The Pleasure Merchant by Molly Tanzer

on Holland’s shoulder, restraining him with a touch. Though anxious to help his master, he also dearly wanted to stay to hear what Mrs. Jervis would say to Holland.
    “Let the others do it,” is all she whispered. “You must go and pack your things.”
    “Surely, under the circumstances—”
    “Mr. Bewit was not at all confused when he expressed his desire for you to go.” She pushed him gently toward the servant’s stair. “Leave an address where you may be contacted. If he changes his mind, someone will let you know.”
    Holland’s face went red as a boiled lobster. He whirled, advancing on Tom.
    “You,” he cried. “It was you!”
    “Of course it was!” sniffled Kitty, beginning to cry again. “How could you, Tom? And after…”
    “It was me what ?” asked Tom, with such an innocent air he almost convinced himself he’d had nothing to do with the scandal. “I don’t even know why he was so cross with you, I’ve been helping polish the silver all afternoon. What happened?”
    “Yes… what did happen?” asked Mrs. Jervis, looking up at Holland. “What were you two doing that made him so angry?”
    “None of your business,” snarled Mr. Bewit’s former valet. Kitty, with a sob, held her apron to her face again, and would not look up from it.
    “Well!” exclaimed Mrs. Jervis. “I would say it was indeed my business , if you were not leaving. As it is, perhaps you’d better go, and at once.”
    Holland raised his hand, as if he might strike Tom or Mrs. Jervis, but the moment passed without incident when Hallux Dryden called to Tom from upstairs, demanding his immediate presence. Mr. Bewit had awoken, and asked for him.
    “I am needed,” said Tom, keeping his face carefully empty of any expression save concern for his master. “Pray excuse me. And Holland…”
    “What?”
    “Good luck,” he said, and scampered away without a backwards glance at either him or Kitty. He paused only once before entering Mr. Bewit’s bedchamber—to pocket the crumpled letter that lay forgotten on the landing.

 
     
     
     

     
    Mr. Bewit had awakened but briefly from his stupor, to beg Hallux to summon Tom. He was roused again, when the doctor arrived, but after drinking a concoction of wine, laudanum, lavender, and gentian he fell into a deep sleep, and did not stir.
    “He should take another dose when he wakes,” said Mr. Fitzwilliam, setting a phial upon the nightstand. “I do not fear for his recovery; it seems he was simply over-excited and collapsed from the strain. One of the servants was good enough to describe to me the circumstances of his fall; I believe his nerves were simply—”
    “If any diagnosis of nervous complaints is needed,” said Hallux airily, “I believe I should be the one to do it.”
    “Yes… of course…” said Mr. Fitzwilliam, not sounding at all certain that was indeed the case. “Forgive me, Mr. Dryden. I did not mean to offend.”
    “I am not offended.” Hallux stuck his nose in the air. “I agree with your assessment. It is my informed opinion that he should recover, and quickly.”
    Tom was very glad to hear it. Mr. Bewit’s collapse had given him a genuine start, and the favorable prognosis genuine relief… and not only because without Mr. Bewit, Tom would not have a position.
    “My only real concern is for the future.” Mr. Fitzwilliam eyed Hallux, to see if he would again be interrupted. “Mr. Bewit should be kept from overexcitement for several months at a minimum . I fear he may have a relapse, and of a more serious nature, if he is not kept calm and quiet. As for now, he requires nothing more than rest. I advise you assign someone to stay with him until he wakes.”
    “The boy here will.” Hallux gestured to Tom with a jut of his chin. “I would of course do anything for my cousin, but he asked for Tom specifically, and would not be easy until the lad was in sight. Most convenient, as my important researches cannot brook further delay. Who