by Molly Tanzer
“Perhaps…”
“Why—why don’t you come to dinner? Tomorrow? 17 Sackville Street. Eight o’clock all right?” She winked at him. “I’m sure he’ll want to meet the only man in London honest enough to deliver five thousand pounds to a girl who died of a fever over four years ago.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just mean you might have kept it all for yourself. I say—are you keeping anything for yourself?”
“Ah…” Tom’s heart began to pound.
“You should, you really should,” she said so earnestly. “I’m very comfortable as Mr. Blythe’s apprentice. But what about you? You were thinking of getting your old apprenticeship back. You likely need the money more than me. Shouldn’t you keep it?”
“Mr. Bewit, he, ah, he left me something, as well,” Tom promised her, wondering why the room felt so damned close all of a sudden.
“Something doesn’t sound like much. Please, Tom, do take half—or at least some—”
“No!” he cried, mortified by her generosity. As she stared at him, he told himself to calm down; keep it together. After all—if he had handed over the full seven thousand pounds, she would have made the same offer, and he would have ended up with something like same amount in the end. So, everything was all right. Still, black stars danced behind his eyes. He wondered if he might faint.
“Tom?”
“It is… your money, Miss Rasa. As I said, it was meant for your independence.” He smiled, but it was an effort to move the muscles of his mouth.
“Are you quite all right, Tom?”
“The wine, I…”
“Of course,” she said, almost manically animated after her earlier reserve. “Let’s get you a cab—do you have lodgings? Goodness, I have been so selfish, asking all these questions about myself but none about you and your situation. Do you have somewhere to live? Anyone to look after you?”
“I’m fine,” he gasped, as he left a guinea on the table, far more than was needed, and let her see him to the door. “Everything is… already arranged, but I thank you.”
“Good.” She ushered him through the now-empty tavern and into the street. Fortunately it wasn’t so late that the cab-drivers had gone home, and she put him into one directly. “Tomorrow, then. You will come, won’t you? Oh, Tom! You’ve given me… something no one ever has.” She kissed him on the cheek, confusing him further. “You dear boy! You realize that, don’t you? You’ve told me more of myself than I have ever known—ever hoped to know!”
He could only gasp; he had not enough breath to protest either his generosity or his being ‘a dear boy.’
“And you’ll see about Mr. Blythe when you meet him, I promise. He’s a good man, very kind, and very wise. Why, it was he who convinced me to come and see you again tonight, do you know that? Oh, I have so much to tell him! I must go… he might yet be awake…”
Tom watched her go, unable to call, unable to do more than gasp his address to the cab-driver. It was fully an hour after returning home that he felt like himself again, and only with the aid of half a bottle of brandy and the promise of a hot bath.
As he waited for his bleary-eyed maid to finish filling the tub, he ruminated drunkenly upon the wide-eyed look of incredulity on Tabula’s face when he had told her who she was; the vulnerability in her expression as she’d realized her birth name was familiar; the obvious pleasure she’d felt when he’d promised to introduce her to Hallux Dryden. It made him feel… powerful. The sensation was intoxicating. Exciting. Arousing.
Tomorrow. He stretched in his chair, draining his brandy, feeling rather like a lord. He would see her again tomorrow. And she had asked to see him. She had invited him to her home—to meet her strange, enigmatic master, the man that had so bewitched her that she saw no reason to leave his service, even after coming into possession of five thousand pounds.
His bath ready, Tom undressed and slipped into the warm water, remembering her face, her profile with that strange white makeup and rouge on her cheek, her bosom as it heaved while she spoke. She was so lovely—lovely and intelligent and generous. A girl like that, working for a man like Mr. Blythe! It was rather like harnessing a unicorn to an ox-cart.
Well, he would just have to free her, show her what her life could be. He understood her anxiety—it was not easy for an apprentice to leave a master. But she could do it—he had done it. Yes, he would take Miss Tabula Rasa away from her troubles… and then take her for his own.
It was late by the time I returned home. Mr. Blythe had retired, and as no light seeped from under his door I did not knock. I was disappointed—I wished to tell him all Tom had told me—but I was not surprised. Neither of us minded a late night, or several, but an evening off usually meant a dinner at home, a glass of port, a good book, and an early bedtime. If this surprises you, remember that pleasures can be quite simple.
With no confidante to confide in, I too went to bed… but sleep eluded me. I suppose it is not terribly astonishing that I tossed and turned, even after idling over my toilette. I had much on my mind.
Alula Bewit. That had been my name. I had been a gentleman’s daughter—a happy one, to hear Tom’s account. I had been loved by my father, and by a cousin who had tried to woo me, in a romance that had led to my total loss of self. Tom had had his doubts, but I felt this part, too, was true, even if I did not remember it… but to think on it too long made my head ache.
How odd that sensation, of knowing but not remembering! It saddened me that I could make myself feel nothing over my father’s death—but I did not remember him, so I could not love him. I could only regret a lost opportunity, for we might have met. If Mangum Blythe had introduced us, how extraordinary that would have been! Surely my father would have called me by my name, and I would have known it… but not known him.
As for Hallux Dryden, when Tom had spoken of him—of his ability to entrance people, and manipulate their minds—then, I had felt… something, something almost physical, something that lurked in the bottom of my stomach, heavy like a stone and just as silent. Dread. What did I know about him, without remembering it?
I would uncover it all, in time—that, at least, I was certain of. I would never be able to ask my father why he had abandoned me, but I could talk to Hallux Dryden, and I would. When we met, I would make him tell me what he knew of my estrangement from my family—if he had had a hand in it, or if it had really been a terrible fever, and a father’s worry that he could no longer care for his child.
That night, I was curious—profoundly so—but I wasn’t angry. As I could not recall anything from before my time at the Foundling Hospital, I felt no sense of loss over those absent years. All I knew for certain was that I had been happy almost since the moment I returned to my senses.
***
I had been only a month at the Foundling Hospital when Mrs. Dolhan, the head nurse, came in to the kitchen one morning. She told me to stop washing dishes, and go wash myself instead, and to put on my Sunday dress.
“Why?” I asked, much to the surprise of the other girls.
For that, I received a slap to the mouth. Not a hard one, but sharp enough to remind me that my lot as an orphan was not to ask why about anything. I had been slapped before; I should have known not to ask—but I couldn’t help it. I have always been curious.
A handful of other girls had also been relieved of their duties and sent to make themselves smart, but none of them had any idea what was going on, either. Some of the girls who had been there longer said that sometimes private individuals in need of a servant came to the Foundling Hospital instead of putting an advertisement in the papers. Once I thought about it, it seemed strange that more of us weren’t snapped up by charity-minded Christians in need of a little extra help. Girls at the orphanage were trained to do all kinds of housework, from scrubbing floors to mending shirts, and the boys to do many kinds of useful tasks, too, and I said as much.
“Oh, well, they don’t want the responsibility,” whispered Rebe
cca, my closest friend at the Hospital. “A girl here, Sarah, she was taken in by a woman who beat her and tormented her—she came back, begging for her old place, but of course it was gone. She had to go back… or go elsewhere.”
“What did she choose?” We were walking together towards the yard.
“She went elsewhere.” Rebecca shrugged. “I haven’t heard from her… nor do I expect to. You know how it is.”
It was a grim thing for a girl of fifteen to say with such nonchalance, but that was life at the Foundling Hospital. We all knew what awaited us if we misbehaved or, Heaven forbid, ran away. Especially the girls.
“Cheer up,” advised Rebecca. “If it is someone looking for a servant, a sober face won’t help your chances. Smile, stand up straight, and look as if there’s nothing in the world you want more than to scrub out chamber pots.”
“That’s what I’ll be doing whether I’m picked or not.”
“That’s the truth of it, isn’t it?”
The boys had arrived first, a sniggering gaggle uniform in their appearance and utter lack of manners. We girls did not meet with the boys often, for they were housed in a different wing, of course. They went quiet when we came in, just as fascinated by us as we were by them. I blushed when one whistled at us, covering it by adjusting my bonnet.
“There,” said Rebecca, inclining her head to a corner of the yard. “That’s them. Look, they’re already judging us.”
I looked. In the corner of the yard stood a man and a woman, deep in conversation. From the way they were standing, I assumed they were a young married couple. They were pleasant to behold, neatly dressed and rosy-cheeked.
Mrs. Dolhan approached them, and from a distance indicated a few of us. Then they began to walk along our lines to judge for themselves.
They spoke to several of the boys before coming over to the girls. We arranged ourselves neatly in a row, squared our shoulders, and tried to look moral and hardworking.
“This is Rebecca,” said Mrs. Dolhan, before launching into a speech about the virtues of my friend. As the man and woman spoke to her, I assessed him and his lady out of the corner of my eye. He was not handsome—not exactly—but he was attractive in some way I could not quite describe. There was an appealing liveliness to his manners, and a subtle but alluring sensuality to his smile that woke something in me, made me want to know him better. His wife, too—she possessed that same spark that made me want to look at her, even if she was not particularly pretty. What struck me most, I recall, is that she and her husband seemed both perfectly at ease, so comfortable with one another and everyone else. I liked that about them, and I resolved to try to be the one they took home.
“Judith’s story is yet more tragic,” said Mrs. Dolhan. Rebecca had warned me she liked to play up our misfortunes. “A recent ward of ours, she suffered a fever and now has no memory of who she used to be. I do not mean to imply she is without any skills—no, she has lovely manners, keeps herself tidy as you can see, and cleans very well. But, as to who she might have been, we have no notion…”
“No memories,” said the man thoughtfully. “Is this true, Miss Judith?”
“I don’t remember who I was, but I remember everything else. I can tie my shoes, and read a book, and do maths. I can even read a little French, though I speak it but ill. I’m sure I could ride a horse, if I ever had one. But everything else is… missing.”
“Interesting. A fever, you say?” This was to Mrs. Dolhan.
“Terrible. She was unconscious for several days, and when she awoke…” Mrs. Dolhan shrugged.
“But before the fever… you must know something?”
“No, Mr. Eleutherios. She was left on our doorstep already afflicted. We could not turn her away—why, the girl does not even remember her old name! Judith is what we christened her.”
“I see.” Mr. Eleutherios looked me in the eye, and I made so bold as to look back. I got the sense that false modesty would not do me any favors with this man.
“She’s a forward creature,” observed the woman, though not unkindly. “She’d be quite a handful.”
“Oh no,” insisted Mrs. Dolhan, shooting me an annoyed look. “She’s very respectful, and always—”
“I didn’t mean to imply I thought she would be disrespectful,” said the woman. “I simply meant she seems intelligent. Intelligent children are always more challenging than the dull ones, are they not?”
I began to suspect this woman was not actually the man’s wife, though why I could not say. Nor could I think of a reason for two individuals who were not married, or siblings, to come to an orphanage together, to look at boys and girls. At least, not any respectable reason, but this just intrigued me further. My innate curiosity has always been paired with an unwholesome turn of mind.
Mrs. Dolhan was still frowning at me. “Well, here is Leah, and—”
“I’d like to see Judith, Billah, and Daniel in private,” said Mr. Eleutherios, interrupting her. I tried not to betray any feelings about his choices, but privately I found Billah insufferable. I knew nothing of the boy. “From those three we shall make our final decision.” He winked at me, and I wondered if he already had.
I waited in the corridor for almost an hour while they interviewed Billah and Daniel. My spirits sank the longer they took, but when I went in, in spite of my being last I got the sense that they were still interested in me.
“Sit down, Judith,” he said. “We just want to talk to you for a little while.”
“About what, sir?” I asked.
“Whether you would like to work for me.”
“I suppose that depends on what I’d be doing.”
“She certainly has more spirit than the others,” murmured the woman. “But as for malleability…”
“She’s practically a blank slate,” protested Mr. Eleutherios. “Imagine it—manners, intelligence, education, but no upbringing to muddy the waters.”
“I’m still here, you know,” I said. They both looked at me in surprise. “Please, sir—and madam—be frank with me.” They exchanged a significant glance, but I would be myself or no one at all. “I may not know who I am, nor from whence I came, but I know a bit about the world. This is an orphanage, not a convent.”
“So it would seem,” said the woman. “Miss Judith, my apologies. I did not mean to be so rude.”
“I’m less concerned with manners than whatever it is that you think you know about the world?” Mr. Eleutherios leaned forward in his chair. I liked him more every moment. He wasn’t appalled by my candor, nor was he angry with me—he seemed inclined to like me more rather than less for speaking my mind. “Out with it, girl.”
“Well, for one, you are not a married couple.” He laughed out loud, but bid me continue. “I suppose I’m not so wise as to know why the two of you would come here together, looking for a servant, but I’d very much like to. Why don’t you tell me, and then I can tell you whether I’d like to work for you?” Something else occurred to me. “And I’d like to know for which of you I would end up working, too.”
The air felt brittle in my lungs. Then Mr. Eleutherios laughed again.
“Oh, she’ll do just fine,” he said to the woman. “You were right, Mrs. Knoyll.” He looked back to me. “I was all set to take the boy, but she told me not to make up my mind. She was right—you’re much sharper.”
“So I would be working for you?”
“Will be, if you like. I haven’t the time to explain the whole of your duties now, but I promise they will be light and enjoyable. Pleasurable, even. You mentioned you could read—well, reading will be a very large part of your work, and fencing words with clever people, just as we three have been doing. You will learn to fence with a sword, as well, and perform other physical feats, depending on your preferences. Does that sound interesting? If so, I’ll have Mrs. Dolhan draw up the necessary paperwork. But, my dear girl, please… during everything, don’t mention your suspicion that Mrs. Knoyll and I are not married, if you would b
e so kind? It would cause quite the uproar, and likely result in my—our—being unable to take you home. I’d also prefer you not mention my name was Mangum Blythe, and not Peter Eleutherios.” He smiled at me, for I was gawping at him, astonished. “I’ll trust you with my real name, as well as our secret, as a show of good faith. That seems like a good beginning, doesn’t it?”
“A good beginning doesn’t always mean a happy ending,” I countered. “What if I don’t like working for you?” As tempting as the offer was, I wanted to know exactly what I was getting myself into—Rebecca’s story had made an impression on me.
“Give me a year. That’s all I ask. I will let you leave after one year’s time, with enough money that you could go anywhere in England you liked and live respectably. If you wanted to work, you could, but you would not need to. I’ll have my lawyer write up a contract saying just that, if you like.”
I looked to Mrs. Knoyll. She really was an elegant creature. Her posture was perfect, I remember noticing at that particular moment, and her taste in clothing was exceptional. For some reason this orderliness about her person reassured me—I did not think anyone so impeccably composed could be wicked.
I was wrong, of course—but not in this particular instance.
“All right,” I said. “One year.”
My initiation was instantaneous. In the carriage ride back to his Sackville Street residence Mr. Blythe explained to me what I would be doing for him.
I would be learning. Everything.
“First the Classics. Do you have any Greek or Latin?” When I shook my head, he sighed. “I’ll do what I can, but you’re making a late start of it. You’ll just have to read in translation, for a time, along with many popular works of modern fiction. The Iliad and Pamela sit side by side in the souls of men today, and inform just as many of their desires.”