The Pleasure Merchant
Page 33
“Congratulations, best wishes, and all that,” muttered Tom, shaking his hand gingerly. “I expect you’ll be very happy.”
“Disgustingly,” said Hizzy, gazing mawkishly up at this rotter Jenkins, who returned the look with interest. “Mr. Jenkins has just recently taken over his father’s perfumery, and we’re hoping—”
“How nice,” interrupted Tom. “Well, I really must be going. Sorry about the drink, I simply can’t spare the time it right now. But perhaps when I need some toilet water, or a new wig, I’ll stop by and see you both. Until then…” He bowed stiffly and he walked on, leaving them in his wake, murmuring to one another. Well, let them. He had more important things to do than stand around chatting with vile tradesmen—tradeswomen, for that matter; better things to spend his money on than a glass of porter in some shitty little ale house. They’d likely expect him to pay their tab, as well as his own.
The sunshine seemed a bit less shiny, the blue of the sky less blue, as Tom stomped the final half-mile or so back to his lodgings. He tried and failed to conjure up his earlier sensations of joy, but he could not prevent his thoughts from returning again and again to Hizzy. To think, settling down with her had once been his greatest ambition in life! Well, for someone in his former circumstances, that made sense.
In any circumstances, some treacherous part of his mind whispered to him. Other than Miss Rasa, Hizzy was the only girl he’d ever met who had more sense than hair. If only she had been a bit more patient! Then, she might have crossed paths with Tom and found herself engaged to a gentleman instead of some rotten smell-mixer.
This thought, at last, brought a smile to Tom’s face. In five years, when Hizzy’s fingers were worn to the bone and her breasts had gone soft from feeding her pack of hungry brats, she would think of him, yes she would, and wonder what she could have had—if only, if only! Well, she could always apply to Mangum Blythe, and hire him to retrieve Tom for her… if she scrimped on household expenses.
Cheered, Tom turned on his heel. He hadn’t eaten much breakfast—perhaps he’d go ‘round to the Devil and see if Elton, Bottomly, and the rest were anywhere. He could use a bit of diversion after his stressful morning, and he was quite at his leisure until Mr. Blythe wrote to inform him of the imminent granting of his dearest wish in all the world.
Dear Mr. Dawne,
I’m certain it will please you to learn I have been able to arrange a meeting between you and the lady. She proved as modest and unassuming as you reported, and was quite intrigued to hear she had an admirer. My descriptions of your passion were received with many blushes and protestations of ‘how can it be,’ and ‘surely he has mistaken me for someone else.’ I assured her that was not the case, reporting the details you were so kind as to provide me. I then made bold to suggest an interview. It will not surprise you that at first she was loath to jeopardize her situation, but I made it very clear that refusing to humor your wishes would endanger her happiness far more than honoring them. She eventually agreed—to one night, as you specified, though I made it clear the nature of your attachment made you hopeful of future liaisons.
This time of year the lady’s time is understandably occupied by social engagements, but I ascertained that this Tuesday next she is at her leisure. Her husband is attending a gentleman’s supper, and not expected back until the wee hours, meaning she will be free for a substantial block of time.
I have provided her with the enclosed address, which I have already rented for the evening. The house in question appears respectable, as does the lady who rents the rooms, but in reality both are flexible. If a light burns in the uppermost right window, knock three times on the front door and you will be answered. If no light is apparent, something has gone wrong, and I will make contact with you as soon as I have information. These precautions are most necessary, in my experience, so please follow my instructions to the letter, for your sake, and for the lady’s.
I should mention that I have arranged for a supper and wine, so you need bring only yourself—and any favors you might wish to bestow upon the object of your desire. I gave her no jewels or trinkets, reasoning she might take offense before I had even made your proposition, but if you wish to bring her a token that is of course up to you.
I have done everything within my power to secure your happiness. More even than I have detailed here, I assure you. The rest is up to you. I wish all you the best.
I remain,
Your servant,
Mangum Blythe
The letter had come early, hours before Tom rose. He had been out quite late with his friends, so it was with unsteady hands that he broke the seal and read the contents. It did more to clear the fog from his mind than sips of tea and very small bites of the plain toast his serving girl had brought him, along with the missive.
Tom gloated over the details, imagining what must have occurred between Mr. Blythe and his lover. Had she wept? Had he? He must have needed to explain to her the nature of his occupation, if he had not done so before. In either case, what she must think of him now! His influence had not saved her from exposure of the most personal kind; his wealth had not protected her from needing to sacrifice herself for the sake of her reputation. The phrasing of the letter suggested Mr. Blythe had found it necessary to force her to agree. How could anyone continue to love a man who made such a demand? Their relationship had endangered her person and her character. Not only had she risked all to be with him, she was now required to risk everything to keep him.
Tom poured himself another cup of tea, feeling much better. He had not expected his revenge to feel this satisfying.
It was a shame the lady wasn’t more handsome, but the thrill of the act would surely supply whatever excitement was lacking. And once he stripped her down, if he couldn’t manage to perform the coup de grâce—he had his concerns, having never romanced someone of her age—he could deliver that insult to Mr. Blythe just as easily. I thank you for your efforts, sir, but upon closer inspection of the lady’s charms she did not satisfy… perhaps for a less discerning man she would do… but not a connoisseur such as myself…
Tom laughed to himself as he sat back in his chair, cradling the warm cup in his hands. “Oh, Mr. Blythe,” he said, with relish, “what have you gotten yourself into?”
***
Tom was surprised to find he was nervous as he rode across town for his meeting with Mrs. Knoyll. Though he had played out predictions for the evening’s events in his mind almost ceaselessly since receiving Mr. Blythe’s letter, he still had not decided upon his final course. Would he be tender, or cruel? Would he take full advantage of her situation, or send her back home in disgrace? Soon, he would have to choose.
The house was indeed respectable and nondescript, a middling townhouse like every other middling townhouse in London. Tom’s heart fluttered when he saw that a light was burning in the topmost right window. He marveled at himself—his conquest would be less troublesome than many he had managed; had been bought and paid for, in fact. Why, then, did he feel as if his bowels might give way at any moment?
Before knocking, Tom checked the letter a final time in the light spilling out from a downstairs window. His hands shook as he re-folded the slightly greasy paper.
“Come on, Tom,” he muttered under his breath. “You know what to do when you’re alone with a female.”
“Good evening, sir.” The woman who answered his triple summons was a tiny, grey-haired thing with a dowager’s hump. The candle illuminating her face showed every wrinkle in sharp relief; the shadows it cast on the wall behind her danced like devils at some unholy rite. “Please, come this way. You are expected.”
“Excellent,” he said, trying to sound bold, but feeling rather like a boy arriving at a birthday party for some richer child. “Has she… I mean, ah…”
“Your guest is already upstairs, and supper has been laid out for you,” she said, far cooler than he.
“Thank you. Yes. Very good. I’ll just… go up, shall I?”
“Excellent,” he said again, almost whispering it.
The candle guttered as he ascended the stair, his heart beating a savage tattoo at every creak or pop of the wood beneath his feet. He was sweating under his wig, under his arms, where the band of his trousers pressed against his waist. All his gloating daydreams seemed inane now, and it occurred to him that perhaps he’d been a fool to try to cuckold Mangum Blythe. The man was notoriously unscrupulous—what was to stop him from waiting behind the door for Tom, cudgel in hand? He already had his fee…
Enough, Tom told himself. Standing up straight, he knocked once, then let himself in.
No villain waited for him, only a nicely furnished room, warm from a good fire burning in the hearth. A cold supper had been set out on a table, a chicken and some salads, and there was wine breathing in a decanter. There was no sign of Mrs. Knoyll. Tom took a deep breath.
“Hello?” he called.
“Just a moment,” came the muffled reply, from behind a door that Tom assumed led to the boudoir.
“Take your time,” he replied, and helped himself to a glass of wine, to steady himself.
He heard the door open, and turning, almost startled at the unexpected sight of Mrs. Knoyll, already in a state of undress, her hair spilling unbound over her shoulders, dark and straight. She had shed her mantua and stood there in her chemise, stays, and petticoats; the whiteness of the linen was almost blinding in the dim chamber. She looked like a saint, or perhaps a sacrificial virgin.
Tom reminded himself that she was neither—she was only a woman. His woman, at least for the evening.
“Good evening, Mr. Dawne.” She wasn’t smiling, but nonetheless seemed generally more at ease than he.
“Good evening, Mrs. Knoyll. You look lovely.”
“Thank you.”
“May I pour you a glass of wine?”
“Please.” When she accepted it, the ruby red claret looked like blood.
“Are you hungry?”
“A little.”
“Let us eat, then—and talk.”
He carved her some chicken and dished out the Dutch carrots. They ate in silence for a time, but it was difficult for him to manage much, keenly aware she was staring at him every time he looked away.
“I remember you,” she said at last. “We danced together at a ball, perhaps a month ago.”
“We did,” he agreed. “I found you… entrancing.”
“You are too kind.”
“Not at all.” The chicken, though juicy enough, felt dry in his mouth. He swallowed another mouthful, but then pushed aside his plate. “Mrs. Knoyll… I don’t know what Mr. Blythe told you about me, but…” He swallowed again, unsure if words or the chicken were stuck in his throat. “I came to him… about you…”
“He told me that, yes.” She continued to nibble at her meal, seemingly unperturbed.
“When we danced, you were so beautiful.” He hadn’t thought so at the time, but now, here, in this room, she excited him tremendously. Her eyes were large, though not perfectly even in her oval face, and her figure, while not without its flaws, was ample, and very, very real. Her bosoms, only half-concealed by the lace trimming her chemise, moved as she breathed, shifted as she turned back to her meal. “I… wanted to meet you again, but I did not see how it would be possible.”
“Likely it was not,” she said, “save for a situation like this.”
“Are you pleased to see me?”
She looked at him levelly. “What do you think, Mr. Dawne?”
“Ah…” He was sweating again. “I hope you’re not… too unhappy?” It mattered to him now that they were together, and she was a real person, not an object of his imagination, a vehicle for his fantasies.
“Not at all. These carrots are delicious.”
“And as for… later…”
“Later?”
“I had hoped… and thought perhaps you hoped, given your… lack of… clothes…”
“Are you speaking of love?” She smiled. There was no scorn in her tone, but just the same, he felt small and ashamed. “Mr. Dawne, I was made to understand my personal feelings about this meeting were immaterial. You wanted to meet, so here we are. You wanted a chance to prove yourself a most devoted lover, and so you have it. I have made myself comfortable, but—forgive me if I’m wrong—you do not seem to be so.”
“I had hoped…” What had he hoped? A better question—what had he hoped that he would willingly admit to this strange woman? “I am glad you are comfortable,” he said, instead.
“Why should I be otherwise?”
“Because you are alone and undressed with a man not your husband!” He knew he sounded shrill, but this creature was absolutely confounding! Tears, he would have understood, or anger, but this polite distance was bewildering.
Only then did he recognize how much he had counted on terrorizing her. This self-knowledge made him feel cross, which made him wish to be brutal. If he could not scandalize her, he would settle for humiliating her.
“I suppose you are already an adulteress,” he said, and then froze. He had not intended to give away his knowledge of her affair with Mr. Blythe, but to his surprise, she did not seem the least disturbed to be confronted with her crime.
“I am,” she said. “There is no use denying it, if you already know. But that is not why I am comfortable.”
“Why, then? Are you really such a wanton?”
“Not at all. I simply find it useful to take a philosophic attitude toward life. Shall I explain?” Tom’s confusion must have been evident; he nodded. “Well, Mr. Dawne, I am a woman, neither young nor old, neither rich nor poor. Are you familiar with Robinson Crusoe—the novel as a whole, not just the character? Then you have read the argument Crusoe’s father makes about my situation—the middling one—being the best of all. That may be true for men, but the middle class is, I’m afraid, most inelastic for women.”
Tom remembered the passage in question, but he couldn’t quite discern her meaning. “How so?”
“Were I the subject of a scandal such as the one our mutual acquaintance suggested might become public if I failed to meet with you, it would cause significant, unpleasant, and permanent changes to my lifestyle, given who and what I am. A rich woman, even a rich married woman, may take what lovers she likes, especially if she is independent; she is protected by her class. A poor woman has precious few reasons to marry in the first place, unless it is really for love, which renders my point moot. But women like me… we are told we must marry, and by the time we are wise enough to question that bit of wisdom, it is too late. We are attached forever, for better or for worse, and should our reputation become tarnished, there is no polish that can brighten it.” She poured herself more wine. “I am not complaining, you understand—I am most aware of what privileges my marriage has afforded me. I am simply stating the reality of my situation, at least, as I see it.”
“Forgive me, but what exactly is your situation?”
“I am the wife of an indifferent husband,” she said, without a trace of rancor. “I knew this would be the case, to be honest, during our courtship. We never bothered much with pretending. My family had connections; his, money. It was a most adventitious match. I was able to pay the doctors’ bills that were very soon to put my mother in debtors’ prison unless funds materialized, and he was introduced to the kind of society that helps further the career of an ambitious barrister. It also gave him the appearance of respectability in… other ways, which I shall not get into here, as I have no wish or reason to betray my husband’s secrets. Let me say that our union was fertile only in the ways I have mentioned. I had no real wish for children, you understand, but they do occupy a married woman’s time. No matter; I have found that my volunteer work, and my association with our…. mutual acquaintance… have made me happy. Happy enough, at
any rate.”
Tom was completely undone by this frankness. He had known Mrs. Knoyll was an adulteress, but it had never occurred to that she might be… unnatural. To hear her speak so candidly of such vulgar matters alarmed him, even as it made him curious.
“Why not leave him? Your husband, I mean.”
“Oh, he would never grant me a divorce.”
“Then I fail to understand why it is you are comfortable here with me, Mrs. Knoyll!”
She smiled gently. “Of course. I realize I have only explained why I should not be. Well, Mr. Dawne, the maze that mankind has created for women to navigate is far from fairly designed. Cruel are its traps, and dire are the consequences for those who take a wrong turn. But men must navigate their own mazes, too, and while the pitfalls might be different, they can be just as dangerous. A scandal, were one to occur at this point in my husband’s career, would ruin all his chances for advancement. He wishes to be a judge one day, and a messy divorce, one smeared all over the papers, would undo all he has striven for, especially given how very salacious the details would be. Therefore, by mutual agreement, we turn a blind eye to one another’s… extramarital activities.”
“I say!”
“It may interest you to know it was my husband who first introduced me to Mangum Blythe, and when Mr. Knoyll learned of our desire to continue the connection, he was not at all averse. My husband knows how very, very discrete Mr. Blythe is, after all.”
Tom felt lightheaded. His assumptions were sluicing away like wastewater down a sewer. She was safe from him. He could not expose her to her husband, for he was as invested, if not more, in maintaining the façade of their marriage.
But it was not revenge on Mr. Knoyll that Tom was after. The thought rallied him.
“So you are protected from infamy,” he sniffed, “but not from being used. You are mine for the evening, Mrs. Knoyll, and I did not intend for us to spend our evening conversing.”