by Molly Tanzer
“Oh, do sit down, Mr. Dryden,” said Sabina, as her husband silently goggled at her. Tom hid a snigger by turning to look out at the rainy grounds, and Mr. Bewit continued on as he always did, without an ounce of understanding. “You’re making us all nervous, towering over us. Have a sandwich, I promise you’ll feel better.”
“I assure you, I feel just fine,” said Hallux, and turning on his heel, he exited the room with his nose sticking up and bottom sticking out.
They saw nothing of him the rest of the day, not until dinner. This was not particularly unusual… but still, Tom felt uneasy. He sensed something was afoot. Perhaps it was Hallux’s angry egress; perhaps it was Sabina’s change. While she was too sore to resume playing, she did not occupy herself as she was usually wont to do—putting in three stitches every half an hour on whatever piece of embroidery she would never finish, or listlessly turning the pages of a book without reading them. Instead, she either read through the stack of dusty, moldering music books as if they were as fascinating as Clarissa, or she paced the room impatiently, always returning to her harp, to sigh and glance at her fingertips.
It was still raining when they went up (or in Tom’s case, down) to dress for dinner, and raining when they sat down to eat it. The spell of Sabina’s playing had long been broken, and Mr. Bewit was once again out of spirits, fretting over whether tomorrow would be fair enough for any sport. When Hallux joined them, in the same spattered shirt, he too looked irritable; Sabina alone seemed content, for her hands were better after the application of some salve, and she had high hopes for another long practice very soon.
“I think by the time we return to London I shall be able to take a seat at any party and acquit our family admirably,” she said, as she spooned up her soup with unusual appetite. Though she looked her usual radiant self, she seemed healthier—more awake, and happier. Stronger, without a doubt. “It’s so funny, how I did not even realize I had missed my harp until Tom reminded me of how I had used to play.”
Tom winced, and when Hallux looked at him with narrowed eyes, he felt his heart sink into his now well broken-in boots.
“Interesting you should mention London,” he said, loudly scraping his spoon along the edge of his bowl. “I thought about it this afternoon, and I am of the opinion that we should repair there. Immediately.”
“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Bewit seemed to hardly understand what had been said. “London? This time of year?”
“I find the lack of diversion here extraordinarily depressing.” Hallux now slurped his cooling cock-a-leekie. “It is affecting my productivity, and I must finish my monograph soon or not at all. Even with no one being in town I daresay we shall find more companions than in this most unsociable hamlet.”
“But no one will be in London,” said Mr. Bewit, repeating his cousin’s words in his confusion.
“And yet, there will be more people than in Puriton.” Hallux’s logic was cool and unassailable. “I hate this place, cousin, and I cannot stand it another moment.”
“But the shooting,” said Mr. Bewit. “Duck season has but scarcely begun, to say nothing of—”
“What care I for ducks? Their company is not of an intellectual nature, which is what I crave.”
This was actually a lie. Hallux Dryden loved every duck he’d ever met, so long as it was stuffed and roasted. In fact, nothing compelled him to quit his vegetarianism more than a golden crackling bird steaming with sage and onion.
Mr. Bewit, of course, did not point this out.
“Come now, cousin,” he said, and Tom knew the battle was already lost the moment he began to speak. “Do not decide anything in haste. London shall be wet and empty and you shall find nothing to occupy yourself there that you could not have here. The autumn is just the time to be in the country—tomorrow, set aside your pen and quill and come on a tramp with me. I know just the spots to take you. I promise you, by the end of the day you’ll be of an entirely different mind.”
Hallux would not even consider it. “No,” he said. “We go to London.”
“We?”
“Yes, we.”
“Cousin! I would never keep you from your desire. But surely you can spare me? By your own admission, you seek intellectual company.” He smiled in a self-deprecating fashion that made Tom ashamed for him. “You know me, I would hate to miss even a day, much less a season of sport. I shall see that everything is ready for you—send servants ahead to ensure your comfort—spare any help you might wish…” He trailed off, seeing, as Tom did, the cruel smile hovering at the edges of Hallux’s plump-lipped mouth.
The man had no real desire to return to London. He was a tyrant, and this was a punishment, revenge on Mr. Bewit for accepting the Jepps’s invitation—and on Sabina, for her small defiance with the harp.
Mr. Bewit saw it too, and gave over with a sigh and a nod, but Sabina would not give over without a fight.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Dryden,” she said, with more surprising vigor. “We would be regarded as eccentrics of the first water if we did such a thing. If you would like to go, then go—but do not make us sacrifice our pleasure for yours.”
“It is unbecoming for anyone, man, but especially women, to think only of pleasure,” said Mr. Dryden primly.
“I do not think only of pleasure,” said Sabina, with equal formality. “I think of health. I have found country living particularly invigorating this year, and your cousin seems almost recovered from his shock of last spring. You have chosen not to take advantage of what Puriton has to offer, but you might still… the ancient Greeks believed in healthy mind, healthy body, did they not? If you are unable to properly focus your brain, it is because you spend all day cooped up indoors. Before uprooting your entire family, why not try your cousin’s advice? Society will provide nothing that solitary rambles over green pastures could not do better. Go on a walk with your cousin and see if that makes your mind more elastic. Or come with me, if you like. For the first time in a long while I feel equal to a ride, and if tomorrow is fair, I plan on going first thing.”
“Impossible,” declared Hallux. “You are too weak.”
“I am not,” she replied, eyes blazing.
Tom watched the exchange, amazed. Sabina was acting so unlike herself he wondered if she might indeed be suffering from some sort of nervous fit or episode—perhaps Hallux was right, and they ought to call for the apothecary to concoct a draught to settle her spirits.
Sabina’s transformation was agitating Hallux as well. He turned from her, looking disgusted. “Do you see, cousin?” He gestured at Sabina. “My wife is disturbed and unreasonable, and you and I are isolated. We shall go back to London. Don’t look so dismayed—for what did you join Brooks’s if not to go there and play cards? You have not had a rubber with anyone in over a fortnight.” Hallux looked from Mr. Bewit to his wife and back again. “I have every reason to insist upon this course. We shall go.”
Sabina and Mr. Bewit tried to coax Hallux out of his resolve all evening, but he would not be persuaded. The Drydens took their argument upstairs with them, when they went to bed, but Mr. Bewit took only his own poor spirits. Tom did what he could, but his entreaties and offers had no effect.
“Go,” said Mr. Bewit, looking out his window at the rain-soaked hills of Somerset, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders slumped forward in defeat. “We shall see if tomorrow Sabina and I can prevail on my cousin, but I doubt we shall. Ah, leave me! I am in no temper for company.”
“As you like, sir, but remember your nerves. Mr. Fitzwilliam said—”
“Mr. Fitzwilliam shall see me soon enough, I warrant,” said Mr. Bewit, with uncharacteristic sharpness.
Tom bowed and departed, ready for bed though it was early. It had been a trying day. What a strange family this was, that he had come to serve! Then again, he had little context to judge from; an orphan, with few memories of his father and fewer of his mother, his only point of comparison was his time with the Drays. If they had navigated similar
intrigues, they had kept them apart from him. Perhaps this household was not so strange—perhaps every family had their ups and downs, their despots and slaves, their sacrifices and secrets.
Guarding his candle-flame with his hand, he trekked along the shadowy corridor toward the stairs, but he paused upon hearing a muffled cry. He’d have bet his front teeth it had been Sabina—which was odd, given her usual quietude after the door was shut and she and Hallux were alone. Sensing something was amiss, Tom blew out his candle, and setting it upon a low table, tiptoed down the hallway to their door, under which light yet spilled. Oddly, it guttered dramatically, going dark and then bright as Tom approached—odd, but then again, Hallux had complained before about the leaks and draughts of Bergamot Mews. Even so, Tom felt a strange sense of dread as he watched the light flicker, though why, he could not say.
“What has changed?” he heard Hallux say. “Your behavior has been most unsatisfactory, Sabina. How could you! And now, of all times? My monograph is very nearly complete; my application to the Royal Society hangs in the balance! If you fail me now, I shall never recover from the blow!”
Madly curious, Tom decided to take a risk—for Sabina’s sake, he told himself. She might need… rescuing, or something. Pushing steadily down on the door-handle, he tested it to see if it was locked. It wasn’t, and he let the door open barely an inch, to better hear what on earth was happening.
“Look you here!” demanded Hallux.
“Please!” she cried. “Mr. Dryden!”
Tom felt frozen—unable to act. The flickering continued, and from where he lurked Tom could see neither Hallux nor Sabina, but from the shadows cast by the lights, he could see Sabina was sitting in a chair, Hallux looming over her, behind her, holding her head in his hands so that she could not look away from… something. Probably one of his strange constructs. Was this, too, one of his ‘revolutionary techniques,’ meant to help Sabina’s nerves?
Whatever it was, she didn’t seem to enjoy it—at least not at first. She was struggling, but after a moment she relaxed, and he released her.
“Now, answer me—what has being a good wife to do with harp-playing?”
“Nothing,” gasped Sabina.
“That’s right. Only a vain man would want his wife to exhibit herself like a performing monkey before a crowd of onlookers.”
“Of course,” said Sabina, dreamily. “What a vulgar thing that would be, to be a monkey.”
“You are an intelligent woman, and more importantly, a modest woman—an ideal, my darling, worthy of any man’s regard. I am so proud of you, how far you’ve come… how far we’ve come!”
“But we haven’t come anywhere,” said Sabina. “We’re at home, Mr. Dryden.”
“You are a perfect thing, Sabina,” said Hallux, and from the motion of the shadows, Tom saw he had moved around to face her. She stood, and accepted his hand, whereupon he led her away, somewhere. “Beautiful, obedient… sensual… what man could not love you? What man would not want you?”
“I don’t care,” said Sabina, “as long as you want me.”
“That I do.”
Tom quietly shut the door behind him. He felt sickened, guilty, as if he had overheard something far more private than their fucking. He had often wondered what on earth passed between those two in their private moments, but now he resolved never to ask, never to snoop or seek to find out more. Hallux’s treatments clearly worked; perhaps he did deserve to be in the Royal Society. Sabina certainly seemed happier and calmer from his attentions…
Well, Hallux could have her. Tom’s feelings of desire for her, his belief that she needed rescuing, it all melted away that night, in the wake of what he had observed. Sabina was clearly far more trouble than she could possibly be worth, even being as beautiful and pleasant as she was. Keeping her calm was obviously a job for a doctor, especially one like Hallux, who enjoyed his doctoring, odd as his methods might be.
As far as Tom was concerned, they deserved one another.
***
The family quit Bergamot Mews on the first day of November. Three and a half days later they saw the dreary, rain-washed front of 12 Bloomsbury Square, looking every bit as wretched as Tom expected to be until after Christmas, at the earliest.
Hallux was ecstatic, and as for Sabina, she was back to her former self. The day following her harp-playing she had awoken with a slight fever and chill, and sat by the fire all day, caring nothing for any food, drink, or suggested activity. She would not even return to her harp, citing the bruising of her fingers and the agitation music gave to her spirits, and did not play it again. When Mr. Bewit suggested she might like to take the instrument with her back to London she silently shook her head and opened the book on her lap, though no motion of her eyes or animation of her face implied she read what was on the page. Mr. Bewit seemed dismayed by her decision, but Tom wasn’t. He agreed with Hallux—music only agitated his bride. She seemed far more content like this, more at peace, and if she had to give up her harp-playing to achieve calm in her soul, then so be it.
Mr. Bewit was not calm; no, he was wretched. The bloom the country had lent him had left him already, and he was peaked and miserable. Even so, Tom believed he was actually the most miserable about their shift of residence. While it was true that anywhere he went with Mr. Bewit he was assured of eating well, drinking better, and paying for none of it, in London everyone knew him for what he was, so he could count on no horde of amenable young women eager to please a handsome and eligible young gentleman such as himself. Mr. Bewit might miss his geese, but Tom would suffer most for the lack of birds to shoot.
This foulness of mood among those trapped in the chill, damp carriage was only increased when they finally rattled to a stop, but a door down from 12 Bloomsbury Square. Mr. Bewit, who for the last hour of their drive had sunk into a silent and gloomy meditation, came to himself.
“What the devil can James be doing?” he mumbled, peering out the window. “Does he expect us to run?”
“Perhaps he believes it is a nicer view from here,” said Sabina, bleary-eyed, repellent, and vague. “Mr. Dryden has often remarked that many things are best viewed on the bias.”
“Jolly hard on the horses,” said Hallux. “James shouldn’t let them stand in this, they’ll—ah, there we go.” The coach lurched forward, and Tom could see the problem—a different carriage had been parked where they wished to be.
At last as close as they could get to their front door, they disembarked one by one so that no one would have to stand in the rain. First went Mr. Bewit, then Sabina, then her husband, and last of all, Tom.
“Out you come, Master Tom,” said James, the great oaf. Tom purposely pushed wide the carriage-door open as he got out, getting more water on the silk interior than was necessary, for it would not be up to him to get the water-marks out. James cursed him as they sprinted up the stairs. “Laugh now,” the driver cried, over the pounding rain. “I warrant you’ll be smiling a lot less once you see—”
Tom, not at all interested in James’s low gossip, darted inside. The relief of the warm interior of the town house was very welcome, and it seemed like the day was looking up—until Mr. Bewit’s voice made Tom aware that something strange was afoot.
“But why did you send no word of your arriving?” he cried. “To think, coming all this way home only to find the house standing empty!”
“I thought it would be rather a fine joke,” drawled someone who was clearly trying to sound more jovial than he actually felt. “I would have spent only a few nights here and then come down to Puriton… but it seems you’ve saved me the trouble. How droll.”
Curious, Tom made his way through the entryway and turned the corner to find his master and Hallux standing with a young man who could only be Callow Bewit. He was the very image of the boy in the painting, though a few years older, and even more opulently dressed and coiffed. Tom noted his sneer was also more pronounced, and his chin weaker. Tom disliked him almost immediately, placing him
among the ranks of simpering fops that had been the bane of his existence when he worked at Dray’s; the sort of young man who had become irate over ‘trifles’ like being asked to pay for the wigs they wanted. Not that Callow would have deigned to suffer an elegant, understated peruke from Dray’s, that much was clear—an enormous, and to Tom’s mind rather tacky European wig framed a face artfully made up, and the young man’s togs would have been ridiculous for an evening out… unless he planned to attend the Gold Braid Manufacturer’s Annual Celebratory Ball. To think, he had traveled in such finery!
“Really, though, I should be the one surprised to see you.” Master Callow looked keenly at his father. “Have you some business in the city? Shouldn’t you be knee deep in mud, murdering partridges?”
“We thought to spend Christmas in town.” Mr. Bewit had come up with this as an excuse to tell anyone who expressed curiosity over the family’s unusual presence. “So many of our country acquaintance were going to be elsewhere it seemed… rather dull.”
“How very jolly,” said Master Callow, smiling with a set of uneven, yellow teeth that had not made their way into the finished portrait in Mr. Bewit’s study. “And hullo… who is this?”
“Let me do the honors,” said Hallux Dryden, with perhaps the first genuine smile Tom had ever seen upon his face. “Master Callow, meet Tom Dawne, your father’s part-time valet and full-time surrogate son. Tiercel’s been grooming Tom to be your replacement for, oh, the past six months now, I’d say? Tom’s only a servant, but as you can see, your father’s been playing at Pygmalion, taking the hammer and chisel to him, trying to shape him into the perfect respectable young man.” Mr. Bewit stood stock still, gawping like a carp at his cousin. “Master Tom, meet Master Callow Bewit, your master’s actual heir. Now, please excuse me—I’d like to go change out of these wet things before I catch my death.”