by Molly Tanzer
“It might do much to keep the peace,” said Tom. “Better to sit on the corner of the footboard than share a carriage with a quarrelsome cousin.”
Mr. Bewit roared with laughter as he slathered preserves on another piece of toast. Pleased with himself, Tom treated himself to another roll—buttered, despite Mr. Dryden’s warnings.
“I concede Hallux is right—it is a long drive to the coaching inn,” said Mr. Bewit, dabbing at his lips. “Better go and get dressed, my boy.”
“Sir?” Tom, as far as he was concerned, was already dressed.
“Go put on a different waistcoat and that country coat I had made up for you,” said Mr. Bewit. “No need for you to wear your livery while you ride in the carriage.”
Tom had assumed he’d be traveling in the stage with the remaining few servants, so he was not displeased to hear he’d be going in Mr. Bewit’s more comfortable equipage—and dressed like a young gentleman, no less. He hoped they’d keep the shades open. Everyone they passed on the street would be fooled into thinking he was some person of note.
“Yes, sir,” said Tom, as he collected their breakfast tray. “Thank you sir.”
“No… thank you, Tom. With you along, I’ll have someone with some sense to talk to.”
It was undeniably exciting to settle in beside Mr. Bewit in his fine carriage, dressed elegantly and anticipating imminent views of the countryside… but it didn’t take long for Tom to wonder if he wouldn’t have had a better time traveling by stage with the servants. They had gone on ahead to ensure the family’s arrival would be comfortable, and seemed a most merry party as they departed. By contrast, Hallux was cross and querulous as they rolled away from the family’s town house; Sabina, anxious to mollify him, making neither of them particularly good company. Mr. Bewit was cheerful… only because he was enjoying their mutual displeasure.
Usually Tom could see the humor in the Drydens’ quarreling, but in spite of his enthusiasm for the open shades of the carriage, he found he’d rather wished they’d been shut. As they passed through the market Tom had spied the Dray’s serving girl, Jane, lingering near their usual meeting-spot near the fish-stall. She was obviously keeping an eye out for him—her basket was full, she had no other reason to be there. Likely she had yet another message from Hizzy. Anxious she should not see him, Tom leaned back in his seat as they passed by, but the wench still managed to spot him. For a moment, it was obvious she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her, she rubbed them and then gawped at him, mouth hanging open, eyes like those of the fish beside her.
It had used to be that when Tom thought of Hizzy, he felt a rush of hopefulness over his future. Now, he merely felt a sense of guilt. Whatever would Hizzy think, when she heard the story? He had still not written to her—in part, because in spite of being deeper in Mr. Bewit’s confidence by the day, he had not learned anything definite… and in part because he was, in truth, less anxious than before to return to his former life. Of course he missed Hizzy, and his wigs… but he was fairly certain that if he left Mr. Bewit’s service he’d miss coffee and butter and fine clothing and cognac a lot more.
Not that he was ready to break things off with her… not yet, anyway. He was simply keeping his options open—it was only sensible, in a young man his age, and with his potential. After all, it might be that he could offer Hizzy a life grander than any she’d imagined, if she would only be patient.
Well, patience had never been Hizzy’s greatest virtue—just look at the way she’d seduced him. Perhaps if she hadn’t given herself away so freely, she wouldn’t feel as anxious over their future. Well, that was her problem, not his.
Satisfied, Tom began to listen more attentively to the conversation in the carriage, which was currently a rather tense exchange between the cousins.
“—I don’t know,” Mr. Bewit was saying. They had finally made their way out of the city, and there were clear roads and rolling hills outside the coach-windows. “You know I hold your translations in the highest esteem, but…”
“But what? What? Is it really so much to ask that we use this time to improve ourselves, rather than sitting in stupid idleness, inmates of prisons both physical and mental?”
“I wouldn’t call this carriage a prison, cousin,” said Mr. Bewit, looking a little offended. “It’s only five years old, and I just had new cushions made up. Beneath your seat there’s a—”
“Bugger whatever’s under my seat,” rejoined Hallux, drawing a little gasp from Sabina. “It’s what’s beneath my skull—and yours—that concerns me.” He looked from Tom to his wife. “And our companions’ skulls as well, I suppose. Neither of them is in possession of any excess of sense, so it could hardly injure them to listen to something worthwhile, like The Social Contract, for a few hours.”
Hallux got his way, as he always did. Pulling a bunch of dirty crumpled papers out of a case he rifled through them for a time, and then began in earnest, denying Mr. Bewit even the pleasure of a glass of brandy from the decanter located in the specially-constructed bar under his seat. “A sober mind learns better,” was his final word on the matter.
Tom, as always, felt pained to see this poor treatment of one cousin by the other. Despite what Mrs. Jervis had implied about his motivations, he was really very fond of Mr. Bewit, and did not like to see the man bullied.
At least Hallux read well enough, and for a few moments Tom wondered if Mr. Bewit had been wrong to try and prevent the entertainment. They would be spending hours in the coach, and the diversion was, well, diverting.
“Even if each man could alienate himself, he could not alienate his offspring,” read Hallux. “They are born free; their liberty belongs to them, and no one has the right to dispose of it. While they are too innocent to make decisions for themselves, their father can, in their name, lay down conditions for their preservation and well-being, but he cannot make an irrevocable and unconditional gift of them; such a gift is contrary to nature, and overreaches the rights of paternity. Therefore—”
“Stop!” cried Mr. Bewit.
Tom startled, worried for Mr. Bewit’s nerves. His cry had sounded most agitated. Hallux also looked up in surprise, and Sabina, who had been dozing, began to shriek.
“Are we beset by highwaymen?” Her eyes were bright and wild, and she clutched at her neck in panic. “Will we be robbed?”
Hallux set aside the pamphlet and withdrew his pocket watch. He opened it and showed the face to his wife in the clear bright light coming in through the coach window. She quieted instantly when she saw it. Tom looked inquiringly at Hallux—it was the second time he had seen the man fiddle with the thing when Sabina seemed agitated, which struck Tom as curious.
“Look at the time, my darling—it’s far too early for highwaymen,” he said evenly, holding Tom’s gaze, as if challenging him to remark on something, and indeed, Tom relaxed to hear Hallux accounting for what had, for a moment, seemed passing strange. “I doubt even the boldest rogue would rob us before tea-time, and on a stretch of road as open as this.”
“Of course.” Sabina nodded vaguely. “Of course you’re right, my darling. I’m sorry, I must have dozed off… you know how the jolting of the coach makes my head ache so.”
Mr. Bewit had recovered his composure during this exchange, mopping his brow with a handkerchief and staring out the window of the coach.
“I apologize for my outburst,” he said. “I did not mean to alarm you, Sabina. But please, cousin—if you are of a mind to keep reading, move on to some other bit.”
“Does something about this passage particularly discomfit you?” The ghost of a smile hovered at the corners of Hallux Dryden’s mouth. “My apologies. Had I known, I should never have begun it.”
“Nothing bothers dear Hallux.” Sabina was apparently herself again, twisting a scarf in her lap as she stared out the window. “The bridle of society does not lead his reason.”
Sabina’s remarks were, as usual, nonsensical, but Tom was always grateful for an excuse to look at her. Even sl
ightly disheveled from travel, she radiated a rare and precious beauty. Her complexion needed no powder to give it luster; her slender waist was evident even under the shapeless dress she wore. Her plump white arms were luminous as a pearl, and her pale gold hair as smooth as silk.
“Yes, well,” said Mr. Bewit, glancing a trifle irritably at Sabina, “some would consider it no grand thing for a man to be undisturbed by the disturbing.”
“What is disturbing about the proposition that fathers should not sell their children into slavery?” asked Hallux.
Mr. Bewit’s expression darkened, and for a moment, Tom thought he might actually strike his cousin.
“If you must read Rousseau,” Mr. Bewit said, a bit heatedly, “why not try his Pygmalion? Surely it would be more entertaining—don’t you think, cousin?”
“I do not care for his Pygmalion,” said Hallux, so cool the temperature inside the carriage seemed to lower. “It is a story that holds no interest for me. I prefer philosophy to fairy-tales.”
And with that, Hallux began again, but Tom scarcely listened to him as he rattled on. He had just witnessed something… but what, he could not say.
The cousins’ mutual dislike seemed to run deeper than simple resentment over money. Tom wondered if it might have something to do with Callow… rarely did a day pass where Mr. Bewit failed to make some remark about his disappointment in his son, and the passage that had so disturbed him had had to do with the raising of children. Hallux had a particular interest in the rearing of children—or at least, their education. Might Hallux have demanded the right to raise Mr. Bewit’s only son? Might that have been Mr. Bewit’s sacrifice? If Callow had been an early, failed protégé of Hallux’s, that would certainly explain why Mr. Bewit would blame himself for his son’s shortcomings…
Whatever the case might be, Hallux’s remarks haunted Mr. Bewit for the remainder of the day. Only after they arrived at the coaching inn that evening, and Hallux had refused the very good roast beef and claret presented by the innkeeper, storming upstairs with his wife in tow, did Mr. Bewit seem himself again.
“More for us,” he remarked, spearing another tender morsel. “Fine beef, this. And better company.” He winked at Tom. They had already shared two bottles of wine, and both were rather lubricated. “I hope you will not suffer for losing the Drydens’ society this evening?”
Tom took another long pull on his claret, though the wine did not aid him in thinking what would be best to say. “A quiet meal is never a bad thing, sir,” he managed.
“Would you and your son like more wine?” interrupted the serving girl, with a brief curtsey.
“Yes,” said Mr. Bewit, before Tom could protest her mistaking their relationship.
“Drink up, Tom,” advised Mr. Bewit, with a wink. “With no one around to chide me for drinking to excess, I’m of a mind to do so.”
“Tomorrow, let’s us sit on the bench with the brandy beneath,” said Tom, as they toasted one another. “That way, no one could gainsay a mid-drive tipple.”
“Genius!” Mr. Bewit was very merry. “Ah, Tom. What would I do without you? Better question—what did I do before you arrived on my doorstep under Mauntell’s arm? I know it’s wicked, but I’m ever so glad I—” he stopped short as Tom shifted forward on his seat. “Glad I took a chance on you, my boy. It’s proven to be one of the best decisions I ever made.”
Tom sat back, his heart thumping so loud he wondered Mr. Bewit did not comment on it. He sensed that tonight of all nights he could successfully press Mr. Bewit on the mystery of whether he had actually hired the impostor whose interference had caused Tom to be dismissed.
Tom cleared his throat.
“Yes, Tom? What is it?” Mr. Bewit was mellow, happy, and at his ease. Tom, by contrast, felt tense, unsure, like a blacksmith hesitating before a hot piece of iron.
“Well, Mr. Bewit… I just wanted to say… I’m glad you took a chance on me, too. I can’t think when last I spent a pleasanter evening.”
Perhaps it was cowardice—perhaps not. But the expression of contentment his words brought to Mr. Bewit’s face made Tom certain he’d done the right thing.
The orange-lined drive of Bergamot Mews would have been a welcome sight after four long days on the road even if Tom hadn’t been sharing a carriage with Hallux Dryden the entire time. But he had, so when the small but elegant house appeared on the horizon mid-morning their fifth day traveling together it seemed as though heaven itself had come into view.
“Looks like the gardeners haven’t been idle,” said Mr. Bewit. With his hands pressed to the greasy window of the carriage he looked more like a young child than a grown man. “My! Just look at the height of that yew-hedge around the formal garden! And the greenhouses! It’s possible we shall taste pomegranates grown in our own soil this year, isn’t that exciting?”
“All I hope is that Sebell saw to the leaks and drafts,” said Hallux. “I can take my walking exercise on a bare moor as easily as in a garden, but I cannot sleep comfortably with rainwater dripping on my nose.”
The man was in as black a mood as Tom had ever seen him, for they had taken two days longer than expected to get to Puriton. The roads had been very bad, and they had often been forced to stop and rest the horses at inns with little but cold roast or pie for hungry travelers. With Hallux refusing all but vegetarian fare, he had been subsisting on bread, and sometimes millet porridge; in spite of his claims that the diet was good for the humors, it seemed to have put his out of sorts.
“How do you like it, Tom?” asked Sabina, as they drew nearer, and could admire how the curving drive stood out handsomely from the straight, rather Grecian lines of the house. “Do not you think it a fair prospect?”
Sabina rarely addressed Tom, or even noticed his presence, so her attention surprised him. “Yes—yes ma’am, I do,” he stammered. “I like it very much.”
“I thought you would,” she replied. “A few weeks ago, when Lady Frideswide came to tea, she asked you how you liked our London residence… you replied so elegantly, and with such heartfelt praise, I knew you could not fail to appreciate the charms of Bergamot Mews.”
“Every mule loves his paddock,” said Hallux shrewishly, glaring at his wife.
“Not every mule,” contradicted Mr. Bewit. “I say, cousin, do you not recall the summer my father bought that piebald hinny from Farmer Cox? That she-demon bit every one of us, and kicked you so hard in the twist that you—”
“I remember well enough,” said Hallux, coloring.
Tom was pleased; he recalled the exchange Sabina had spoken of, but would never have guessed Sabina might. Studiously keeping his eyes from her face or person, Tom cultivated a look of curiosity about the approaching manor, but in truth, it was Sabina who occupied his thoughts. That she might recall anything he said—anything at all, really—came as a surprise. Could it be that her general stupidity was merely an act to please her husband? The man did seem happiest when his wife sat quietly, attracting no more attention to herself than a particularly artful flower arrangement or well-painted fire screen. It was said that the deepest rivers flow without sound…
“And here we are!” cried Mr. Bewit, as the carriage crunched to a stop in front of the house, scattering chickens, and disturbing the peace of the bees that buzzed in among the wild stands of lavender and tangled rosebushes. The staff were already assembled to greet them, squinting in the summer sunlight, standing quite straight and still, save for a young man who rushed up with a step to aid Sabina’s descent from the carriage.
“Hello all!” cried Mr. Bewit heartily, as he clambered out after her. Tom hoped his master would not overtax himself in his enthusiasm; his stay in the country was intended to be restful. “My goodness, you’re all a sight for sore eyes! I had hoped to see you yesterday, but the roads were so very poor. Mrs. Jervis, is everything ready?”
“Yes, Mr. Bewit,” said Mrs. Jervis, who was holding the leash of an enormous but stolid wolfhound. “Everything is waiting for yo
u.” She seemed genuinely glad to greet her master, but when Tom came up behind him, her expression soured slightly. “The family rooms,” she put a distinct emphasis on those words, “are all in order, and your gamekeeper would like you to know that the ponds have all been stocked, and the snares and guns polished.”
“Excellent! Excellent!” Tom had never seen this side of Mr. Bewit; the man was experiencing unalloyed rapture over every thing. He seemed far more at ease in this rustic environ than in the streets and halls of London. “My word, but it is nice to be home.”
“Shall we go in, cousin?” Hallux, shading his eyes. “Mrs. Dryden is wilting.”
“Yes!” Mr. Bewit clapped his hands together. “Yes of course! Let us go in! Tom—come with me, I’ll give you a tour!”
Tom flushed as every servant looked at him, their expressions ranging from bewilderment to contempt.
“I can’t imagine anyone would want anything of the sort before getting a cup of tea and some refreshment,” hinted Hallux as he tapped his toe, waiting for Mr. Bewit to go in first. “Don’t you agree?”
“Tea! What a capital idea!” cried Mr. Bewit, as if Hallux had just at that moment invented the idea of drinking and eating something after a long journey. “Yes—in the orangerie perhaps, under the Roman pavilion?”
“Wherever,” said Hallux, now openly edging toward the doorway, “as long as we get out of the sun.”
“Ah, of course!” Mr. Bewit finally began to move. His cousin followed, Sabina steadying herself on his arm, but Tom stood awkwardly, unsure what he should do. He elected to wait until Mrs. Jervis and the other senior staff had gone in, but before they took a single step Mr. Bewit called to him to hurry along.
“Go on,” said Mrs. Jervis, and Tom blushed again to be looked at so keenly by everyone, as if he were some kind of oddity at a gypsy circus. Even the damn dog was staring at him with the same goggle-eyed expression as all the maids and cooks and footmen. “Don’t keep the master waiting.”
Tom bowed to her, and followed quickly after Mr. Bewit, though he refused to break into an undignified trot to catch up. It made him feel queer, knowing he was going in before those who should have had the honor, given their seniority, but there was nothing he could do about it. All he could do was hope that this awkward introduction wasn’t an ill omen for his summer.
