by Molly Tanzer
“No,” said the lackey, eyeing the assembly. “Good day.”
Dick shut the door, and looked from the note to Mr. Bewit.
“Bring it here,” said Mr. Bewit, obviously intrigued. Not only did the man practically tear it open, he scanned it eagerly in front of everyone.
“By Jove!” he cried, and then collapsed.
***
Before I tell you what happened next, I think it would be wise if I revealed what had caused the usually mild Mr. Bewit to become so furious at Daniel Holland and Kitty the maid. Of course, this is mostly extrapolation, but given my knowledge of the principle players, and the interviews I have conducted over the years, I believe it to be as accurate an account as everything else I have reported to you.
Though at first disinclined to investigate what he had declared a relatively minor infraction, Mr. Bewit’s mind had returned time and again to what Tom had told him. Inevitably, perhaps, when the clock struck three he found himself possessed of a burning curiosity regarding the affair. That, as Tom had told him, was the fatal hour—and before the bell for quarter-past sounded Mr. Bewit found he could resist no longer. Quietly he slipped into the hall; after ascending the staircase, he kept to the carpet when he gained the corridor to dampen his footfalls.
First he heard, as Tom had, the grunts and creaks and moans that usually accompany the act of love, but also whispered conversation. Intrigued, Mr. Bewit crept yet closer.
It might not have gone as badly for the couple if they had not once again decided to speak of others when they had better reason to be focusing on themselves. Unfortunately, Holland was rather cross that afternoon, and was using Kitty’s ear as well as her more personal parts to vent his frustrations. Angrily, he spoke of how Mr. Bewit had spoken fondly of Tom that morning—their master had noted with pleasure how Tom’s suggestion of using pomade had greatly reduced the amount of wig-powder Holland used to make his wigs look smart. Holland had taken the remark as a slight, and was complaining in the strongest of terms to Kitty of what it was like to serve “an oaf who cannot discern a flatterer,” and accused “Mr. Bean-Wits” of being “less sensible than a violin to when he is being played.”
Neither the complaints nor the unflattering pun on his name sat well with Mr. Bewit, but his temper was further roused when Kitty replied that Mr. Bewit’s preference for Tom must simply be poor taste—certainly there was no other explanation for why a man with his apparent intelligence would sleep in the second-best bedroom and work in the second-best study, as well as preferring Tom to Holland.
No longer inclined to be lenient, Mr. Bewit flew into the room, letting the pair know his opinion of both of them as he let his hand punctuate his sentiments. It was not a pretty scene. Kitty screamed and wept as Holland, shoving his wilting cock back into his breeches, stammered feeble apologies. Neither performance convinced Mr. Bewit that he had not been most egregiously wronged, which is why he chased them to the front hall.
I bring this information to your attention not to keep you in suspense over Mr. Bewit’s collapse, but to elucidate his heated frame of mind when he received the note from Brooks’s. The intensity of the pairing proved simply too much stimulation, precipitating his frightening and embarrassing loss of consciousness.
***
“Tiercel!” Hallux Dryden was at his cousin’s side, fingers at his neck, before anyone else could reach him. “He’s alive!” he announced, to Tom’s extreme relief. “He’s just fainted. Someone send for Mr. Fitzwilliam, and someone else help me move him into bed!”
Tom and Holland moved toward the stairs at the same time, but Mrs. Jervis put her hand on Holland’s shoulder, restraining him with a touch. Though anxious to help his master, he also dearly wanted to stay to hear what Mrs. Jervis would say to Holland.
“Let the others do it,” is all she whispered. “You must go and pack your things.”
“Surely, under the circumstances—”
“Mr. Bewit was not at all confused when he expressed his desire for you to go.” She pushed him gently toward the servant’s stair. “Leave an address where you may be contacted. If he changes his mind, someone will let you know.”
Holland’s face went red as a boiled lobster. He whirled, advancing on Tom.
“You,” he cried. “It was you!”
“Of course it was!” sniffled Kitty, beginning to cry again. “How could you, Tom? And after…”
“It was me what?” asked Tom, with such an innocent air he almost convinced himself he’d had nothing to do with the scandal. “I don’t even know why he was so cross with you, I’ve been helping polish the silver all afternoon. What happened?”
“Yes… what did happen?” asked Mrs. Jervis, looking up at Holland. “What were you two doing that made him so angry?”
“None of your business,” snarled Mr. Bewit’s former valet. Kitty, with a sob, held her apron to her face again, and would not look up from it.
“Well!” exclaimed Mrs. Jervis. “I would say it was indeed my business, if you were not leaving. As it is, perhaps you’d better go, and at once.”
Holland raised his hand, as if he might strike Tom or Mrs. Jervis, but the moment passed without incident when Hallux Dryden called to Tom from upstairs, demanding his immediate presence. Mr. Bewit had awoken, and asked for him.
“I am needed,” said Tom, keeping his face carefully empty of any expression save concern for his master. “Pray excuse me. And Holland…”
“What?”
“Good luck,” he said, and scampered away without a backwards glance at either him or Kitty. He paused only once before entering Mr. Bewit’s bedchamber—to pocket the crumpled letter that lay forgotten on the landing.
Mr. Bewit had awakened but briefly from his stupor, to beg Hallux to summon Tom. He was roused again, when the doctor arrived, but after drinking a concoction of wine, laudanum, lavender, and gentian he fell into a deep sleep, and did not stir.
“He should take another dose when he wakes,” said Mr. Fitzwilliam, setting a phial upon the nightstand. “I do not fear for his recovery; it seems he was simply over-excited and collapsed from the strain. One of the servants was good enough to describe to me the circumstances of his fall; I believe his nerves were simply—”
“If any diagnosis of nervous complaints is needed,” said Hallux airily, “I believe I should be the one to do it.”
“Yes… of course…” said Mr. Fitzwilliam, not sounding at all certain that was indeed the case. “Forgive me, Mr. Dryden. I did not mean to offend.”
“I am not offended.” Hallux stuck his nose in the air. “I agree with your assessment. It is my informed opinion that he should recover, and quickly.”
Tom was very glad to hear it. Mr. Bewit’s collapse had given him a genuine start, and the favorable prognosis genuine relief… and not only because without Mr. Bewit, Tom would not have a position.
“My only real concern is for the future.” Mr. Fitzwilliam eyed Hallux, to see if he would again be interrupted. “Mr. Bewit should be kept from overexcitement for several months at a minimum. I fear he may have a relapse, and of a more serious nature, if he is not kept calm and quiet. As for now, he requires nothing more than rest. I advise you assign someone to stay with him until he wakes.”
“The boy here will.” Hallux gestured to Tom with a jut of his chin. “I would of course do anything for my cousin, but he asked for Tom specifically, and would not be easy until the lad was in sight. Most convenient, as my important researches cannot brook further delay. Who knows—perhaps my cousin really will suffer another episode, and I will be called upon to assist him.” He sounded ghoulishly hopeful about the prospect, and when he swept dramatically out of the room, Tom noticed he was smiling.
Mr. Fitzwilliam seemed torn between amusement and disapproval. “Well,” he said, shutting his bag, “it’s up to you, Tom, so I leave you to it. He’ll be groggy when he wakes, but that’s all right. Send for me if there’s any real change; otherwise I shall stop by tomorrow mor
ning.” And he too left Tom alone with only his thoughts for company.
It was a dull office to sit by a sleeping man, no matter how much one might enjoy his company when he was awake. Other than mulling over his triumph regarding Holland, Tom had little to do, so he lit some candles, and scanned the bookshelves for something, anything, entertaining, finally settling in with The Adventures of David Simple.
As the sun set, a storm rolled in. Tom lit a few more candles as thunder boomed, and rain spattered the window. It being late in May, the weather had been warm; even so, Tom was most grateful when a housemaid brought him a tray with some crusty bread, a bowl of soup, and a pot of tea.
Not long after he had finished his repast he heard a rustling. Mr. Bewit stirred and raised his head.
“Tom?” was his quiet call. “Is that you?”
“Yes, Mr. Bewit.” Tom was at his side in an instant. “How are you, sir? The doctor said you were to have another glass of—”
“Never mind that, I’m fine,” said Mr. Bewit, scooting against the pillows to sit up. “A glass of cognac to wet my mouth is all I want. And get yourself one, if you like.”
He seemed a bit woozy, as the doctor had predicted, but well enough otherwise. Tom decanted a liberal dose for his master, and after handing it over, poured himself his first-ever taste of the stuff.
“I’m dreadfully sorry to have given you all such a start,” said Mr. Bewit, after taking a few long pulls. “I’ve made such a fool of myself.”
“Not at all, sir. You are the most even-tempered man I ever met. If you were made angry by something I’m sure it was justified.”
Mr. Bewit’s pale face reddened. “If they had been merely abusing my trust, that would be one thing. But abusing my name! To overhear your most trusted servant thinks you a fool and an imbecile… to hear yourself mocked…” Mr. Bewit’s bleary eyes momentarily focused on Tom, as he studiously kept all signs of interest from his face. “You did well to tell me what you heard, though you could not know the full extent of Holland’s betrayal. But I confess, that was not what really caused my fit,” he said, and sighed. “How silly of me, to be—” Lightning sizzled across the night sky, startling them both.
“Silly, sir?” Tom asked, looking back to his master. Ordinarily, Tom wouldn’t have pressed the man, but he got the sense that Mr. Bewit wanted to be drawn out.
“Yes, of course. You wouldn’t know.” Mr. Bewit looked around. “Did the letter I received make it up here?”
Tom had completely forgotten about the note after he’d tucked it into his pocket. He withdrew it hastily. “I retrieved it for you, sir,” he explained, as Mr. Bewit watched him, “and then in the chaos, forgot it entirely—I’m sorry, it’s quite crumpled.”
“That’s all right. I must have given you all quite a turn. Well, go on—read it.”
Tom set down his cognac and pulled the letter from its envelope. The stationery was very fine and the waxen seal a rich flame yellow.
Dear Mr. Bewit,
We are pleased to inform you that not only has your name come up for Brooks’s, our current members have agreed you would be a most suitable addition to our number.
If you are interested in becoming a member of our club, please do let us know and we will take care of everything. While the formal induction ceremony and banquet will not take place until 5 June, you should consider yourself welcome to make use of our facilities upon receipt of this letter. Your name is already known to our staff.
With pleasure,
Your servant,
Phillip Whitehead
Membership Coordinator
Brooks’s
So Mr. Bewit had been up for Brooks’s, too! That meant it would have been in his best interest to see Mr. Mauntell blackballed… especially if, say, his rival had been first in line. It wasn’t evidence that Mr. Bewit had played a rôle in the farce that precipitated Tom’s dismissal from Dray’s, but it was at least an opportunity to start a conversation about the affair…
“This is wonderful news, sir,” said Tom, refolding the letter to give himself an excuse to compose himself. “Congratulations. I hear that Brooks’s is very exclusive. You must be thrilled.”
“Yes.” Mr. Bewit took another meditative swallow of cognac. He didn’t actually seem all that happy, but that wasn’t too surprising, given his strange tendency to grow melancholy over good news.
“It’s a shame the doctor’s orders were to keep you in bed,” said Tom, trying to mollify his master, “otherwise you could go tonight.”
“Yes, it is too bad.” Mr. Bewit sighed. “It was my fondest wish for so long… to make Brooks’s, I mean. But now that I have…” He shook his head.
“Sir?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just… now that I’m in, I cannot help but think there is so much I ought to have cared more about than that, were I not the sort of man to let ambition rule my reason.”
Tom wasn’t following him at all. “I’m afraid I don’t understand…”
“Of course you don’t. You’re young.” Mr. Bewit’s sad smile quirked to one side. “You will find, Tom, as you learn more of the world, that sometimes, when a man’s desires are realized, they often pale beside what might have been had one not sacrificed certain things to achieve them.” He emptied his glass with another long pull of the fragrant distillation; Tom leapt up to refill it. He wanted to keep Mr. Bewit talking. He tried to think of a way to ask just what Mr. Bewit had ‘sacrificed’ to get into Brooks’s—and if those sacrifices had to do with a certain wig—but didn’t know how to phrase the question without seeming too interested. Thankfully, Mr. Bewit answered his unspoken question after taking another sip.
“I sacrificed little enough to get into Brooks’s, that is true,” he said. “A little of my time… some money. And yet I’m certain those hours and pounds might have been spent more thoughtfully. I mean—really, Tom, tell me honest, do you think I should go to Geneva?”
Perhaps Mr. Bewit wasn’t quite over that dose of laudanum the doctor had given him. “Sir? Why would you go to Geneva?”
“To visit Callow. To get to know my son better. To guide him. He is a spendthrift and a coxcomb, and while I have done my best with the boy, he has turned out a ruin. Only now it occurs to me how little time I have spent with him since he went off to school! He has had much opportunity to fall under fell influences, and I fear what I once thought were mere youthful indiscretions show signs of becoming permanent flaws.”
Mr. Bewit had never much spoken of his son. Tom had asked a few questions here and there—being careful to keep away from what Mrs. Jervis might consider “gossip”—and had come to the conclusion that the boy in the wig shop must have really been an impostor, for none of the descriptions matched the lad who had come in that morning. Cook had called Callow “limp,” and Kitty had once described him as “the worst-tempered young man in London.” When Mr. Bewit’s hostler had spat and opined that “no amount of perfume could disguise the scent of a turd,” Tom had stopped asking; the matter seemed settled.
“Well…” said Tom, trying to think of something to say, “why not go? I’m certain you’ll be feeling better by the time the necessary arrangements can be made.” Tom idly wondered if an impromptu trip to Switzerland would be considered ‘too much excitement’ by Mr. Fitzwilliam—but it wasn’t for him to decide.
“I know he does not want me.” Mr. Bewit’s lower lip trembled before he could compose himself. “Ah, but to be fair, what young man would? All fledglings long to forget the nest when they take their first flights. And yet it plagues me. You see what I am trying to say? Why should I celebrate getting into Brooks’s when I know I might have spent my time endeavoring to raise a wiser son?”
This was nothing Tom knew how to answer, so he improvised. “A man can have a good day at the racetrack but a miserable night at cards, can he not, sir?” Mr. Bewit was looking at him curiously. “I just mean you need not condemn a success because you perceive a failure elsewhere.”
> Thunder rumbled, and wind gusted, sending a spray of raindrops against the windowpane. “You’re right, of course,” said Mr. Bewit, “but I tell you truly… if I could, I would trade my membership for a son who did not despise me. I would trade it, as well, for my cousin’s respect. But, to his mind I am as feckless as my son. I read novels instead of journals, follow racing rather than politics, and have no real opinion on colonial independence. To Hallux, these are all as much a crime as profligacy… but as all the family’s money is his, I cannot safely request that he bugger off.”
Tom was deeply uncomfortable. This was the last conversation he’d expected to have with Mr. Bewit, not just tonight—ever.
“Oh, don’t look so shocked. There’s no reason my cup-bearer should not know my financial situation. And anyways, you may not long be only that.” He smiled weakly as Tom coughed on his cognac. “Yes, you should be intimately aware of my situation, Tom—and its history, for it does not begin with me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“For generations we Bewits have stood unsteadily on the sharp cliff of ruination due to this bad decision or that poor exercise of judgment. It was my father’s misfortune to be the one who finally lost his footing… and fell. The knowledge we were bankrupt killed him, and I inherited his debts. I was in danger of losing everything… until Hallux got word that an uncle on his father’s side, a Colonel Dryden, had left him a fortune.”
Thunder boomed again, closer this time, and when the wind picked up a candle guttered. Mr. Bewit’s bedroom was always so drafty, and until this very moment, Tom had wondered why Hallux’s chambers were the nicer. Now he knew.
“Hallux left Bergamot Mews—our country house—by post, and came back in a coach… oh, how jealous I was! And when he burst through the door with his fine new clothes in disarray, as if he cared nothing for their richness, expensive gifts for us all from London in his arms… but at the same time, I was glad. I had just had a visit from my solicitor that very morning, asking when certain funds would be received for certain bills. That evening I begged Hallux to save me—save our family—from ruin. I applied to his sense of Christian charity, and to his duty—his mother had been a Bewit, after all, and he had grown up at the Mews since he was a small boy.
