The Pleasure Merchant

by Molly Tanzer

  ***

  To a boy who had lived in London his whole life, the ramshackle victualler, small millinery, ancient church, mill, white-washed dance hall, moldy-looking primary school, and smoky, low-ceilinged pub of Puriton were not much to behold. Pigs and sheep wandered the streets of the village, adding their turds to the mud, and chickens and cats coexisted more or less happily on rooftops, doorsteps, and on midden-heaps. Even the Castle Bally disappointed, being little more than a mound of earth—Mr. Bewit’s remarks about playing at being the Knights of the Round Table as a boy had made Tom imagine something akin to Camelot, but that was assuredly not the case.

  Tom had been through some truly dreadful neighborhoods in London, but Puriton, while the air was fresher, seemed somehow more squalid. To Mr. Bewit, however, the village was as full of delights as any pleasure-garden, as sociable as any club, and as worthy as any cathedral. First thing their first morning Mr. Bewit dragged Tom the three miles from the front door of Bergamot Mews to the church, all the while regaling him with tales of the mischief he used to get up to when he was a lad. Tom worried for his master’s health, but the exercise seemed to invigorate him… soon enough, however, he came to wish he’d invoked Mr. Fitzwilliam’s advice, or really anything that would have prevented hiking so long over rough terrain in new boots. Getting monstrous blisters in order to “see the sights” when the sights were all indistinguishably shabby structures seemed a fool’s errand, and did little to endear Tom to ‘country living.’

  But everything pleased Mr. Bewit—even simply spying the vicarage pear-garden after they crested a knoll. “Ah!” he gasped. “Look there, Tom! See those pear trees? You’d never believe it to see me now, but Denny Allard and I scaled the largest of those trunks and inched along a bough no thicker than your arm to get onto the roof of Priory House to see if there were any eggs in the nest on top of the disused chimney. Unfortunately, our local blue lias is better suited for tombstones and paving slabs than roof tiles. It was too brittle to bear our weight when we jumped down upon it, and bang! We crashed through and down onto the vicar’s desk. Old Chowne was in the outhouse, for it was September and we were all shitting on the hour every hour from the pears, but he heard the ruckus, oh yes he did, ho ho, and rushed out shouting. We saw him through the window, still hiking up his britches as he came loping toward us. Well, Denny and I scarpered, shaming every fox in five counties with that run. Slipped out the back door and out of sight, me with a sprained ankle and Denny with a bruise on his hip that looked just like a trout’s nose.” He slapped his thigh as he laughed. “Chowne never found out who or what had done it, but for the following three Sundays after he preached sermons about fallen angels, shattered morals, and sharp descents into sin.”

  Tom pretended he had a stone in his boot to cover his yawn. “A fine outcome for such a tale of high adventure,” he said, after he had recovered. “But as you were always getting into such scrapes, you must have been well-practiced in the art of a quick getaway.”

  “Ahhh, well,” said Mr. Bewit, very pleased, as they rambled down the hill, “it was all innocent enough. Boys will be boys, and all that… I’m sure the neighborhood scamps give Reverend Tucker just as much trouble, if not more. But look you there—that’s the spire of St. Michael’s! Soon, you shall see it closer, and Priory House, and the stables where I first saw what a woman has under her skirts, and…”

  Tom concealed a sigh, and was obliged to do so again many times after, for that was how it went for days, until the days became weeks, and still it seemed to Tom that every barn in Somerset was made of as many memories as wooden planks and thatch-bundles, and every room in every house held not only furniture and people and books and rugs and windows but also stories about when Tiercel Bewit was a lad.

  Tom knew he shouldn’t complain. Listening to his master’s constant reminiscing wasn’t all that high a price to pay for such a summer. In spite of Mr. Bewit’s constant enthusing, he had never had so much fun. It was if he were on an extended holiday—better, even, as he still received his wages.

  By day, Tom learned to shoot tolerable well, fish in both running and still water, and ride—though the latter he did not take to, having never been on a horse in his life. Not that he minded; he preferred walking or traveling by coach when they needed to get somewhere, and he rather liked the foxes he’d seen scurrying about, not being used to wildlife beyond pigeons and rats.

  By night, he learned the rules of polignac, speculation, and whist, and those that governed polite society, too. He became quite accomplished at bowing like a gentleman, exchanging bons mots, dancing, and treating with fine-eyed ladies, just as Mr. Bewit had promised. Some of this he was taught; the rest he picked up by attending his master scrupulously.

  And all of it he did as a gentleman… or, something close to one. His livery hung starched and pressed in his closet in the servant’s quarters; the rest of his clothes were the ones more regularly laundered. This wasn’t his choice—Mr. Bewit demanded it.

  Tom wasn’t sure if it was his clothes or his manners, but from almost day one strangers took him for some distant, unknown relation, rather than a servant, in spite of any intelligence or rumors to the contrary. Mr. Bewit’s staff might gossip when they walked into town, but Mr. Bewit himself preferred not to confirm who or what Tom was when asked, which led to all sorts of speculation. At informal gatherings Mr. Bewit introduced him as “my dear Tom,” and whenever his friends brought up the subject, he put them off with smiles and promises of telling them “the whole story” later. Mr. Bewit also gave Tom extra nights off whenever he attended or hosted formal dinners, where seating might be a question.

  Tom followed his master’s lead in these matters, sensing some design. The result was, by withholding his occupation while displaying his manners, he created a sort of liminality of situation that gave him more freedom than he might have anticipated, with gentlemen… and more importantly, with the ladies.

  None of the household maids would have anything to do with Tom after Kitty’s disgrace; he could not so much as speak to one of them without her begging his pardon and hurrying off, and his pride would not permit him to press them. This wasn’t a problem in and of itself, usually, but as the summer wore on, his celibacy became maddening.

  Part of this was being so close to Sabina. Tom had of course noticed her beauty before her attentions in the carriage, but here in the country, Sabina began to… shine. Her plain garments looked fetching rather than odd among the walks and views of Bergamot Mews, and her manners seemed less unfashionable. Perhaps it was the sunlight, and her close association with growing things, but Sabina seemed to be waking up and blooming, like some long-dormant iris or other elegant flower. Every day she looked more beautiful, and Tom longed to take her into the hedge maze, where they might turn a blind corner and have a bit of sport… fantasized about tumbling her on a soft hillside somewhere, seeing her golden hair spread against the green grass, legs parting as he nuzzled her white calves under the blue sky…

  His letch became so pressing that more than once he considered inquiring if any of the girls who served at the public house might consider relinquishing some of their virtue for a few shillings. Pride kept his money in his pocket, however, for Tom would not pay for what should be freely given, to his mind. Fear played a part in his reluctance, as well; Tom had seen too often and too closely the diseases that plagued the working lasses who sold their hair at Dray’s back door. But, eventually Tom discovered that Puriton contained all the willing womanflesh he needed—all he had to do was set his sights a bit higher than the village’s serving-girls.

  Unlike the female servants at Puriton’s other grand houses, who had all heard about Tom from the gossiping, lying maids at Bergamot Mews, the young ladies of lesser houses in the neighborhood knew only that he was a favorite of Mr. Bewit’s, not bad looking at all, and as well-dressed as any young man in the neighborhood. It took some weeks for Tom to realize how interesting he was to all of them, but once he did, he
took full advantage of their curiosity.

  His first triumph was during a hunting party hosted by the Jepps of Puriton Manor, which Tom had begged off due to his ineptitude in the saddle. While the rest of the guests whipped their horses over gate and stream, Tom hunted a different quarry, and managed to get Miss Alys Gill alone for a full hour.

  Like Tom, Miss Gill did not ride, and had resigned herself to a dull afternoon. Her two elder brothers were both experienced horsemen, and none of the neighborhood swains stayed behind to keep her company, for she was possessed of neither beauty nor fortune. Tom wasn’t particularly enraptured by her plumpness or her spots, but he reasoned these misfortunes would make the girl all the more desperate to please a gentleman kind enough to pay her the compliment of attention. Indeed, she was more than willing to let him take several enjoyable liberties with her person—and though she blushed and giggled, she agreed to give him the stocking she used to clean up the warm token of affection he spent into her downy armpit. The scent of it helped him over the main several more times, to his extreme satisfaction.

  Tom went on to collect trophies from all his subsequent conquests that summer. The idea came to him when he finally cornered Miss Lucy Clark, for a scrap of lace came away in his hand when he pulled up her shift. He hadn’t meant to tear it, but she would struggle and squirm, though the wetness between her legs assured him it was all in good fun.

  Miss Lucy, like the rest of Tom’s conquests, seemed surprised when he didn’t fuck her, instead satisfying himself with a hand, petticoat, or mouth, or upon a thigh or buttock—but Tom was no fool. He wanted no squalling, crying keepsakes for his collection—and was not fool enough to believe Mr. Bewit would protect him if a girl pointed to him when her slim waist began to thicken.

  Making up for lost time, Tom soon had not only a stocking and a scrap of lace, but a white glove that had once protected the delicate hand of Miss Judith Frith, a lock of chestnut hair formerly attached to the head of Miss Martha Black, a second-best handkerchief, a shoe button, and a silk flower that had formerly graced the fair Miss Wexcombe’s Sunday bonnet.

  All this made life above stairs even more congenial than ever before. Below them, however…

  In a house without a butler, it is the housekeeper who leads the staff. She directs them in terms of their work—and their opinions. Therefore, as Mrs. Jervis’s contempt for Tom grew more and more evident to the rest of the servants, it meant they felt free to follow suit in their dealings with Tom.

  For a time Tom was able to ignore their jibes and barbs. If he had been merely a footman, perhaps the pit of hissing snakes that was the servant’s quarters might have disturbed him—but he was Mr. Bewit’s favorite, which meant not only was he away from their disdain most of every day, he was a dignified enough person to keep above it all.

  All that changed one evening in high summer. Dressed in his best, for Lady Charlotte had condescended to host a card party at Downend, and she had particularly requested Mr. Bewit bring his “handsome young friend,” Tom emerged from his room to find the servants sitting down to their dinner. They had been laughing uproariously about something, but immediately fell silent when they noticed him, which made the subject of their mirth rather obvious. Tom stared at them, feeling the awkwardness keenly, when Mrs. Jervis rose from the table… and bowed to him.

  “Master Tom,” she said, as the other servants sniggered into their hands. “We are honored. It is not often we common servants find ourselves in the company of such an elegant personage as yourself.”

  The laughter resulting from her jibe was as hearty as it was universal, and followed Tom upstairs as he fled, red-faced. But fleeing was the wrong thing to have done, he realized too late, for after that he was always called “Master Tom” by the other servants. It was mortifying. Chalking up their disdain to envy, he tried to let it go… but it was a hard thing, having no friends in the house.

  Or anywhere, really. It occurred to him one evening as he danced with Miss Gill that if she knew he was a servant, she and the rest of her breed would shun him at best—at worst, they would see him as an up-jumped no-account scoundrel.

  Which, actually, wasn’t too far off the mark…

  He had never assumed he would be such a sensation with the ladies, but he was—Miss Gill and Miss Wexcombe both shocked him by hinting they would neither of them turn down an offer, should he make one… but being in no position to marry (as well as lacking inclination to do so), Tom put them off as gently as he could while still coaxing them into letting him take as full advantage of their charms as he desired. It didn’t bother him that he was deceiving them; they were masters of deceit. All of them, in public, pretended to be virginal and pure—the sort of girl one could marry, feeling secure in her virtue. But once they were alone with a man, well! More than once Tom felt like a choice bone thrown to a particularly keen bitch, the way he was pawed over and worried. It was a bit alarming, actually, discovering that every girl in England was just as eager for it as he was.

  If you feel the urge to laugh at Tom’s ignorance, do try and remember he was just starting out. It has been my experience that most young men have genuinely no notion that young ladies are every bit as interested in matters carnal—if not more so, for being denied the same outlets and indulgences. This discrepancy comes in part from our society’s attempts to keep separate boys and girls, as well as curbing the sexuality of young ladies, due to our cultural anxiety over legitimate patrimony; a shame, for it would likely go better for men and women alike the first few times they attempted a lubricious liaison if both knew more of what they were about, instead of leaving such things to chance. I certainly credit my early successes when it came to love to education.

  And, if we allowed young men and women to know more of each other, it might give them more reasonable expectations regarding the behavior of the other. Tom, though he enjoyed himself with many young ladies that summer, all as different as they were alike, couldn’t help but think a little less of those whom he claimed as conquests as compared to those who eluded him. After all, if they offered him their charms, who else might they favor with their embraces? Thus, while satisfied in his body, at night Tom’s mind produced for his enjoyment dreams of pale, remote, angelic beauties and chestnut-haired sauceboxes, more scrupulous in their morals… and at the same time, more obedient to his wishes. I am sorry, but I cannot say if it ever occurred to Tom that these desires were fundamentally incompatible.

  So did Tom’s summer pass, with one day beginning and ending much like the next, with nothing to distinguish one from the other save for a particularly fine day’s shooting, good dinner, successful conquest—or cruel prank or taunt below stairs. In fact, Tom scarcely noticed it was autumn until Mr. Bewit dragged him to Farmer Young’s to pick out a brace of stubble-geese for Michaelmas Eve, as they were to host a nut-cracking party at the Mews for a select group of friends.

  That evening was one Tom never forgot—and not because of the savory, juicy geese, nor the excellent bannocks prepared by Cook, nor the roasted nuts, nor the keg of crisp pear cider brought by the Brydges that they washed it all down with, though it was the best he’d ever had. No, it was the evening’s entertainment—and what followed—that Tom found particularly memorable.

  Hallux Dryden was not a man one would ever call sociable. Even during the height of the season in London, he entertained no one, and only grudgingly (as you have seen) joined his cousin’s guests at supper. He breakfasted in his rooms unless Sabina came down, and afterwards spent all morning locked away in his study, working on his various ‘experiments’ which he discussed with nobody. His afternoons were devoted to calling on his philosophical and medical colleagues for professional reasons; his evenings, attending lectures at the university or scientific demonstrations at private residences or the Royal Society—engagements Hallux insisted were not for his personal pleasure, but rather for his scientific edification.

  In Puriton, with no fellow scientists to visit, the man had become
a veritable hermit. He had resolved to spend the summer finishing his monograph on nervous conditions, in the hopes his application would be complete by Christmas, and the task had wholly absorbed him. He had attended neither balls nor assemblies; graced neither pleasure-parties nor luncheons with his presence. From breakfast until tea-time every day, rain or shine, he holed himself up in the library, scribbling his way through an entire flock’s worth of goose quills and ringing for frequent refreshment in the form of barley-water and oaten cakes with butter.

  He consumed an astonishing volume of both, but never missed a mealtime, to no one’s pleasure save his wife’s. The only topic of conversation allowed when Hallux was at the table was, well, Hallux. Sabina invariably prompted him with questions regarding his research that seemed specifically designed to elicit the longest, most complex responses—and when she had run out of inquiries, he was always happy to report on such trivia as how much ink he was using, how much paper he wasted, even the number of words he had written in a single afternoon, as if that information could possibly be of interest to anyone. He expounded at length upon the process of composing, as well—in fact, the only matter he would not discuss was the actual content of his writing. Any inquiries beyond the most basic were met with stony silence, especially when guests were present.

  Once Tom noticed this pattern in Hallux’s behavior, he suggested using this to their advantage. It worked beautifully; after Mr. Bewit began pressing his cousin to reveal just what he was writing all day every day, Hallux became substantially less interested in discussing his work. The situation improved so dramatically they were even able to invite others to dine with them, which enhanced not only the quality of the society at the Mews, but everyone’s digestion.