by Molly Tanzer
The Tom who began to linger along Sackville Street was almost unrecognizable, and thus able to watch Mr. Blythe without being noticed himself. After a few days of this, Tom began to feel a sort of respect for beggars; it wasn’t an easy thing, waiting around all day and night in all weathers. In fact, it was jolly hard, especially for him, as Mr. Blythe kept unpredictable hours, and went out less than people came to see him. Sometimes, all Tom had to show after a day’s work was a hungry belly, a suit of even dirtier clothes, damp in his bones, and shit on his shoes.
The worst part was, when Mr. Blythe did emerge, he did only what any other gentleman in London might do. He visited shops and private homes, went to his club, to dinners, and to parties. What he did at such places remained obscure, as Tom had no invitations or introductions. It was dispiriting, waiting outside these bright parlors and dance-halls in the cold, and often in the rain. Several times Tom despaired of ever succeeding in his endeavor, but after the better part of a month, patterns began to emerge when Tom checked over his notebook—certain homes visited at certain times, certain visitors arriving at 17 Sackville Street on certain days of the week, parties always scheduled between this time and that, and so on and so forth. Out of the chaos of his enemy’s schedule Tom began to see order, beautiful order. So he kept waiting, and kept watching.
His friends called on him to complain he never came out with them anymore, but Tom shut the door in their wretched, ill-bred faces. His budget was abandoned; his intention of living frugally until he could pay back his loan, forgotten. He was a man obsessed, convinced he would discover something if only he kept watching.
And in the end, he did.
That day, according to Tom’s notes, Mr. Blythe should have seen clients at home in the morning, and then gone out to his club. But instead of emerging around the supper hour to go and dine, Mr. Blythe got into a cab rather than his coach and, dressed in his best, went somewhere else entirely: to a small townhouse in a quiet neighborhood he had never to Tom’s knowledge visited before.
Tom had hailed a cab the moment he noticed the aberration, and bid the driver follow Mr. Blythe at a distance. Something curious was afoot, that was for sure—that big flunky had packed a basket and a bag into the coach along with his master, and while it wasn’t unusual for Mr. Blythe to bring obscure equipment with him on his errands, it was certainly unusual for him to carry everything up a flight of stairs by himself, and then let himself into darkened rooms with a key.
Tom watched all of this, fascinated. Behind the curtains he saw Mr. Blythe light candles, set out a cold meal, and then pace back and forth, waiting for… something. He was in fine spirits, though—Tom saw the shadow of him cutting a jig as he waited.
Eventually, another hired coach arrived, and out of it emerged nothing more intriguing than an ordinary-looking woman in a respectable walking-suit. Though she was not particularly handsome she gave the impression of being good looking. It was the perfection of her posture—the elegance of her bearing. She, too, had a basket over her arm, and after paying the driver carried it up to the second floor, where she let herself in.
Through the drapes Tom saw Mangum Blythe rush over to her. She barely had a chance to set down her burden before he had her in his arms. He kissed her for a long time, and then they left Tom’s sight, retreating into some other room not visible from the street.
Tom smiled in the darkness, but not because he took any joy in seeing a loving couple expressing their affection for one another. No; the tableau was most interesting. While Tom had observed Mr. Blythe meeting with plenty of clients who certainly seemed as if they’d been romanced upon leaving the man’s company—blushing cheeks, bright eyes, that sort of rot—he’d never seen Mr. Blythe greet any of them in such a familiar fashion. This woman… she was special in some way.
She must be his lover.
They remained obscure to him for hours, but eventually they returned to the front room, which they lit brightly enough that he could see them enjoying their postponed supper, drinking wine and sitting very close to one another. Afterwards, they retreated a second time, after extinguishing all the lights in the front room.
Tom didn’t wait to see if they went their separate ways, or if they stayed the night. He guessed it would be the latter, but he was hungry and cold and ready to be inside, and really, it wasn’t all that important what they did now. What was important was that he’d found what he was looking for.
What was it Tabula Rasa had once said?
“You only truly know someone when you know their pleasure… then, you see their truest self—their darkest secrets and their brightest dreams.”
Tom had found Mr. Blythe’s pleasure.
Her name was Mrs. Rosalind Knoyll, and she was married to a barrister called Mr. Ogden Knoyll. They were a respectable, ordinary couple, who lived in a respectable, ordinary townhouse, and kept respectable, ordinary hours. Yet in spite of possessing every outward appearance of domestic felicity, their marriage did not seem particularly loving. They were not affectionate, neither physically, nor in their speech to one another. Walking beside her husband in the park on a pleasant Sunday Mrs. Knoyll rarely took his arm, nor did her husband offer it; in church, there was a distance between them on the pew unless it happened to be crowded. At home they appeared to sleep in different rooms, and while that was in itself not unusual, it did not seem that one ever visited the other.
During the day Mr. Knoyll spent most of his time at the Temple; she, being childless, worked for various social causes, such as volunteering for one of the better anti-slavery societies, as well as spending hours every week at another charity that helped poor young women learn to read and write and comport themselves with dignity, with the goal of getting jobs in shops or in service. She would also chauffer them to doctors, and pay their bills out of her pin money.
Though unpaid, of the two, Mrs. Knoyll seemed the more dedicated to her occupations—Mr. Knoyll practiced law during working hours, but Mrs. Knoyll practiced what she preached, employing only girls from her organization as domestic staff, and refusing to have Jamaican sugar at her table, nor chocolate from the Americas, nor West Indian coffee. She was particular about where the cotton for her gowns came from, and though she occasionally drank, she would never drink rum.
In the evenings, Mrs. Knoyll attended her husband at various parties or dinners, but Tom got the impression she did not particularly enjoy herself at these gatherings, save for when she was dancing. Mr. Knoyll did not often dance, he went there to eat and drink and make merry with his friends and business associates—but as Mrs. Knoyll was light on her feet, not unattractive, and possessed of a pleasant disposition and an even temper, she did not often want for partners.
Much of this information Tom gathered by watching them; the rest, he discovered by attending a public ball where he knew the Knoylls would be, having overheard it discussed by two maids as they were at their washing in the yard, unaware the builder lunching by their gate was a spy.
That night, Tom danced with Mrs. Knoyll twice, though without giving her any indication he had an interest in making her acquaintance beyond acquiring an excellent partner. He found her perfectly charming, well-mannered, intelligent, and playful. More than once, he wondered what a woman like her could ever see in Mangum Blythe.
But she must have seen something in him. The only time she ever smiled more than on the dance floor was when she was with her lover, though those moments were few and far between.
They met regularly but not frequently, and it was obvious to Tom after seeing them together that any affection wanting in her marriage was provided by her lover. He did not find this touching or tragic; Tom thought it rather gross for a woman to carry on with riff-raff as her husband worked hard to keep her comfortable. But, that was what a savvy man ought to expect from women, he was learning.
Most often Mrs. Knoyll and Mr. Blythe conducted their sordid affair in their rented rooms, but sometimes they risked a public meeting, walking together a
long busy streets, or along garden paths not frequented by anyone of their mutual acquaintance. Then, she threaded her arm through her companion’s; then, she gave off the appearance of a happily married woman.
As for Mangum Blythe, the devil seemed domesticated in her company—in fact, he might have been mistaken by anyone for nothing more than a contented husband. Gone was his archness, though he often made his lover laugh—gone was his strange severe joviality, though he was often merry with her. The difference to Tom’s mind was that nothing, with her, was an act—he walked easily, spoke easily, gestured without inhibition or consideration.
It pleased Tom to contemplate ruining this fragile, perfect happiness. The only question was, how exactly would he do it?
***
As you may have guessed, some time after discovering her existence, Tom had abandoned his observation of Mangum Blythe and instead focused his efforts on Mrs. Knoyll. He followed her when she went out, and when she was home he hung around her house and tried to steal peeks through the casements. He wanted to know her as well as he knew Mangum Blythe, in order to affect the most complete triumph possible.
But what should be the form of his vengeance? What shape would it take? The matter nagged at him constantly, for he could see few scenarios that would humiliate Mr. Blythe.
To expose Mr. Blythe as a rake and a seducer of wives would embarrass Mrs. Knoyll more than it would her lover. Such a scandal would tarnish her reputation forever, but hardly smudge his.
Tom considered sending her a letter telling her what it was her lover did for a living, but he abandoned that notion as well. He had no idea if Mrs. Knoyll already knew what her lover was. If she did, then he would expose himself before embarrassing his quarry; if she didn’t, there might be an ugly scene—a breaking off of contact—and while that would certainly wound Mr. Blythe, it wouldn’t shame him.
Tom hit on the perfect plan whilst considering the possibility of seducing Mrs. Knoyll. At first, this seemed the way to go. He had watched her long enough to feel fairly certain that she took no other lovers, and he sensed it would mortify Mr. Blythe to discover himself cuckolded by… Tom.
But Tom realized simply setting horns upon Mr. Blythe wasn’t enough. No, he needed something more—something that would leave Mr. Blythe reeling. Something that would utterly destroy the arrogant man’s unshakable confidence in himself.
He needed to beat Mr. Blythe at his own game. And to that end, Tom bought himself some fine stationery, and set to writing a letter. This is what it said:
Dear Mr. Blythe,
I know discovering this communication comes from me is not likely to bring you much pleasure, but please know I write to you in good faith. The last time we spoke you made it quite clear I was to have no more of your time for free. Do not fear, for I intend to pay for it. To be quite frank with you, sir, I have a problem—a rather desperate, delicate conundrum, and I find myself needing one such as yourself to help me solve it. I trust you understand without my mentioning it that it is of the utmost importance to me. Otherwise I would not trouble you about it, but I am quite convinced you are the only one who can help me. Sir, I beg you overlook our prior disagreements and favor me with a meeting. If you will be so kind as to accept, please send word to this address, with instructions on when and where we should meet.
Yours sincerely,
Tom Dawne
Reading it over, Tom was satisfied, and sent Mrs. Miggins’s boy to deliver it. He asked that the lad wait for a response if Mr. Blythe was in; to his delight, he did indeed return with a letter. Tom tore it open, scanning it eagerly.
Mr. Dawne,
I would be pleased to meet with you about this matter, in spite of our past differences, which I am only to happy to overlook due to the urgency I sense in your missive. Can you come tomorrow morning, at ten? That is the earliest time I have available. Come, let us breakfast together and discuss your affairs. I will expect you unless I hear otherwise.
Your servant,
Mangum Blythe
“Take my blue coat and brown breeches down to be pressed,” said Tom, delighted, “and tell Susan not to cook breakfast for me. I’ll be dining out.”
“Yessir,” said the boy.
“Wait—no. Don’t do that. Put those down—leave them be, I say! In fact, throw them on the floor. Yes, the floor. Leave them there. And make sure my shoes aren’t polished.”
“Aren’t—”
“Don’t let anyone polish my shoes. That’s not too difficult an order is it?”
“No, sir,” said the boy, and he left in evident confusion.
Tom laughed and laughed, alone in his room. The lad might be confused over Tom’s queer orders, but Mr. Blythe would surely notice if he paid too much attention to his clothes or his grooming. Love made a man forgetful—changed his perspective on what really mattered in life.
Tom opened up his wardrobe so he could see himself in the mirror.
“I have conceived such a passion for her, sir… I believe I shall die of it,” he said, looking at himself.
No, that wouldn’t do at all. He did not look like a man possessed; inflamed. He looked sincere, but not agitated.
He resolved to spend the rest of the day practicing. He had to. Tomorrow, he needed to be perfect.
***
This time, Mr. Blythe’s servant was expecting Tom, and showed him respectfully in to a breakfasting salon.
“Good morning, Mr. Dawne,” said Mr. Blythe, looking Tom up and down as he entered. “Forgive me—are you quite well?”
“My apologies, I slept but poorly,” said Tom carelessly, pleased the man had noticed his rumpled state. “But I am not ill, I assure you.”
“Good, good. Then let us eat. It’s so difficult to conduct business on an empty stomach, don’t you agree?”
“As you say,” said Tom, as nonchalantly as he could.
It was difficult to maintain his insouciance when the food arrived. Tom’s long weeks of hurried meals had left him over-fed but under-nourished. It was agonizing, picking at his food, for Mr. Blythe’s cook had prepared every tempting dish. There were hot rolls and crisp bacon; little white sugared cakes, jugged herrings, poached eggs, and custard cream tarts. Tom accepted whatever Mr. Blythe offered him, but took only a few bites here and there.
“Not hungry?” Mr. Blythe had eaten twice as much as he, and was still at it. “Here, try these jam thingies. Linzer Augen, I think they’re called.”
“I thank you,” Tom pushed away his plate, “but I’m quite full.”
“Then take some more tea and tell me of your troubles while I eat one,” said Mr. Blythe, helping himself to the delicately latticed confections. “I must say, Mr. Dawne, I am quite concerned. You do not seem at all like yourself.”
“I assume you mean that as a compliment, given how I behaved the last time we met,” said Tom. “I blush to recall it.”
“Then say no more about it. All is forgiven and forgotten.”
If Tom didn’t know better, he would have thought the man was sincere. “That’s very good of you, sir.”
“Not at all. So, tell me—what is distressing you? I assure you, whatever it is, I will do my best to make it better.”
“Oh, I know you can, sir. Miss Rasa… she was a little in awe of your powers, I think.”
“Was she now?” The man was an actor born! His pleasure at the compliment seemed completely genuine. “How nice to hear. Once you’re older, you’ll understand how gratifying it is to have the respect of the young.”
“I’m in rather the opposite position.” Tom buried his face in his hands, to hide the fact that he was not blushing. “She is older than I, you see… but it hardly matters. I am in love with her.”
“In love! How wonderful!” Mr. Blythe sounded amused. “It isn’t still Miss Rasa, is it? That might prove a difficult feat… she knows my business better than I, so—”
“It’s not Miss Rasa. I thought I loved her, yes, but I have realized that was but a childish inf
atuation. I have found the real object of my affection, my heart’s desire, and she is a woman, not a girl.”
“Good for you, Mr. Dawne!” Mr. Blythe gestured at him with his half-nibbled pastry. “Miss Rasa is a treasure, really. I think the world of her, and believe her capable of anything… save making you happy as a wife. No no, Mr. Dawne, you need the sort of girl who will—”
“Do not make light of this!” Tom exclaimed, purposefully a little louder than was polite. “This is a serious thing, Mr. Blythe. I beg you to take it—me—seriously.”
“I say, you’re in quite a state.” Mr. Blythe set down his tart. “All right, Mr. Dawne. Tell me all.”
“Well,” said Tom, prepared from grueling practice to spin his artificial history, “you’re right in that I never thought I should get over Miss Rasa. She… bewitched me. But I knew I should have to get over her, so I went to a ball, and…” he let out a shuddering breath, “when I saw her dancing, I knew I had to meet her. She dances most beautifully. But I assure you, her dancing is but the least of her accomplishments!”
“I see.” Mr. Blythe was grave, though there was a twinkle in his eye. “So you’ve met her? This isn’t a case of ‘she doesn’t even know I exist’?”
“She barely knows, perhaps. I contrived an introduction, and she accepted me as a partner. We danced twice… that was enough for me to know I could never be happy without her. I must have her, Mr. Blythe. I must! I believe I shall die if I do not.”
“Well, we can’t have that.” Mr. Blythe rubbed at his chin. “Mr. Dawne, I understand your ardor and your passion… what I don’t understand is your problem. You met the girl, you danced with the girl—”