The Pleasure Merchant (27 page)

“Beastly day,” he said, shaking raindrops from his hair when at last he found her overseeing a maid who was pressing Mr. Bewit’s burial suit in the cramped and steamy shed. “Mrs. Jervis, let me apologize for oversleeping. I—”

“You didn’t oversleep,” she said softly, running her finger over the barest wrinkle in Mr. Bewit’s best shirt, and shaking her head before handing it back to the girl.

“Oh.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Good, then.”

Mrs. Jervis sighed. “Tom… Master Cal—
Mr. Bewit
, I should say, and Mr. Dryden… they informed us this morning that you… must pack your things and go. As quickly as you are able. You are no longer employed here.”

Tom realized he should have been expecting this from the moment Mr. Fitzwilliam had shaken his head at Mr. Bewit’s bedside. “I see.”

“You are excused from all duties,” she said, as if he might not understand the implications of being sacked.

“Yes. I understand.”

“But… as neither mentioned your clothes, nor the gifts Mr. Bewit gave you, I would say you are free to take everything the kind man gave you.” Mrs. Jervis’s voice sounded tight, constricted, and her eyes were red. Tom wondered if she might cry; wondered if it could be for his sake, or if it was all for their master. “Nor did they expressly forbid anyone writing you a letter of reference. Tom… whatever our personal differences might have been, you served Mr. Bewit well. If you find yourself requiring assistance getting another position, please… don’t hesitate to ask.”

Tom was truly grateful—of course he was. Clothes and gifts and a recommendation to some new place were all fine things, to be sure.

But more on his mind was ten thousand pounds, in cash. “Thank you very much, he said. “But Mrs. Jervis, ah, have you any idea…”

“Yes?”

“When… they will…” Tom licked his lips, but could not make them form the words
read the will
.

“Will what? The funeral? Tom, it will be family only…”

“Yes, of course.” He bowed to her. “Well. You reprimanded me once for calling you madam, but now I am no longer yours to reprimand. Therefore… I bid you good day,
madam
.”

“Good luck… Master Tom.” Her slight smile drew one from him. It was almost a relief to hear the familiar epithet in this house that was no longer his home.

As Tom dashed through the drizzle back across the yard and into the house he resolved to locate Mr. Wallace first thing. Not wishing to be caught out of doors without a guinea to his name, he would go and see him before even asking after a sturdy crate.

Thankfully Mr. Wallace was close at hand—he had set himself up in Mr. Bewit’s study. It felt strange to Tom to tread the well-worn path for his own purposes, rather than those of another, but it wasn’t half so strange as entering to find Mr. Wallace behind the familiar desk.

“Ah, Tom,” he said, looking up and removing his spectacles. “I’m not surprised to see you, not at all. I’m only amazed you waited so long.”

Tom ignored the man’s arch tone, and decided to plunge right in. “Mr. Wallace, I’ve been… dismissed from my position here. I have come therefore to ask you to release to me the ten thousand pounds we both know Mr. Bewit wished me to have.” Mr. Wallace was watching him with amused detachment that did not make Tom feel at all confident about the success of his inquiry. “I know, ah, it is customary to wait to… disburse… assets… until after the reading of the will,” said Tom, throwing out all the vaguely legal words that came to mind, “but under the circumstances, I’d rather hoped… what?”

“Disburse assets after the reading of the will?” Mr. Wallace laughed. “My
dear
boy. I fear I must disabuse you of certain notions. The reading of the will is merely that—the reading of the will. I shall not be piling up Mr. Bewit’s goodies and then handing them out like St. Nicholas at a Dutch yuletide feast. No indeed. At the reading, I shall read, and then you can wait like any other mortal for your ten thousand pounds. If you ever get it.”

“What do you mean—
if
I get it?”

“Likely Callow and Mr. Dryden will contest that portion of the will. They will say Mr. Bewit was dying, that he could not be trusted to make a sound decision—and I rather agree with them.” Tom, horrified, made bold to take a chair. “The money could be tied up for years, unless you hire a lawyer equal to myself, and… well, you would need your ten thousand pounds to hire a lawyer equal to myself. It’s a very sticky situation.”

“But Mr. Wallace…” Tom decided to play to the man’s better instincts. “You of course understand I wish to discharge my duty to Mr. Bewit as quickly as I can. Poor Alula! Think of her!”

“
Even if
the girl in question is really Alula Bewit—which, between you and me, I rather doubt—and
even if
I believed you actually intended to give her a portion of the money—
which I don’t
,” Tom bristled at this, “my hands are tied. It would be a grave matter indeed if I were to unlock that safe and just hand you ten thousand pounds out of it.”

Tom’s gaze turned toward said safe.

“Then again…”

Something about the man’s tone made Tom sit up straighter in his chair.

“The thing is, Tom, I haven’t gotten around to drawing up all the necessary documents.” Mr. Wallace smiled wanly. “I just had Mr. Bewit sign the paper that would eventually bear his wishes upon it, knowing what a state he was in.” He held up a sheet of parchment, sealed, signed, but with no words upon it. “I see no reason why I need mention the ten thousand pounds due to you…”

“Good God!” Tom leaped out of the chair and began to pace in excitement. “Mr. Wallace, please—I
do
intend to locate Alula, and give to her what is hers, I swear it! You may think me a knave, but I cared for Mr. Bewit, and would see his wishes done.”

“What is that to me, once you leave with it?” Mr. Wallace surveyed him coolly. “Give it to any whore on the street, for all I care.”

It suddenly dawned on him what Mr. Wallace was about. “How much?” he asked. “How much will it cost me?”

“Nothing you cannot afford. Just a small and entirely reasonable fee. Shall we say… five percent of the sum?”

“Five hundred pounds?” Tom stared at the man, mouth hanging open. “You want me to give you five hundred pounds?”

“Why not? You can afford it. Or rather… you will be able to, if you don’t refuse me.” He tented his fingers over the paper that lay between his elbows, guarding it. “Well?”

“Why not take it from Callow’s share?” Tom knew in the broad scheme of things that five hundred pounds was as nothing to ten thousand—or rather, to nine thousand, five hundred—but still, it rankled.

“Don’t tell a surgeon how he should bleed his patients,” joked Mr. Wallace, in what Tom thought was very poor taste considering the circumstances. “I shall exact what I see fit from young Master Callow, too.”

“All right!” Disgusted, Tom turned away. When he had control of himself once again, he turned to Mr. Wallace to find the man crouching over the safe. From it, he withdrew a stack of bills of all denominations—Mr. Bewit’s savings. It was maddening to watch him flip through the notes, taking one here, another there. Tom tried to take what comfort he could in that the other pile was so much the thicker.

“I’d go, and quickly,” advised Mr. Wallace, pocketing his own money as he handed Tom the rest. “Callow and that rascal Hallux don’t know any of this—and I’ll keep it that way, as long as I never see you ever again. Do I make myself clear? Oh, and Tom?”

“What?”

“My advice would be to head straight to Merchant and Mills. They’re a decent institution—I assure you they’ll take care of your money. And best of all, they won’t ask too many questions when you open your account. Most other banks would want to know where someone like
you
came by ten thousand pounds. Or, I should say, nine thousand, five hundred…”

Tom did not deign to speak to the man. A brusque nod was his only acknowledgment, as he took his leave.

He did not tarry outside Mr. Bewit’s office, nor as he strode down the hall. He only paused once, at Sabina Dryden’s door… but not knowing where Hallux might be lurking, Tom elected not to knock or say his farewells. He had hardly seen her since their return to London, but that was as he wished it. Anyway, he could not think of his former affection for her without a sense of shame. Now that he was assured she was happy in her situation, he would let her enjoy it in peace. She did not need rescuing, as he had once believed.

If there was anyone who needed rescuing, it was Miss Rasa—Alula Bewit. She was on her own, helpless, in thrall to a guardian who did nothing to guard her from the world, according to Mr. Bewit.

Turning on his heel, Tom headed down the stair. He had a new life to begin, and he was eager to begin it.

Before I tell you more of Tom, I believe it is finally time to tell you something of myself—and more importantly, of my master, whom it was my sad duty to blackguard while recounting Mr. Bewit’s personal perspective on their dealings. My father’s personal perspective, I should say, for yes, I was Alula Bewit.

I say
was
, for I am not she.

She is a part of me, and always will be, but no more than that. I used to think she was gone forever, but that is not true… she lurks below my surface, forever lost in the deep and murky depths of my past, tethered by an uncuttable cable to an anchor of someone else’s design, a faint ripple the only indication she is there at all.

Goodness. I have just read over what I wrote, and even I must laugh at its strangeness. I cannot imagine what you must feel.

I cannot say why is it so much easier for me to write of Tom than of myself. I am not a shy person—any number of clients will attest to
that
—but then again, what I show them of myself is not the whole of who I am.

But that in and of itself is not unusual. To whom does anyone really bare the whole of their soul?

Not to one’s parents—never to them, certainly not. For a parent to be too free with a child is to court contempt; the stakes are just as high, and just as dangerous, for a child to reveal herself to a parent. A distance must be maintained if they are to get along.

The same goes for lovers. There are always things which must be kept from lovers, even—perhaps especially—if those lovers become spouses.

And as for strangers… now that is curious. I find it very tempting to tell
you
much about myself, much more than I ordinarily would reveal to a friend. I shall never meet you, so your scorn or admiration, hatred or adoration, will never affect me in the slightest.

I suppose when you read this I may already be
dead
. I do not mean to be macabre, but books routinely outlive their authors.

No. I will tell you what you need to know, and no more. It has worked well enough, while recounting Tom’s adventures. After all, I have not told you his favorite food, though I know it, nor whether he dresses to the right or the left, though I know that information as well.

Only what is material, then.

The night Tom Dawne found me I walked home. There were plenty of cabs, but I wanted to think, and walking has always helped me do just that.

At that moment, had you asked me, I would have said I admired Tom—at least a little. It had been terribly bold of him to come up to me like that, even—perhaps especially—when he thought I was a man. I have always respected pure nerve, and confronting someone in a public place, and in front of their friends, took quite a lot of it.

My friends. Lord. I’d never hear the end of it from them.

They had always been understandably curious about my occupation—how could they not be? There was little I could tell them, and what I did was always rather… well, sensational, I suppose.

It wasn’t that I feared a rebuke from my master if I had told them
what I was
. I knew I should not be turned out of doors, as Tom was, when he was an apprentice.

Neither did I worry my associates would drop me if they knew the particulars of my profession. They had their own foibles, every one of them. But secrecy, for me, was not merely a habit; it was a part of who I was. Who I had become. Who I still am, really…

No, in that moment, what I feared was what Mr. Blythe would say when I told him about Tom—his situation, I mean. He would not be pleased to know we had injured an innocent in our dealings with Mr. Bewit.

Amadi Reed opened the door for me, rubbing at his eyes. I had woken him. It was very late, but with the sounds coming from the parlor I was amazed he had been able to sleep at all. Then again, as Mr. Blythe’s valet and bodyguard, he was as used to such things as I.

“That’s right!” cried a woman, muffled but still understandable through the door. “I know you can take it! Spread them—wider—
wider!”
Then came the sharp sound of skin striking skin, and an answering yelp.

“Good lord, woman,” came the reply. My master’s voice. “You’ve already sunk it to the hilt. Go a bit easier on the man, he’s being an awfully good sport.”