The Pleasure Merchant

by Molly Tanzer

  “I don’t understand,” I said, looking once again to Mrs. Knoyll.

  “A woman—a gentlewoman—she desires a footman,” said Mr. Blythe, bringing my attention back to him. “Her husband is suspicious and jealous. He’s always watching. How would you arrange for them to meet?”

  “Does he want to meet her? The footman, I mean?”

  “Nearly always,” said Mr. Blythe, casting another appreciative glance at Mrs. Knoyll.

  “Well then… while the husband is away, I suppose. He must belong to a club.”

  “Won’t the servants notice if she just rings for him, specifically, and he walks boldly up the front stairs?” asked Mrs. Knoyll.

  I saw her point. “It’s more complicated than it seems.”

  “It’s always more complicated than it seems,” said Mr. Blythe. “Let’s add that he’s the favored footman of her archrival? If they are discovered, word is sure to get out—meaning, back to her husband—and all for the sake of an afternoon’s pleasure with a servant!”

  “You’ve just made it impossible,” I argued.

  “No, no. Not impossible. And imminently more plausible, for people desire most ardently that which is forbidden. Nothing’s ever easy, learn that first. Regardless, a situation like that… it could be arranged. But of course, that’s not the hardest part.”

  “How so?”

  “Not only would you need to come up with a workable solution to our gentlewoman’s problem, you would have to make the solving of it—the eventual union of Mrs. Gentlewoman and Master Footman—feel right. And for that, you would need to know everything about the gentlewoman. When did she first notice her passion? How did it come upon her? What was she reading at the time? That’s always a good one. If it’s the Decameron, well, you know she’ll want something lavish and continental. If it’s Fanny Hill, she’ll want something more English—naughtier, bawdier, I should say. And if it’s nothing like that—if it’s true love… well, having read the Decameron, Fanny Hill, and everything before it, in between, and after, will have given you a deeper understanding and appreciation of human nature… and that will be your guide.”

  “Guide? I…” It struck me what he was saying. “You do this for people.”

  “I do this for people,” he agreed. “And you will too, if you like it, which I very much hope you do. I like it, it’s loads of fun. But it’s not just reading books and arranging trysts. There’s an art to it—which is why you shall be my apprentice. I’ll train you, and if and when I’m satisfied you’re good enough to start out on your own, so you shall.”

  “Are you finished, then?” I asked Mrs. Knoyll.

  “Finished what?”

  “Are you his apprentice now? Are you about to start out… on your own?”

  “No, nothing like that,” she said. “Mr. Blythe and I are simply good friends.”

  “Good friends, yes. And as I trust her judgment, I took her along with me to help select you. For very sensible reasons it is entirely illegal for a bachelor like me to adopt a girl-child, hence the charade. You, Judith, will be my first apprentice, and—I say, do you like that name?”

  “It’s horrible,” I said.

  “If you don’t like it, then you shall have a new one. How grand! What shall I call my new pet, Mrs. Knoyll? Fluffy simply won’t do.”

  “Do you have a name you like, dear?”

  “That’s very considerate of you,” I said primly, as Mr. Blythe laughed, “but no, not really.”

  “So your memory… problem. That’s all true is it?” asked Mr. Blythe. I nodded. “Then—oh, Mrs. Knoyll, earlier I said she was a blank slate… let’s call her Tabula. Tabula Rasa, don’t you see?”

  “That’s not really a name, Mr. Blythe…”

  “I like it,” I said. “It’s beautiful. It sounds romantic and foreign.”

  “It is foreign, it’s Latin,” said Mrs. Knoyll. “You should know, it’s a… phrase. It only sounds like a name. Tabula Rasa means blank slate, or near enough.”

  “I see.” I thought this over. “Well… if you call me that, there’s no way it would have been my name before. And that suits me just fine.”

  “Why, she’s a treasure, Mrs. Knoyll,” said Mr. Blythe.

  We both beamed.

  ***

  The morning after my meeting with Tom I awoke with a start, positive I had overslept. But no—my clock said it was early yet. I was relieved, but I still hurried through my morning ablutions. I wanted to see Mr. Blythe as early as possible.

  He was there, just settling in with his paper when I burst into the room.

  “Miss Rasa,” he said evenly, turning a page without looking up. “You’ve been so excitable this week. Well, I suppose I must have been like that when I was your age.”

  “You’ll be home for dinner?” I asked. “I mean, rather, please be home for dinner. I’ve invited Tom, and—”

  “I’m dining with Mrs. Knoyll tonight, my dear girl. We’ve been planning it for ages.”

  I felt a pang. I liked Mrs. Knoyll—very much—but as I’d realized my feelings for Mr. Blythe I’d also realized what she was to him. What they were to one another… and it was not an easy thing for me.

  My head knew they never had much time together, given their mutual schedules, but even so, my heart resented her intrusion. I needed Mr. Blythe tonight.

  “Please,” I begged. “Mr. Blythe, you don’t understand. He…”

  “Swept you off your feet? Are you in love? Well, that can certainly wait until a night when I don’t already have plans.”

  “Mr. Blythe, he knows who my father is—was—and he’s coming over to give me five thousand pounds.”

  Mr. Blythe put down his paper. “That certainly changes things,” he allowed, pouring himself more coffee. He motioned to ask if I wanted any—I did. “Well, who was your father?” he asked, adding precisely as much cream as I wanted without needing to be told. “Your use of was I assume to mean he has passed?”

  “You mean you don’t know?” The possibility had crossed my mind, of course—that Mr. Blythe had been aware of our connection the whole time—but I didn’t think it likely. Hiding his knowledge would have been a betrayal, destructive to the trust that was an essential part of our working relationship. That, and it would have been cruel, and he was not a cruel man, unless paid to be.

  “Of course I don’t. I’d have told you,” he answered.

  “It’s—it was—Mr. Bewit. The man whose son I impersonated.”

  “Impossible.”

  “It’s not—it’s true, I mean. His daughter, who died… it was me. Except, I didn’t die. I lost my memory, and they left me at the Foundling Hospital, and made up a story about a fever, to cover it all up. I’m not sure why, yet.” Mr. Blythe looked astounded by all of this, as well he might. “He—Tom—told me all that, and more—he asked Mr. Bewit all about it, and the man confessed. It was my pocket watch, that was what helped him make the connection. It belonged to my mother, Tom recognized it, it’s in a family portrait or something.”

  “There could be two of a kind out there,” said Mr. Blythe doubtfully.

  “I thought of that, but… it felt right. When Tom told me my old name, it was like I’d known it this whole time. Not that I remember ever being called it, but I know it was mine.”

  Mr. Blythe frowned as he took a sip of coffee. “And what, pray, is your name?”

  “Alula Bewit. But I don’t wish to be called by it… I have no idea who Alula was. I know who I am, however.”

  “I see.” He sat back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “Well, all this is extraordinary—simply extraordinary. Then again, I always suspected you were a gentleman’s daughter. Don’t look pleased, it’s because of your cheek, not your manners.” He sobered. “So Mr. Bewit died, did he? I’m sorry to hear it. Didn’t have much time to enjoy his membership at Brooks’s, but that’s the way of it sometimes. I did wonder if that had truly been his heart’s desire—likely it just made him more miserable. But
, we can only do what our clients ask.”

  “Apparently he was of a nervous disposition.”

  “You’re telling me? Regardless, I’m sorry to hear about his death. It doesn’t seem like it’s affected you too much?”

  “I never knew the man, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Extraordinary!” Mr. Blythe looked thoughtful. “So, in re this Tom Dawne…”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re telling me that before his death, your father gave this wig-shop boy five thousand pounds to give to you… and not only that, he’s actually giving it to you, instead of pocketing it, no one the wiser?”

  “I’m sorry to say it, but my father wasn’t too pleased to hear I was working for you, and meant for me to use it to, I don’t know, escape your foul clutches, I suppose.” I did not add that if Mr. Blythe wished to clutch me; I would not consider it foul. “But of course I won’t,” I said quickly, “actually, I’d like it if you took it, you’ve spent an awful lot of money on me over the years. But if you won’t use it, save it for me,” I said over his sputtered objections.

  “That I will do, but nothing more,” he agreed. “The money, when you receive it, is yours. I shan’t ever touch a cent of it.” He chuckled. “I say, Miss Rasa, this is all rather a lot to digest. Let me… let me just send word to Mrs. Knoyll that I’ll be late. She’ll understand, this is important enough. I’ll go ‘round and see her after dinner.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Blythe. It’s awfully kind of you.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” He rose, looking thoughtful. “My dear Miss Rasa, I congratulate you. I never in my life made five thousand pounds so easily. This Tom Dawne… revealing girls’ shadowed pasts, handing out fortunes… why, he must be the nicest boy in London.”

  But there was something in his tone that told me he was not at all convinced of that.

  The dinner did not go well.

  To be fair, I should say the dinner itself went beautifully—our cook outdid herself. The fish in particular was wonderful, as was the calf’s tongue in aspic. It was the company that left a bad taste in everyone’s mouths.

  I had spent my day planning—fretting, really—over the meal, and the wine, and the table-setting, and even my dress. Usually I only put that sort of level of attention into parties planned for our clients, but I wanted so much for everything to be perfect. I foolishly thought that if I could show Tom that Mr. Blythe was no ogre, and let Mr. Blythe see that Tom was (I thought) a well-meaning young man with my best interests at heart, they would get on well enough. It was important to me that they like one another, believing as I did that they would both be a part of my life for many years to come.

  Full of nervous energy, I was dressed and coiffed and ready for dinner before Mr. Blythe had even taken his bath, which amused him greatly as he strutted out to the tub in his altogether, a towel slung over his shoulder.

  “Don’t spill any jam on yourself, my dear girl,” he called over his shoulder, bottom winking at me in the dwindling sunlight. “You’ll have to start all over!”

  I held my tongue, for I would not let him mortify me, I could not see why he would want to. Now that so much time has passed, and I am so much older, I can see that I was of course giving Mr. Blythe every reason to think I felt differently about Tom than I really did. But, damn it all, how could I not but be flustered and on edge? Not only had Tom solved the mystery of who I had been, he was making me independent. Of course I wanted everything to go well.

  Mr. Blythe took a long, long bath that night—so long that I began to despair of his being out of the tub by the time Tom arrived. I could take no comfort in his attentions to his ablutions. I knew they were not for Tom—he always bathed before visiting Mrs. Knoyll. I began to pace at half seven, but then at last he appeared, pink and steaming, and trotted upstairs. That was fine by me—he could come down as late as he wanted, but after my reassurances to Tom about Mr. Blythe’s moral fiber, my master showing up naked and dripping to shake hands would likely not make my case seem especially strong.

  I was just contemplating taking a glass of wine to steady myself when Tom knocked. After smoothing my skirts and taking a deep breath I went into the foyer, where Reed was just relieving Tom of his cloak. He was dressed very smartly, and I remember feeling pleased that my father had clearly provided for him, as well.

  “Miss Rasa.” He bowed. “You look lovely this evening.”

  “You’re very kind.” I allowed him to kiss my hand, which Reed thought was absolutely hilarious. Thankfully, he kept his chuckles to himself. “Please, come into the parlor. Mr. Blythe will be down shortly. Would you like a drink? Champagne—or an Italian aperitif, perhaps?”

  “Champagne, please,” said Tom.

  “Perfect. Come along with me.”

  As I led him through to the parlor I could tell Tom was trying very hard to mind his manners, both in speech and in not goggling at the grandeur of our home. I wondered what he’d assumed about our style of living—certainly not this fine, by his obvious astonishment.

  Or, on the other hand, perhaps he had merely expected our residence to look more like a bordello than it did.

  A bottle on ice was already waiting for us, sweating in the warmth from the good fire in the hearth. I uncorked it myself, alarming Tom still further, and poured him a bumper. He looked like he needed it.

  “I’m so glad you could come,” I said, pouring myself a glass. “Mr. Blythe is excited to meet you.”

  “Yes,” said Tom vaguely, taking in everything from the deep settees to our gilded mantle-clock to the Turkish carpet to the velvet-draped picture-frames. I smiled to myself—perhaps later I’d unveil some of Mr. Blythe’s Hogarths and similarly bawdy images if Tom loosened up a bit.

  “I do hope you’re excited to meet him, too?”

  “What’s that? Oh, yes—yes, of course,” he said. “Miss Rasa, I must say… I am impressed. This is not at all what I expected.”

  “No?”

  “I mean to say… well, Mr. Bewit’s house might be larger, but it is no finer.”

  I looked at him, but said nothing. The remark had not been strictly polite, and I hoped my silence would make it apparent. If he spoke in such a vulgar manner to Mr. Blythe, they were unlikely to get on.

  “Good champagne,” Tom said, and sipped again.

  “I’m very glad it is to your taste. Will you sit?”

  “Ah… yes?” said Tom, hopefully, as if he wasn’t sure it was the correct answer.

  We settled ourselves on either end of the couch as an awkward silence descended. For some reason I could not name we had lost all the ease with which we had spoken to one another during the previous times we had met. I found myself hoping he would gulp his wine, just to give me an excuse to get up and refill it—it would be something to do.

  “I brought the money,” he blurted. “So you wouldn’t think…”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It seemed best. To settle things quickly, I mean.” He set down his glass, and reaching into the pocket of his coat withdrew a stack of notes. “Here—Miss Rasa, please, take it… with your father’s compliments.”

  “Thank you.” I accepted the bills gingerly. I did not know quite what to do with the handful of money, so I elected to get up, and set the stack on the mantle. Being unused to handling large sums, it made me uncomfortable that the notes should weigh so little, being worth so much; I resolved that at the first possible opportunity I would lock it up in Mr. Blythe’s safe. “Tom, I’m… very grateful.”

  “Just… do keep in mind that it was intended for your independence,” he said. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to leave all… this… but…”

  “What?” I didn’t like where this was going, not at all.

  “If you wanted to get away from… and become a, you know, an honest woman…”

  “It would take more than new lodgings to make an honest woman out of our Miss Rasa!”

  I startled, not realizing my master had come in. Indee
d, he hadn’t, but was lounging in the doorway, out of both our lines of sight, and had obviously been listening to every word. I blushed, and Tom knocked over his champagne in his haste to rise.

  “Don’t worry, I have the cushions cleaned regularly,” said Mr. Blythe, pouring himself a glass of wine and refilling ours as Tom apologized profusely. “Well, well, well. Tom Dawne, is it? Mr. Dawne, welcome to my home. I’ve heard so much about you, it’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

  “Really?” Tom looked as if he might be sick, his arm wobbled as Mr. Blythe pumped his hand. “I mean, the pleasure is mine… sir…”

  “That’s what I like to hear.” Mr. Blythe sat down between us, but closer to me—so I was forced to scoot over. He was grinning. That wasn’t a good sign. “Well! This is cosy, isn’t it? So, Mr. Dawne, how are you this evening?”

  “Very well, thank you,” he mumbled, sitting back down. “Very pleased to be here.”

  “Are you? Pleased to be in a house of ill repute? I say! But, perhaps you’re used to them?”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, no sir. I mean… I don’t consider this a house of, you know. What you said.”

  “Don’t you? How nice.”

  I was in agonies. At least I was not alone. Tom was, if possible, more uncomfortable than I, shifting and squirming as if he suffered from piles.

  “I seem to be the only one talking! That will never do. Mr. Dawne, what do you do for a living? Miss Rasa wasn’t quite clear on that point. You used to be in… wigs, is that correct? But then you became a cup-bearer? What is that, exactly?”

  “Service,” said Tom. “But… well… my employer, he recently passed away—”

  “Mr. Bewit, yes, I’d heard. I’m terribly sorry. I thought he was a very nice man.”

  “He felt the same way about you, sir,” Tom lied, with impressive ease. I raised my eyebrows at him, which made him blush again.

  Mr. Blythe was enjoying himself. “Did he now! How interesting. You know, Miss Rasa was under the impression Mr. Bewit didn’t think I was a proper guardian for his daughter—but then again, given that he abandoned this lovely creature at an orphanage—she is lovely, isn’t she?—what are we to think of his character?”