by Molly Tanzer
Haven’t heard from you… worried about you… have you had any luck with Mr. Bewit… do write when you can… miss you… think every day of our future shop and family… please do write to me…
Tom frowned. He knew Hizzy well enough to know she did not mean to nag him, worrying at him like a dog worries a bone, but the girl should understand that he was no magician. He couldn’t just make things happen. She should trust her future husband to know he was doing his best.
He tossed the letter aside and it fluttered pathetically to the floor like a broken-winged dove as he fell into bed. He could not help but compare Hizzy to Sabina. Sabina did not plague Hallux; no, it was quite clear she saw Hallux as infallible, at a minimum. Her love seemed less like that of a woman for her husband, and more like a heirophant for a god.
It would be a fine thing indeed to find himself a girl like that—a girl who saw him as her lord and master, a king, a godling. Perhaps Hizzy might learn, given enough time. And if she didn’t, well, he’d find someone else. An ideal mate, not just a convenient one.
As he drifted off, it seemed to Tom he could see before him the face of the woman he would one day marry. Chestnut curls framed her sweet face, her cheeks rosy with laughter, her skin pearl-pale, only lightly dusted with powder. She was fussing with an enormous old-fashioned wig, doing something with fine catgut and a needle, lifting the curls one by one as her fingers flew.
“It was made in Versailles,” she said, not looking up from her work.
“The wig?”
“No, the time,” she said, withdrawing a silver pocket watch from her… frock coat?
Tom sat up in bed with a start, very awake with his heart pounding and his cock standing, pressing gently but urgently against his smallclothes and lifting the duvet. He tried to urge it down; it troubled him deeply that the girl in his dream had turned out to be Callow Bewit—or, at least, the boy who had come into Mr. Dray’s shop pretending at being Callow Bewit. Giving the nightmare up as a bad job, Tom leaned back on his pillow and closed his eyes. Eventually his cockstand subsided. He fell asleep, and by morning he had forgotten all about the dream.
First thing the next morning Tom cornered Holland to sincerely and profusely apologize for stepping on the valet’s toes, if indeed he had done so. He might have overdone it a bit, actually, but he did not want the man harboring a grudge; Tom hated to think he’d lost all the ground he might have gained by making himself pleasant and cheerful.
Holland assured him that he wasn’t displeased with Tom at all. His first duty was to Mr. Bewit, as he put it, and if Tom’s unique expertise helped him better please the man, well, that was wonderful. Holland was perfectly polite about it… but Tom suspected it wouldn’t be the end of the matter, even after several days of unforced cordiality between valet and cup-bearer.
Unfortunately, the results of Tom’s indiscretion did end up materializing… but as a change in the other servants toward him. Tom could not fail to notice that where the staff had been friendly, they now treated him more like a visitor and less as one of their number. Even Mrs. Jervis seemed distant. Tom was curious just what Holland had told them—for he was sure that must be the source of the coolness—but decided to carry on as normal. All he could do was hope his new unpopularity would blow over, as he had learned most things did in the servant’s quarters, like the time one of the serving girls was found to have snuck the fishmonger’s boy into her room during working hours. She had been called a slut and a piper’s wife, and had her bottom pinched by housemaid and footman alike for a few merry days, but now was let alone for the most part. Sadly, even after a fortnight, Tom saw no evidence of a sea change.
At least Mr. Bewit’s favor had not waned; if anything, he kept Tom closer. It was a rare evening that Tom spent alone in his room; usually, he was summoned to Mr. Bewit’s side the moment he was dressed, if not before, and was bid to remain until the man was ready for bed. The hours were long, but that was just fine by Tom. The less time he spent below stairs the better—for his peace of mind, and for the other servants’. After all, he reasoned, eventually they would forget about whatever canard Holland had spread that prejudiced them against him.
His optimism was not rewarded.
One afternoon late in the spring Mr. Bewit could not find a book that a friend had asked to borrow. It was not in the library, nor had any of the family taken it. Mr. Bewit prided himself on keeping an excellent record of what books he had lent, and to whom; thus, he was convinced it had to be somewhere on the premises. Thinking he might have shelved it in one of the guest rooms, he sent Tom to the third floor to check the bookshelves there.
As Tom gained the landing, he heard what sounded an awful lot like fucking. Intrigued, he crept along the hallway as quietly as he could. The first room was empty, but the second had two occupants. For a time, Tom idly listened to the giggling, rustling, and groaning, not particularly curious beyond natural human prurience. He rubbed himself through his trousers, adjusting the angle of his stiffening cock, wondering who was having a go with whom, and where they were in the act. If it was early enough in the proceedings he might be able to get in a quick frig, and had just decided to press the advantage when he heard his name.
“I do hope you’re not disappointed that, ungh, it’s not, ungh, Tom doing this to you. I know you, ungh, fancied him for a time.”
It was Holland’s voice! Tom’s arousal subsided, replaced with burning curiosity. Who had fancied him? And if so, why was she fucking Holland?
“Well, from what you, ah, said, he never would have looked at me even if I’d, ah, snuck into his room and climbed atop him with my skirts raised. It’s a shame, but I ain’t, ah, in the habit of offering what’s not, ah, wanted.”
It was Kitty! Tom grew rather warm under the collar—Kitty wouldn’t have been his first choice among the serving girls, but neither would she have been his last. Regardless, he certainly wouldn’t have turned her down under those circumstances. In fact, without Hizzy around, he’d hesitate before turning down an offer from one of the more girlish footmen.
“He’s an, ungh, arrogant, ungh, bastard. You’re much better off, ungh, with me, ungh. I might currently be, ungh, atop you, but I’d never, ungh, look down my nose at you.”
“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 a
n 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?”
