense pleasure in it, until the end of his days. Those like me, who knew him well, were not surprised. He was a fine master, a constant source of inspiration for me. I miss him every day, and until I retired, long after training my own apprentice, I strove to emulate him in the way I conducted both myself and my business.

In only one way did I deviate from his methods. When Mr. Blythe completed his apprenticeship, he moved away from his mistress and set up his own enterprise. I had no compelling reason to sever ties with him, as he did with the one who trained him, and so I lived with him until his passing.

It was not always easy, remaining so close to him, for I never ceased to care for him. It was difficult, at times, but he was not—nor was he ever—my only love. I have had many affairs over the years, some that lasted, others that were mere momentary pleasures, enduring only in their ability to make an old woman smile as she recollects them.

And of course, there was my dear Amadi Reed, whom I discovered more fully the same night I discovered my own past. He and I never separated; how could we, being bound together not only by mutual affection, but mutual disappointment? It is difficult for me to say which bond was the stronger, but I hope—no, I believe—it was the love and pleasure we always gave one another.

Growing old with him has been wonderful. The truth is, I have only one regret from my youth, and that is in not hiring Mr. Blythe on my own behalf. I was too proud to pay him for the pleasure. I know now this was foolish, but until he died I dreamed he would break his oath, confess that he loved me, take me in his arms… but of course, he did not. I have no reason to doubt he loved me, but in spite of Tom’s doubts, Mangum Blythe was a man of honor, and kept his vow until the end.

I have always told my clients that it was better to regret the things one did, rather than the things one declined to do. If only I had followed my own advice! I do not doubt it would have been an absolutely extraordinary experience. But, my life has been full of extraordinary experiences; it seems petty to lament its imperfections.

But, as a counterpoint, there is one opportunity I am happy to have declined—I never contacted my relations, any of them, after returning to London. Nor did they ever seek me out. What became of Hallux Dryden, I cannot say. I do not know whether he continued in his researches, finished his monograph, was accepted to the Royal Society… or if he ever found or created another woman willing to tolerate him. I cannot even tell you if he was brought to justice for the murder he committed. After wandering the woods to find her grave, I left a wreath upon a patch of loam that felt right, and left an anonymous note for the magistrate of the village containing an account of what happened to her, and let the affair go.

As for my brother Callow, I hope he led a happy life, but given what I know of him, I fear he was not disposed to joy.

Before I put down my pen for the final time I must do as I promised and tell you of Sabina. Many decades have passed since that cold, dreary morning when she and I departed by stage from London to investigate the fate of her lover, yet we three remain close friends. Indeed, when I told her of my retirement she invited Reed and me to move to the country, and live with her and Lysandra at Memento Memoriam, their small farm where since their reunion they have lived happily together, tending their poultry, preserving their strawberries, and weaving the very fine wool from their flock of sheep into shawls for the poor. We all get along most amiably, never quarreling, all enjoying our various occupations. I do not think I flatter myself when I claim it was this mutual similarity of temperaments that caused them to invite us to stay with them. I made it quite clear when I gave them the capital to buy whatever estate most pleased them that it was given with no strings attached. But of course, it is most gratifying to every day behold the good done by my father’s final gift to me.

So yes, we found Lysandra. She had left the convent after coming of age and was living on her own in a quiet boarding house, her only income an annuity willed to her by some distant aunt. She had refused to marry, and refused to see her family again, after her father abandoned her to what he had called ‘a period of quiet, to reflect on her sins.’

As you have no doubt guessed, she was very glad to see Sabina, and Sabina to see her. Tears were naturally shed when it was revealed just why Sabina had disappeared without a note, and exactly what Hallux Dryden had done to her mind as he took advantage of her person. But, I shall not dwell any more on that tragedy—it gives me great pleasure to tell you that in spite of everything she endured, Sabina has led a happy life. She does not remember why she loves Lysandra, but she knows that she does. That has been enough for them both.

The Pleasure Merchant
is dedicated to two very real, very unfortunate orphans, who long ago were adopted by the poet and philosopher Thomas Day. Day, on whom I not-so-loosely based Hallux Dryden, was also unlucky in love; because of that, he resolved to train himself a wife (though to my knowledge he did so without the use of the sinister science of onarprotrepsis). Day’s journey, however, began where Hallux’s first attempt ended; he visited the Orphan Hospital at Shrewsbury and picked out two comely girls, Ann and Dorcas, renamed them Sabrina and Lucretia, and took them to France to educate their minds and cultivate their personalities.