by Molly Tanzer
“He agreed to save us… for a price. It was high, but at the time I thought it worth it to keep us from the poorhouse. Now… I no longer know if I did right. I look around me, I see all the appropriate signs of prosperity, courtesy my cousin, but I wonder… would I be happier if I hadn’t sacrificed… hadn’t…” He sighed. “What a hypocrite Hallux is! But never mind, it is late, and you have too long listened to an old man’s rambling regrets. All I mean to say is, I thought the time and money I spent getting into Brooks’s was not wasted, until I got that letter. Who can say?”
Unlike before, Tom did not press Mr. Bewit. His eyes were moist, and the way he shut his mouth indicated the conversation was over. Too bad. Tom was more intensely curious than ever. For being such a simple man, Mr. Bewit was apparently full of secrets. What had been Hallux’s price? What made him such a hypocrite, in his cousin’s eyes?
There was only one way to get his hands on any answers. He would have to insinuate himself deeper into Mr. Bewit’s confidence. But to get to the bottom of these mysteries would require more than presence. It would require boldness—and a bit of cunning.
“Mr. Bewit,” Tom cleared his throat, “if you would allow me to speak candidly…”
Mr. Bewit seemed surprised. “Of course, my boy. I’ve been candid enough with you.”
“All I want to say is… I have not known you long, but everything I have seen indicates you are a generous and intelligent man. I think it’s admirable that you’ve gone after what you wanted with such… clarity of vision. The only thing that saddens me is how you doubt yourself. You have made your choices; why not enjoy how well they have worked out in your favor? You will do nobody any good tormenting yourself over your victories, least of all yourself. Your son will not behave more like the gentleman if you fail to enjoy your membership at Brooks’s. And as for the other… I shan’t pry, but it seems to me that failing to enjoy your wealth seems like it would make your earlier sacrifices… pointless.”
Mr. Bewit looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “Why, Tom,” he said slowly. “You have touched my very heart with your words. I had never thought about things that way. But you’re right—one must never dishonor one’s sacrifices, I learned that when I was a just a schoolboy puzzling through my Euripides. Or was it Sophocles? I can’t recall. Regardless, it was a lesson I failed then to take to heart… but no longer.” He chuckled. “I knew I did right to take you on after… everything.”
The clock struck half twelve. Mr. Bewit sighed. “I should take my medicine and go to sleep. If Fitzwilliam hears I’ve been up late jawing he’ll bleed me just to keep me quiet. You need your rest, too… for whenever I’m well, we’ll go to Brooks’s. Members are not known to get to bed before two.”
“Very good, sir,” said Tom.
He poured Mr. Bewit’s draught into his empty snifter, and after the man had gulped it and settled in, Tom bowed his way out of the room, shutting the door very, very carefully behind him. For better or for worse, Tom’s fortunes were intertwined with his master’s. He would do everything in his power to see the man’s nerves were nothing short of pampered—for it seemed to him, if they fared well, so would he.
“The tailor is coming this afternoon, Tom—so don’t you go running off anywhere.”
Tom looked up from the second volume of The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling, which he had been reading by the window; across from him sat Mr. Bewit, who was perusing something in Latin. It was a fine hot day in mid-June. Tom was sweating into his coat, and Mr. Bewit had just cast aside his wig and called for barley-water for them both. Next week they would repair to Bergamot Mews, where it would be cooler, and therefore more suitable for Mr. Bewit’s convalescence.
“I have no plans to run anywhere in this heat,” said Tom. “I’ll be here to assist him in any way he wishes.”
“You misunderstand me.” Mr. Bewit gave him a lopsided smile over the top of the leather-bound, gilt-edged tome. “The tailor is coming for you, my boy. Got to get you a summer livery made up before we head into the country. The weather will be pleasanter in Somerset but not so much you’ll want to traipse about under so much wool. You’d sweat to death.”
“I see, sir. Thank you sir.” Tom was extremely relieved. Wearing his livery while caring for his master was already a warm endeavor; he couldn’t imagine donning it to trot after Mr. Bewit when he was well enough to ride and hawk.
“I thought it might be nice to get you fitted for a few other pieces, as well…” Mr. Bewit said casually, turning an onionskin page. “Perhaps a coat to wear into town on your nights off, a few shirts, and a new Sunday best. There isn’t much society in Puriton, but Bridgwater is a market town, and not far off. We shall be dining with several fine families, and of course there will be balls and picnics and the like. I should not like you to feel self-conscious.”
“Thank you very much, sir,” said Tom.
He was gratified but not particularly surprised. Ever since the night of his acceptance to Brooks’s Mr. Bewit had treated Tom with substantially increased favor—and generosity. His first excursions after his collapse had been to shops, where he had bought Tom, among other things, three new pair of shoes, silk small clothes, a clock for his room, and a feather mattress for his bed.
Tom was delighted, and refused to be embarrassed by his master’s generosity. If the rest of the staff chose to raise their eyebrows whenever some new trinket was delivered, let them. Their jealousy didn’t bother him. Ever since the incident with Holland and Kitty, everyone was too wary of Tom to bully him. Whether it was due to Mr. Bewit’s increased reliance on him, or because they suspected he had played a part in the valet’s downfall Tom neither knew nor cared. He was too busy to take much notice either way—he might no longer be sent out in all weathers for this or for that, but his days were undeniably longer. Whenever Mr. Bewit ate alone in his rooms he almost always wanted Tom to dine with him, and when he felt strong enough to visit his new club or go to a play or party he invariably kept Tom by his side. If the other servants assumed he was being given light duty, they were wrong.
“You’ll like Puriton, I think.” Mr. Bewit set aside his book. “Have you ever been into Somerset?”
“No, sir.” Tom had never actually been outside of London. Whenever the Drays had gone away, they had left him behind to mind the shop.
“It’s beautiful country. So green! The rolling hills are glorious in all seasons but particularly now, when everything is growing. Oh, when I was a boy how I loved the summer! Before I could ride I used to plunder the woods for bird’s eggs to roast, harass great herds of sheep to see them run… I would try to find fox-dens and rabbit warrens, and go on quests like I was one of the Knights of the Round Table. Of course, when I grew older, I came to love the good hunting and good company… yes, Puriton is most agreeable, though very rustic. But they did build a hall for public dances three years ago.”
“It sounds charming, sir.” Tom could almost see it in his mind, from Mr. Bewit’s description, though of course his imaginings looked much like the sets in various plays he had lately seen.
“So you like to dance, then? Well, there will be at least one servants’ ball over the summer if you’d like to go, but I daresay you’ll see plenty of late nights of gaming and dancing and fine-eyed ladies when you come along with me.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“Are you? I’m glad.” Mr. Bewit’s smile faltered. “Callow never found much to enjoy, he would always beg me to let him stay with his more fashionably situated friends. I tried to show him my old haunts now and again, but nothing gave him the least pleasure after he went away to school. You can understand why that vexed me… I have always tried to give Callow the best, but his tastes and mine are not always in alignment. Or perhaps it all reminded him too much of the humble summers of his youth, before Hallux restored our fortunes.”
“That’s a shame, sir. Forgive me, but I don’t appreciate a good steak and kidney pie any less after ea
ting Cook’s more refined vittles for the past few months.”
“Ha! Good lad, that’s the spirit,” said Mr. Bewit, and chuckling, turned back to his book.
Tom was pleased. He never criticized Callow, sensing it would be an impertinence—but Mr. Bewit spoke so often of his son that Tom had needed to figure out some way to respond. Constant silence would seem like disapproval; instead, he made bland, oblique remarks that in some way confirmed Mr. Bewit’s point of view. His master seemed to enjoy that.
Tom knew for certain he had pleased Mr. Bewit when the day before they departed for Somerset the tailor’s boy arrived with a brand new trunk packed full of tissue-paper packages. Tom found not only the promised summer livery, shirts, Sunday frock, and plain but elegant evening coat, but also a tailored day coat, a country suit that looked like it might be worn hunting or riding, several new pairs of breeches, a few lovely waistcoats, and, of all things, a peacock-blue banyan with matching cap.
For the first time, Tom felt a faint flutter of unease looking upon Mr. Bewit’s munificence. This was not the wardrobe of a servant, not even a senior one—it really ought to belong to a young gentleman. Wearing any of it, even on his days off, would alienate the household staff and confuse any stranger he chanced to meet.
Regardless, Mr. Bewit would want to see him in it all. Well, except perhaps the banyan. It would create just as many problems for him—quite possibly more—were he to reject the gifts.
“My goodness,” said Mrs. Jervis, passing by Tom’s open door as he tore away the tissue protecting yet another waistcoat. “What a lot of clothes!”
Tom blushed. “They were Mr. Bewit’s pleasure to purchase,” he said defensively, looking up from the subtle floral embroidery.
Mrs. Jervis raised an eyebrow at him. Uninvited and unwelcome, she stepped inside and picked up a pair of breeches.
“He bought you all of this?”
She had noticed the mother of pearl buttons. They were a bit ostentatious in Tom’s opinion, but he wasn’t complaining.
“I thought I was to never judge the Bewits—including how they spend their money?” Embarrassment sharpened Tom’s tongue, but it was none of Mrs. Jervis’s business what Mr. Bewit gave him, and they both knew it.
“He once bought me a pair of combs… on my birthday, after I’d served him faithfully for five years,” said Mrs. Jervis. She spoke slowly as she looked over the piled finery. “You’ve been here two months, and…” For a strange moment, Tom thought she might start to cry, but then she glanced up sharply. “If he has found a kindred spirit in you, Tom, my heart rejoices.”
“If? What do you mean, if?” Tom had considered Mrs. Jervis more or less an ally below stairs—or rather, he appreciated that she had not been openly hostile to him during the period where Holland had tried to turn the staff against him. Now he wondered if jealousy had infected her, too. If he would have to watch her as closely he did the rest of them.
“Why, Tom,” she said softly. She had recovered her composure, and now seemed quite cool and disinterested in their conversation. “I did not mean to give offense. You must understand, I came with Miss Josian when she married Mr. Bewit, which means I’ve known my master for close to twenty years. Forgive me if I’ve grown a bit attached… it’s just, I have seen many servants come and go during that time. You see, one of my duties as housekeeper includes keeping a eye out for those who might betray his trust, be it through shirking work, or some other deception.”
“Well then, it’s a good thing he didn’t become angry with you for failing to notice that’s exactly what Kitty and Holland were doing.” He had gone too far. Mrs. Jervis stiffened, obviously insulted, as Tom scrambled to find some way to take the sting out of his words. While Tom resented her threatening him, he did not wish to make an enemy of Mr. Bewit’s housekeeper. “I do hope you aren’t cross that I reported that incident directly to Mr. Bewit,” Tom continued. “It was just that I did not like to speak of such things to a woman, out of respect for your sex. In future, I shall of course come to you with any concerns, if you would prefer…?”
It was obvious Mrs. Jervis did not appreciate being out-fenced. “Indeed I would,” she said coldly. “And of course, given your obvious concern for propriety, I suppose I need not worry that you’re nothing but an opportunist who has recognized how lonely Mr. Bewit is for a proper son. Someone with your… strength of character would never use that for personal gain, I’m sure.” She curtseyed as Tom flushed red as a beetroot. “Just keep in mind that the landing between up and downstairs is too narrow to stand on for long—and Sir Issac Newton proved that bodies never fall up. Good day, Tom.”
Tom shut the door behind her, taking care not to slam it—he didn’t want to give her the pleasure of knowing she’d rattled him. But of course, she had; throwing himself into his new mahogany chair, another gift from Mr. Bewit, Tom sulked for a few minutes, staring at the finery strewn everywhere around him.
To the devil with Mrs. Jervis—and to the devil with his earlier unease! He had earned all of his good fortune by providing good service to a good man. By being a good man. He would enjoy his presents, just like he’d told Mr. Bewit to enjoy his fine things.
Tom stood and began to fold his new clothing, replacing it all carefully in his new trunk, with his more delicate items packaged in between the layers of soft clothes. Thank goodness that tomorrow they would be leaving for Bergamot Mews. Tom was sorely in need of a change of pace.
***
The following morning Tom went up very early with his master’s breakfast, and found Mr. Bewit already dressed and poring over some documents in his unusually barren study. Most of his library had been sent ahead to Puriton with all but the most essential staff, and save for his desk and his favorite chair, all the furniture was covered with cloths to keep off the dust while they were away.
“Just a moment, Tom,” said Mr. Bewit. “I won’t let our eggs get cold, but I simply must finish this…”
Tom poured his master a cup of coffee and doctored it with the impossibly white sugar he’d never seen, much less tasted before coming to work for Mr. Bewit. “Here, to tide you over,” he said, handing it over.
Mr. Bewit shook his head, smiling ruefully. “Get yourself one while you wait. Damn all the lawyers and their paperwork, eh my boy?”
My boy. Perhaps there was something to what Mrs. Jervis had said—perhaps Mr. Bewit was treating Tom as a surrogate son. That begged the question of what would become of Tom when Mr. Bewit’s actual son came home, as he must one day. Surely Callow would not tolerate a servant usurping his place…
“There we are,” said Mr. Bewit, interrupting Tom’s thoughts. “At last! And now, to breakfast. What have we today, Tom?”
“White toast, fresh baked wheat rolls, some lovely butter, and strawberry preserves,” said Tom, lifting the lid of the breakfast tray.
“Very nice!” Mr. Bewit rubbed his hands together with excitement, which banished Tom’s uneasy feelings. It was wonderful to see how his master took more pleasure in everything these days, including his vittles. But just as Mr. Bewit had taken the top off his egg, and Tom was crunching through a bite of buttered toast, Hallux burst through the door, wild-eyed as a hermit out of some sort of legend or tale.
In spite of the doctor’s orders, and his own alleged interest in nervous complaints, Hallux Dryden showed no respect for Mr. Bewit’s. He threw his hands into the air dramatically as he cried, “Still eating, cousin? Are you man or sloth? Don’t you realize we’ll be late if we don’t start out soon? We’ve at least thirty miles to cover today, and it’s already half seven!”
“I am well aware of the time.” Mr. Bewit, with pointed calmness, spooned out a bite of egg and chewed thoroughly while Hallux paced, clearly annoyed that his cousin hadn’t leapt right up. Tom was deeply annoyed, given Mr. Bewit’s fragile nerves. Not for the first time did he wonder if Hallux was really a specialist.
“Even my wife is ready, dressed and waiting for us to depart.” Mr.
Dryden tapped his toe on the floorboards with a sharp report amplified by the absence of any rugs. “If a woman can get herself together on time, then surely a grown man—”
“Yes, Hallux, I am a grown man, and as such will not be hurried through my breakfast. I will leave on a full stomach; we shan’t get much on the road today.”
“We’ll sup all the earlier if we arrive at the dinner hour!”
“We’ll arrive all the earlier if you leave me to my vittles!”
Tom was as surprised as Hallux at this unexpected show of spirit. Flustered, Mr. Bewit’s cousin ran his hand through his mane of uncombed, and it must be owned, unclean hair, and then shook it out dramatically.
“Butter makes one fat in the stomach,” he snapped, looking pointedly at Tom, “and white bread is bad for the bowels,” he said, turning back to Mr. Bewit, who had his teeth in a slice. “You would both do better to follow a plain diet and keep more regular hours. And with that, I bid you good day. Perhaps this evening, or the end of next year’s season, when at last we set out, we shall meet again.”
Mr. Bewit looked amused as Hallux flounced from the room—that had changed, too, since the night of their conversation. No longer did Mr. Bewit look like a man passing a stone whenever his cousin used him ill; he had clearly reconciled himself to the situation, and decided it was worth it to enjoy a gentleman’s life. He was keeping true to his resolve of honoring his sacrifice—whatever it had been.
“Well, Tom,” said Mr. Bewit, as he polished off an impossibly flaky roll, “what do you think? Should we finish breaking our fast and get on the road?”