by Molly Tanzer
“Woman!”
“Woman, then. You danced with the woman, you enjoyed yourselves… surely that is enough to begin a courtship? How, then, can I help you? I’m not sure what Miss Rasa told you of what I do, but helping lovebirds build a nest isn’t quite—”
“She’s married.”
“Ah.” Mr. Blythe nodded. “I see. That does complicate matters.”
You would know, thought Tom, but what he said was: “Indeed. And she is so good—so pure! I cannot think her capable of deceit. With an ordinary woman I would assume a few meetings… a some clandestine bouquets or trinkets… but not her.”
“Well, Mr. Dawne, it is a tricky thing you propose… but not impossible.” Tom thought he saw the ghost of a smile hovering at the corners of Mr. Blythe’s voluptuous mouth, the smug bastard. Oh, this was all simply too delicious! Tom vowed to hold back the name of his lady-love for as long as possible, to produce the most possible dismay. “I suppose I must ask… how can you be sure she returns your affections?”
“I am not. But when I saw her with her husband there could be no doubt she was unhappy with him,” said Tom. “I believe her indifferent to him at best. Even so, I do not think she intends to stray. But, if she could be convinced it would increase her happiness…”
“I see…”
“Do you? Do you, Mr. Blythe?” Tom leaped from his chair, and began to pace. “I have no wish to see her dishonored, but I must have her. I love her, and I believe—she was so easy with me, so graceful and elegant. If I could have but one night with her—”
“One night!” Mr. Blythe poured himself more tea. “Mr. Dawne, forgive me, but I think in your passion you are conflating lust with love. At first you sounded as if you wished to court the lady, to earn her love in the hopes of one day having it returned. Now, I believe you are asking me to make it possible for you to simply sate your desire.”
Tom, panicking a bit, scrambled to undo his hasty language. “You interrupted me, sir. I was going to say, if I could but have one night with her I think I could make her happy enough to desire more.”
“Ladies fall in love with their rapists in novels, Mr. Dawne... in real life they are usually far more complex creatures.” He held up his hand. “I do not mean to suggest you intend to force the lady to do anything, but the scenario you suggest sounds more like something contrived by Mr. Samuel Richardson than anything I have the power of affecting.”
“Is it not what you do? Arranging such matters, I mean?” Tom pretended annoyance. “Let us speak no more of novels, sir. I was under the impression that you could procure the unprocurable; deliver the undeliverable. This is my greatest desire, Mr. Blythe. I will pay you whatever you ask, for I love her, and I must have her!”
Looking profoundly unhappy, Mr. Blythe rose and retrieved himself a short cigar from a jar on the sideboard. He offered one to Tom, which he declined. Silence descended as Mr. Blythe snipped off the end and lit it; after a few pulls, he sighed.
“My experience has taught me that gentlemen in your position often lose interest after the, ah, consummation of their desires.” He shrugged. “By your own admission, your love flowered quickly—what if it wilts away with similar briskness? Are you sure the risk is worth your time and your money? A girl, one who looked much the same, could be acquired to—”
“You mistake me!” Tom began to sweat. He had not expected Mr. Blythe to try and put him off. To hear Mr. Bewit tell it, Mr. Blythe was an unscrupulous money-grubber who talked no one out of his desire. Tom had been so certain the man would jump at the chance to make a few pounds; instead, he was having to talk Mr. Blythe into taking his money! “This is no passing fancy, no whim that may be absolved in a sweaty encounter with some syphilitic slut!” He took a deep breath. “I do not wish to dishonor my love. I simply believe that if we could but meet… if I could get her alone… Tell me, Mr. Blythe, could any woman be happy in a loveless marriage? I hope only to increase her joy, for if there is one woman in this world who deserves to feel loved, it is she.”
“Yes, but what of her wishes? What if I procure her for you, as you put it, and she is disinclined?”
“I rather thought that inclining her would fall under your purview.”
“I see,” murmured Mr. Blythe, grinding out the cigar in an ashtray. “Yes, I rather suppose it would.”
“So you will do this thing?”
“Mr. Dawne… what you are asking for, it is no easy thing. It is far more difficult than, theoretically speaking of course, getting a gentleman into an exclusive club. You are asking me to convince a married woman to have an affair with a man who has met her but once. It could result in much ugliness; I prefer to deal in pleasure.”
“Surely obtaining many of your clients’ desires must naturally result in the unhappiness of others. After all, as we are talking in the theoretical,” Tom drew out the word just to drive home the point, “getting a gentleman into a club ahead of another might ruin forever the other man’s chances at the same.”
“True… true. But it is one thing to thwart some gentleman’s chances at drinking, smoking, and playing cards with the cream of the crust, as it were. It is quite another to convince a married woman to stray even once, much less to conduct an affair that would forever ruin her reputation were it to be discovered.”
It took all of Tom’s willpower not to sneer in Mr. Blythe’s stupid face, knowing bloody well the man was conducting exactly the sort of affair he was protesting. Instead, Tom took the high road. “Forgive me, Mr. Blythe, but I’m having some difficulty ascertaining exactly where magnetic north lies on your moral compass.”
Mr. Blythe nodded. “I deserve that, of course. So be it, Mr. Dawne. I shall do this thing for you… if you agree to my terms. I warn you, the price will be high, to be paid in advance… and written into my standard contract is a clause you must agree to, regarding the unpredictability of human nature and the possibility of failure, meaning you can’t go to the courts if it doesn’t go exactly right.” He shrugged. “You are asking rather a lot of me, so I must do the same of you.”
“I’ll sign whatever you need. What is your price?”
“One thousand pounds.”
“A thousand pounds!” exclaimed Tom. He had been expecting a hefty tab, but a thousand pounds? That was fully twice what Mr. Blythe had charged Mr. Bewit, who at least appeared to the world to be far wealthier. Tom did some mental calculations—the difference for him, after the fact, would be close to forty pounds per annum, or the equivalent of after the fact, would be close to forty pounds per annum—a sum that would have been staggering to contemplate when he had been an apprentice wig-maker, and four times what he had been slated to earn had he worked an entire year for Mr. Bewit. If only. If only he could remember off the top of his head how much he had spent of his loan so far! Money had been flowing through his fingers, but surely he must have enough left to pay back the interest, when it came due. And if not, well, he could always dip further into the well… adjust his lifestyle accordingly…
Was it worth it? Was it really worth a thousand pounds just to get revenge on this man? Tom looked up and saw Mr. Blythe smirking at him.
“I’m sorry, but that is my price,” he said. “If it is too high, I completely understand. Over the years, many potential clients have decided their heart’s desire isn’t quite as essential as they believed once I’ve revealed how much it will cost them to obtain it…”
Tom found this insinuation of penury incredibly provoking, and it rekindled his desire to humiliate Mr. Blythe. Once he’d committed himself, only to discover Tom’s object was Mrs. Knoyll, the man wouldn’t be smirking. No, certainly not.
“Done,” said Tom, taking his chequebook from the pocket of his coat. “Do you have a pen here, or shall we repair to your office?”
“Right this way, Mr. Dawne.” Tom was gratified to see how surprised Mr. Blythe was as he bowed him through the door. “Let’s get everything settled exactly to your pleasure.”
Tom signe
d the cheque for a thousand pounds, pretending the sum was a mere trifle, and spent what remained of his good humor by assuring Mr. Blythe it would be no problem at all when the blackguard had the nerve to make a rather pointed remark about taking the bill that very afternoon to the Five Bells, where the bankers met in Lombard Street, to have it exchanged. The insinuation that Tom might not have enough in his account stung, but worse than that, it was also a reminder of just how tight of a spot Tom would be in, at the end of the next quarter. He pushed the thought away. He’d figure it out. Somehow.
Only when the cheque was in his hand did Mr. Blythe produce his complicated and lengthy contract, in order to walk Tom through it, clause by clause. The terms were almost irritatingly fair—rather more so than what he’d signed away for his loan at Merchant and Mills, come to think on it. He got the sense that Mr. Blythe enjoyed explaining it all in plain language to him; reveled in Tom’s astonishment at its decency. Well, let him. He’d be singing a different tune shortly.
“All right. If you feel satisfied with the terms and conditions, please sign here, good, good… and now, so shall I. Excellent! Mr. Dawne, we are in business!” Mr. Blythe dried the ink with an ornate blotter, and setting it aside, replaced that form with yet another. “Now that we are agreed on the terms, and you’ve paid your fee, we can get down to the details. As you can see, this form has several blanks; we’ll fill them out together. Again, this is for your protection, you understand. We wouldn’t want you to pull back the bed curtains only to find the wrong girl—I’m sorry, woman in there, would we?” He chuckled as if he’d told a joke.
“No indeed,” said Tom. Sweat prickled at his forehead. It was time.
“First things first. What is this woman’s name?”
“Mrs. Rosalind Knoyll.”
Mr. Blythe’s quill snapped with a loud pop, and ink sprayed across the sheet.
“How clumsy of me!” Mr. Blythe tried to laugh it off, but Tom knew he had rattled him, oh yes he had! “Forgive me, let me just clean up this mess and get another document ready. Thank goodness I always keep several on hand.”
“Take your time,” said Tom cordially. “I am in no hurry.” Oh, how he wanted to twist the knife, enquiring if Mr. Blythe knew the lady, for he seemed shocked or surprised by the name! But, he sensed it would give away his hand to do so. Better to pretend not to notice. He was, after all, a man so in love he would spend a thousand pounds to bed some poxy old bizzom.
“All right,” said Mr. Blythe, settling down again with fresh paper and pen. He had recovered his composure, but Tom could sense a tension in the room that had not been there before. “Mrs. Rosalind Knoyll, was it? Do you by chance know her address?”
“I believe she said she lived somewhere near the Temple; her husband is a barrister. I don’t know more than that. I do know she volunteers for the Anti-Sugar Society and is quite passionate about the plight of the poor women of London.” It was such fun affecting the rambling, rather soupy tone of a man in love. “Does any of that help?”
“But of course.” Tom could detect the faintest whiff of sourness about Mr. Blythe, and it delighted him. “Why, I hope I shall be able to convince her to stray. She sounds a true paragon of virtue.”
“That is your affair,” said Tom. “I say, will you tell her about me? What will you tell her?”
Mr. Blythe looked up from his note-taking. “What you have told me. That she has an admirer who ardently desires she spend one night with him, in order for him to convince her that he could make her happy.”
“That’s all?”
“Mr. Dawne, I already have an apprentice.”
“I beg your pardon. I did not mean to offend.” Tom leaned in. “I say, are you quite all right, Mr. Blythe? You seem…”
“Yes?”
“Nothing, nothing.” Tom turned to hide his smile. “Is that all? Can I be of further service? Do you require a description? She has dark straight hair, streaked through with finer silver than could be found in Gray’s…”
“I believe I have everything I need.” Mr. Blythe abruptly handed over the quill. “Sign here, please… only a formality of course, but it demonstrates you’ve read over what I’ve written, and that it’s all accurate information, to your knowledge.”
Tom couldn’t help adding a flourish to his signature. “Wonderful!” he cried, as Mr. Blythe signed as well, and replaced the quill gently, so very gently, in its inkwell. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Blythe. But I suppose I should not thank you yet… all you have done is take my thousand pounds.”
“Indeed, but I anticipate you will have reason to rejoice soon enough.” His smile was absolutely showing the strain! “When I have arranged matters I shall send you a letter with your instructions. Take care to follow them exactly, when you receive them, and I believe you shall come away from this experience quite pleased.”
“I should hope so!” said Tom, extending his hand. Mr. Blythe shook it limply. “Well! This is exciting. No no, don’t get up—I’ll see myself out. I know the way. Oh, Mr. Blythe… I am so glad I came to you about this.”
“As am I.”
Tom made as if to go, but when he came to the door he turned around—and just caught sight of Mr. Blythe, slump-shouldered, staring at the contract with a peculiar look on his face. It might have been sorrow, or defeat, or simple resignation. Tom couldn’t tell, but Mr. Blythe feeling any or all of those sensations was fine by him. It was exhilarating, having something to hold over his hated rival; he felt no remorse, for at long last the worm had turned, and now he was laughing at the man who so recently laughed quite heartily at his expense.
“Good day, Mr. Blythe.”
Not realizing he had been observed, Mr. Blythe straightened immediately, and smiled weakly. “Good day, Mr. Dawne. I expect you’ll be hearing from me soon.”
In high spirits, Tom decided to walk back to his lodgings in Covent Garden. It had turned into as fine a day as they’d yet seen that year, bright blue and bracingly cold, and he whistled as he strolled along, detouring through Leicester Square while contemplating his triumph. Things were going exactly has he’d planned—the man would be the instrument of his own undoing! And he had to go through with it! After all, if he failed to deliver, Tom could have the law on him, for breaking a contract—and on Mrs. Knoyll, for adultery. It hadn’t proven necessary, but he had planned all along on threatening her safety if Blythe refused him. Tom had certainly seen enough to condemn her, or at least plant such doubts in her husband’s mind that he would never look at her again. While it wasn’t likely the woman would be hanged for her crime, not in this more enlightened age, her being sent to the stocks or embarrassed with a public whipping were certainly within the realm of possibility. Of course, he’d always preferred the idea of spending a night of pleasure with Mrs. Knoyll… but all’s fair, as they said.
“Tom!”
So deep in thought was Tom that he startled to hear his name. Looking around widly, he heard it a second time, before seeing who called to him. It was a pretty, well-dressed young woman, waving like a country maid greeting her cousin in the lane. Her gentleman companion did not look at all pleased by her behavior, understandably, but she said something to him and rushed over to Tom, dragging the man by the hand, a smile on her rosy-cheeked face. As she came closer, Tom realized it was Hizzy, of all people.
“Goodness, look at you!” she cried. “So changed! You look like a gentleman, Tom. But that’s no livery—is it your day off?”
He stood gawping at her before recovering his wits enough to make some reply. He scarcely knew what he’d said until she said she was very sorry.
“Very sorry?” he asked, still in a daze.
“To hear that Mr. Bewit passed. Are you employed elsewhere now?”
Not respectably, at any rate, given that revenge had become his sole occupation. “No… I…” he shook his head. “Mr. Bewit saw fit to make me independent.”
“Oh!” Hizzy looked astounded, as well she might. “That’s wonderful, Tom!
You must have served him very well!”
“I did my best.” For some reason, he found himself blushing.
“I see now why I scarcely recognized you! I said to Mr. Jenkins, why, that gentleman looks just like my father’s former apprentice, and I confess I stared at you for a bit until I was quite sure. How merry, that we should meet here, and like this! It calls for a celebration. Shall we all go and have a drink?”
By Jove, she was a beauty! Tom marveled at her as she laughed, looking from him to her companion. How had he failed to appreciate her myriad perfections? He’d been a fool not to write her, she was a prettier girl by half than any he’d wooed in Puriton, and a sight for sore eyes after spending so much time looking at Mrs. Knoyll, who was good looking considering her age, but not more than that.
Perhaps he ought to stop by Dray’s some day, and see if Hizzy was in… it might be fun, reconnecting with his old flame…
“We have some good news of our own, don’t we, Mr. Jenkins?” she was saying, gazing up at her companion. “Oh, I haven’t introduced you. Mr. Jenkins, this is Tom Dawne, my father’s former apprentice. Tom—Mr. Dawne, I should say!—meet Mr. Bruce Jenkins… my fiancé.”
“Your what?”
“My fiancé!” She really was beautiful when she smiled like that. “We’re to be married.”
“I know what fiancé means!”
Why, the bold little slut! It was unconscionable, after all the grief she had given him! How dare she go off and marry someone else? The girl had no decency—no constancy whatsoever!
With a start, Tom realized it had been just under a year since last they’d seen one another. Though part of him acknowledged that perhaps she could be forgiven for moving on, especially considering his silence, the other, larger part was still deeply annoyed.
Mr. Jenkins did not look as though he was enjoying this very public, and very awkward interaction. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Dawne,” he said, proffering his hand. “We have only just asked Mr. Dray’s permission, and now that we have his blessing I believe we shall be married very soon.”