by Molly Tanzer
“Party here tonight, m’lord?” said the driver, as he opened the door for Tom.
“No,” said Tom. “I’m as surprised as you are. Here,” he paid him for the fare and tipped him rather generously.
“And a happy Christmas to you, sir,” said the driver, tipping his hat before jumping back on the riding board.
Conscious of his dignity, Tom waited until the man was out of sight and then darted down and around, to the servant’s entrance. While it pained him to recall how before Callow’s return he would have let himself in the front, he was happy with his situation, for he learned almost at once what in the world had everyone dashing about so frantically.
“It’s Master Callow,” said the scullery maid, who was boiling a cauldron of water. “He’s… taken ill.”
“Is it serious?” asked Tom, trying not to sound hopeful.
“Nah.” She lifted the lid, and her face turned red in the steam. “He was making rather merry, and…”
“Not ill, then. Just drunk and sloppy.” The girl nodded at Tom’s diagnosis, too shy to say such things herself.
“Oh, Tom, you’re back,” said Mrs. Jervis, bustling into the room with a bucket full of soiled cloths that were eye-wateringly noisome. She set them aside with distaste. “Mister Bewit would see you. Immediately. He was rather sorry you’d gone out. I… made excuses for you, given the manner of your leave-taking.” It was as close to an apology as Tom could expect to receive, these dark days. “Go on up to him, he’s wanting you.”
“Is Master Callow with him?”
“No,” she said, disapproval positively oozing from the word. “He was just now taken short on the landing.” That explained the odor of those rags. Tom shuddered and tried to banish the mental image her descriptions produced. “His plans are to retire to bed after soaking in a hip-bath.”
“Did Mr. Bewit say he wanted anything?”
“Just you.”
Tom took the servants’ stair to the second floor without any of his earlier resentment, as likely the front staircase would be a bit pungent, and let himself in to Mr. Bewit’s study. The man was scribbling away at something so furiously that he barely paused when he looked over his shoulder to nod at Tom before going back to it.
Tom was very used to rushing to his master’s side only to be told to wait. He entertained himself by wandering the study. But tonight, the bookshelves, which usually kept him occupied, merely reminded him of the unfortunate incident that had precipitated his going out—so, thinking of Miss Rasa and her impersonation, he turned to the portraits.
Her face was still fresh in his mind he stared at the image of Callow Bewit. The painter’s decision to idealize the lad’s features recalled his impostor’s more than the reality; it seemed to Tom that Miss Rasa looked out at him, rather than Mr. Bewit’s son. Funny, that—but in Callow’s case, any impostor would be an improvement on the original.
Next, he wandered over to Mrs. Bewit’s portrait—and would have gasped, had he not been so well trained to keep such exclamations to himself in the presence of his betters. How could he have forgotten? Or rather, how had he failed to see? There, dangling from Mrs. Bewit’s sash, was Miss Rasa’s pocket watch! It had to be the same one. The design was so distinctive; the details, identical.
A thousand thoughts vied for his attention. Could it be the same watch? What would that mean? The simplest explanation was that Mr. Bewit had simply sold the piece, but it was just so odd, especially given how much Miss Rasa resembled—
“Tom?”
“Yes!” It came out as almost a shout, startling them both. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Bewit. My thoughts were… elsewhere.”
“I see.” Mr. Bewit pushed back from his desk. How tired he looked! Where once country sunshine and wind-chap had brightened his cheek, there were now only hollows filled with shadow, and the bags under his eyes did not bespeak restful evenings. “Unfortunately, my mind has been rather bound to the here-and-now.” He rubbed his temples and stood. “Those letters I just finished… see to them first thing. They are apologies that must not be delayed in their delivery.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what I shall do with Callow. He is… his character is… worse than I thought. His faults can no longer be excused as a boy’s naiveté and idle oat-sowing. The man has grown debauched.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it, sir.”
Tom was usually happy to tolerate Mr. Bewit’s depressed musings. Tonight, however, he was on fire with desire and curiosity, and it made him fidgety.
Mr. Bewit noticed. “Ah, I know,” he said. “You have heard all this before. It is not a topic any young man wants to spend his nights chewing over, time and again.”
“That’s not it at all, sir,” said Tom hastily. “My apologies. Just… something on my mind.”
“Oh?” Mr. Bewit smiled at Tom, his usual warm, lopsided smile that made his eyes crinkle at the edges and his lips press together. Tom watched him keenly, for it reminded him of another smile he’d seen that night. “If you would trouble me about it, I’m always happy to listen, Tom. I hope you don’t think… well, I know we have not been spending as much time together as we became accustomed to, but I thought it best… given…”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I have very much regretted the loss of your company, but I know my place.”
“Your place…” Mr. Bewit glanced to the two armchairs by the fire. “To hell with place for the night. Come and sit, Tom, as we used to do, and tell me what is bothering you.”
Tom’s heart was beating—racing. He could not sit down; instead, glanced to the painting. “Mr. Bewit, that pocket watch in your wife’s sash…”
“Eh?”
“In this portrait of her.” Tom pointed. “I noticed she has a pocket watch, a silver one, inlaid with a rose. I’ve never seen another like it.”
Mr. Bewit was staring at him curiously, but said nothing. Tom plunged ahead.
“Well… forgive me, but… what happened to it? Do you know?”
“Josian’s watch?” Mr. Bewit had gone pale. “Why—why do you ask?”
Tom knew agitation was bad for Mr. Bewit’s nerves; it had been a mistake to ask about it, especially after such a trying night. “Nothing, sir,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry to have—”
“Why do you ask me, Tom? Why this watch? Why tonight?”
Tom heard the urgency in his master’s voice, but did not understand it. “Mr. Bewit, the boy who came into Mr. Dray’s, all those months ago—the one who pretended to be your son—he had a watch like that. Exactly like it.”
“What? Tom… what is this?”
“Forgive me, sir…. I only saw it the one time, and for only a moment, which is why I didn’t recognize it. But tonight… I saw it again. I met the false Callow.”
“You met…”
“The one who pretended to be your son, yes. In a coffee house. The impostor and your son are very alike—uncannily so, I’d say. And the other strange thing… is that the boy… wasn’t a boy.”
Mr. Bewit was staring at him as if Tom had just stripped off all his clothes and done a Cornish scoot on the rug. “What are you saying?”
“She had been dressed in boy’s clothes, for the deception. But tonight, when I saw her, she was dressed… naturally. As a young woman, I mean. I still recognized her—and confronted her.”
“How did you confront her?”
“Well, I asked her what she was about, imitating your son and coming into shops.”
Mr. Bewit’s face had darkened from white to red. He did not look at all well. Sweat beaded his forehead, and he looked unsteady on his feet.
“May I… get you a brandy, sir?”
“No,” said Mr. Bewit, daubing at his brow with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Tell me, Tom, how could you be sure it was… she?”
Tom elected not to relate the whole story. “I thought for a moment she might have been your son—silly, I know, but it was crowded and smoky, and I only saw her profile, but she had the same nose, a
nd the same hair.”
Mr. Bewit dabbed again at his forehead. “And when you confronted her? What did she say?”
“That she had indeed impersonated Callow.” Mr. Bewit blanched again, and he trembled. “But she would not say by whom, or for what purpose,” continued Tom. “I enquired, of course—pressed her, even, but she would not yield. I would not have been so forthright, but you said when we discussed the matter that you suspected someone had arranged the entire affair with an aim of injuring both Mr. Mauntell and yourself… I say, Mr. Bewit, are you certain you’re quite all right?”
“Perfectly fine,” he stammered while making his way unsteadily to his chair, where he very nearly collapsed into it. “And you say… you say…”
“What’s that? Sir, here.” Tom was at Mr. Bewit’s sideboard in an instant, where he poured him a glass of port. “Take this, sir. I did not mean to upset you, I—”
“This girl… how old was she?”
“Not twenty.”
“And she was very like Callow, you say?”
“Shockingly so.”
He took a long, but careful sip. His hands were trembling as if he had St. Vitus Dance! “And she… she had a pocket watch? Like my wife’s?”
“I would swear it was the pocket watch in that painting.”
“That watch was custom-made… for my wife, when she was just a girl.” Then, all of a sudden, he shuddered so violently he dropped his glass on the carpet as he groaned like a cow giving birth. “Oh God! Oh God!” he cried.
Tom was concerned for his master’s health, of course he was, but he was also desperate for answers. He knelt at Mr. Bewit’s feet; dared to put his hand on the man’s knee.
“Mr. Bewit! What is the meaning of this?”
“Alula!” Tears were running down his cheeks now, and he bent forward, wracked with sobs, forehead to Tom’s hand. “Oh, Alula, my daughter! How I have betrayed you!” He reared up again, clapped a hand to his mouth, and shook with the force of keeping in his wails.
“You will burst if you keep this inside a moment longer!” Tom urged him on, heedless of the consequences. “Alula Bewit died—you and everyone else said she died! Far from here, and long ago! How, then, could this girl have been she? Why, she told me herself that she was an orphan! Why would she say so if she were really your daughter?”
“God has seen fit to punish this foolish man,” blubbered Mr. Bewit, snot and tears running over his lips in equal measure. “But not so much as I have punished my dear Alula, my flesh and blood, an innocent if ever there was one! She is not dead, Tom. I gave her up—abandoned her in her hour of need! Hallux said—it doesn’t matter what he said. I should never have listened to him, but I was a younger man, foolish, and frightened to lose the fortune I had but lately gained, even second-hand. But my folly was a poisonous tree, and it has surely borne wicked fruit. To hear of all things that she is working for Mangum Blythe! God only knows what horrors and degradations she has endured, and all because I am weak—spineless—a selfish sinner ruled by pride and greed rather than any nobler sentiments!” And with that, he beat his fist upon the arm of the chair so hard the wood creaked.
“Please, Mr. Bewit, calm yourself!” Tom’s curiosity finally yielded to alarm. “You will do yourself an injury! Please—it might not have been the same watch, it was foolish for me to even mention it to you!”
“Tom, that watch was what I left her—a token, from her family, so she might not think herself completely abandoned,” he whimpered, leaning forward to clutch Tom’s lapels, much to his alarm. “I chose it… in case she ever… in case it reminded her…”
“Sir?”
“I must speak with him.” Mr. Bewit lurched to his feet. “I have business with my cousin, and I would do it alone. It will be an ugly affair.” He dashed the tears from his eyes. “As it has been from its inception!”
He fairly flew out of the room after that, leaving Tom upon the rug before the fire, ruminating upon what he had just heard. He sat there for a long time, heedless of the cramps in his legs, or the lateness of the hour.
Miss Rasa. Alula Bewit. Could they be the same girl? Miss Rasa hadn’t mentioned anything about impersonating her own brother for whatever strange errand she had been on, that morning. Then again, she had been loath to discuss the matter at all…
Regardless, Tom now knew Mr. Bewit had abandoned his daughter at an orphanage, telling everyone she had died, and maintained that deception for years and years! What on earth had precipitated such a strange decision? Alula would have been in her early teens when he gave her up. Why had she stood for it? Why had she never come home, to demand her rights, as a gentleman’s daughter?
And how was Hallux Dryden involved? At the end of their Michaelmas party, Tom had overheard the Jepps agreeing Mr. Dryden had once loved the girl, but now the man was happily (more or less) married to Sabina, after apparently convincing Mr. Bewit to give up his daughter, forever…
It was all extremely mysterious—vexingly so. The only thing Tom could think to explain it all was Hallux Dryden had got Alula with child and then refused to marry her. But why would he do that, if he had loved her? And even if that had been the case, the Foundling Hospital was an odd choice for a hushed-up lying-in, when there were so many boarding houses that catered to such circumspect circumstances. And to leave her there, afterwards, forever… no, it was too cruel. Mr. Bewit would never have consented to such an outrage.
Shaking his head, Tom turned his thoughts from that to the other name involved in the scandal: ‘Mangum Blythe.’ Who was he? Mr. Bewit had never mentioned him as an acquaintance, even in passing, Tom was sure of it… but he had not stumbled over the name, nor struggled to recall it. Working for Mangum Blythe, he had said.
Blythe must be the master Alula had referenced. Mr. Bewit must have hired them to humiliate Mr. Mauntell. That would actually quite neatly explain his guilt over Tom’s being sacked…
But no, that didn’t make sense. Mr. Bewit had obviously never known his own daughter was working for this Blythe, so he couldn’t have hired her to impersonate his son.
Yes, vexing was just the word for it!
Tom thought so long on the matter he must have dozed off. Next thing he knew, his head was pillowed on the seat of Mr. Bewit’s chair and Mrs. Jervis was shaking him by the shoulder. Tom looked up at her, bewildered. It was still dark beyond the curtains. She looked very worried.
“Mrs. Jervis?”
“At last, you’re awake!” She wrung her apron between her hands. “You must come—quickly. We need all the help we have; all the house is in an uproar. Mr. Bewit has collapsed!”
The doctor had been sent for, and Mr. Bewit had been moved to his chambers, so there was nothing for Tom to do besides apply cool cloths to his master’s feverish cheeks. He did so assiduously, driven by a nagging sense of guilt to keep a watchful eye.
Mr. Bewit’s fever was high and his color poor; the only thing to do was keep him comfortable until Mr. Fitzwilliam arrived to do what he could. Tom cursed himself for a fool—it had been cruel to bring up the matter when his master was already so upset. He had been thinking only of Miss Rasa and her mysterious pocket watch—only of himself, in other words.
“Unggh,” moaned Mr. Bewit, turning over in his delirious sleep. Tom snatched away the cloth, wrung it out, and dipped it in the bowl of water. When he pressed it to Mr. Bewit’s brow, the man sighed happily.
Then the door opened, and Mr. Fitzwilliam was there at last, with his black bag and his pleasant, reassuring manners. But when he saw Mr. Bewit, his countenance fell.
“How is his pulse?” he asked, but Tom had no answer. Taking the man’s wrist in his, the doctor looked at his own pocket watch and shook his head. “So light and fast!”
Half an hour’s examination later, the surgeon looked no less grim. “It is as I feared,” he murmured. “It has taken hold.”
“No!” whispered Mrs. Jervis hoarsely, hand at her throat.
“What precipitated this?�
�� Mr. Fitzwilliam looked from the housekeeper to Tom.
“I do not know,” said Mrs. Jervis, saving him from answering. “Mr. Dryden would not say when he rang for us.”
“Bring him here!” Mr. Fitzwilliam did not look pleased. “I would speak with him.”
Mrs. Jervis bustled out, which was when the doctor fixed Tom in his gaze.
“Do you have any other information?” he asked shrewdly.
Tom waited just a moment too long as he decided what to say.
“Out with it, boy!” cried Mr. Fitzwilliam.
“Master Callow disgraced himself tonight,” said Tom. “He caused quite a commotion upon returning from a night out. Mr. Bewit was most displeased.” It was not the whole of it, he knew—and so did Mr. Fitzwilliam.
“And?” he prompted.
“And I… instead of comforting him, I selfishly enquired about something regarding his deceased wife and daughter,” said Tom, flushing. Mr. Fitzwilliam nodded.
“I see. The latter is not a topic that rests well with Mr. Bewit.”
“I know. It was on my mind, and Mr. Bewit noticed I seemed… preoccupied…”
The apothecary sighed. “It is not to be wondered at, then, that he became so worked up. But you were not with him when…”
“No,” said Tom. “He left me to go speak with Mr. Dryden.”
“Where he made a perfect ass of himself, and is reaping what he sowed,” said Hallux, stomping through the door without the slightest heed of what a racket he made.
“Good God, man!” cried Mr. Fitzwilliam. “Have some respect!”
“And where, pray, is my respect?” Hallux looked mightily annoyed. “I was in the middle of my evening ablutions when Mrs. Jervis burst in upon me—”
“I knocked!” said Mrs. Jervis, offended.
“—to demand I come in here to look at my cousin sweating, or whatever is needed,” he sneered. “What am I do to? Aren’t you the apothecary?”