yourself welcome to make use of our facilities upon receipt of this letter. Your name is already known to our staff.
With pleasure,
Your servant,
Phillip Whitehead
Membership Coordinator
Brooks’s
So Mr. Bewit had been up for Brooks’s, too! That meant it would have been in his best interest to see Mr. Mauntell blackballed… especially if, say, his rival had been first in line. It wasn’t evidence that Mr. Bewit had played a rôle in the farce that precipitated Tom’s dismissal from Dray’s, but it was at least an opportunity to start a conversation about the affair…
“This is wonderful news, sir,” said Tom, refolding the letter to give himself an excuse to compose himself. “Congratulations. I hear that Brooks’s is very exclusive. You must be thrilled.”
“Yes.” Mr. Bewit took another meditative swallow of cognac. He didn’t actually seem all that happy, but that wasn’t too surprising, given his strange tendency to grow melancholy over good news.
“It’s a shame the doctor’s orders were to keep you in bed,” said Tom, trying to mollify his master, “otherwise you could go tonight.”
“Yes, it is too bad.” Mr. Bewit sighed. “It was my fondest wish for so long… to make Brooks’s, I mean. But now that I have…” He shook his head.
“Sir?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just… now that I’m in, I cannot help but think there is so much I ought to have cared more about than that , were I not the sort of man to let ambition rule my reason.”
Tom wasn’t following him at all. “I’m afraid I don’t understand…”
“Of course you don’t. You’re young.” Mr. Bewit’s sad smile quirked to one side. “You will find, Tom, as you learn more of the world, that sometimes, when a man’s desires are realized, they often pale beside what might have been had one not sacrificed certain things to achieve them.” He emptied his glass with another long pull of the fragrant distillation; Tom leapt up to refill it. He wanted to keep Mr. Bewit talking. He tried to think of a way to ask just what Mr. Bewit had ‘sacrificed’ to get into Brooks’s—and if those sacrifices had to do with a certain wig—but didn’t know how to phrase the question without seeming too interested. Thankfully, Mr. Bewit answered his unspoken question after taking another sip.
“I sacrificed little enough to get into Brooks’s, that is true,” he said. “A little of my time… some money. And yet I’m certain those hours and pounds might have been spent more thoughtfully. I mean—really, Tom, tell me honest, do you think I should go to Geneva?”
Perhaps Mr. Bewit wasn’t quite over that dose of laudanum the doctor had given him. “Sir? Why would you go to Geneva?”
“To visit Callow. To get to know my son better. To guide him. He is a spendthrift and a coxcomb, and while I have done my best with the boy, he has turned out a ruin. Only now it occurs to me how little time I have spent with him since he went off to school! He has had much opportunity to fall under fell influences, and I fear what I once thought were mere youthful indiscretions show signs of becoming permanent flaws.”
Mr. Bewit had never much spoken of his son. Tom had asked a few questions here and there—being careful to keep away from what Mrs. Jervis might consider “gossip”—and had come to the conclusion that the boy in the wig shop must have really been an impostor, for none of the descriptions matched the lad who had come in that morning. Cook had called Callow “limp,” and Kitty had once described him as “the worst-tempered young man in London.” When Mr. Bewit’s hostler had spat and opined that “no amount of perfume could disguise the scent of a turd,” Tom had stopped asking; the matter seemed settled.
“Well…” said Tom, trying to think of something to say, “why not go? I’m certain you’ll be feeling better by the time the necessary arrangements can be made.” Tom idly
With pleasure,
Your servant,
Phillip Whitehead
Membership Coordinator
Brooks’s
So Mr. Bewit had been up for Brooks’s, too! That meant it would have been in his best interest to see Mr. Mauntell blackballed… especially if, say, his rival had been first in line. It wasn’t evidence that Mr. Bewit had played a rôle in the farce that precipitated Tom’s dismissal from Dray’s, but it was at least an opportunity to start a conversation about the affair…
“This is wonderful news, sir,” said Tom, refolding the letter to give himself an excuse to compose himself. “Congratulations. I hear that Brooks’s is very exclusive. You must be thrilled.”
“Yes.” Mr. Bewit took another meditative swallow of cognac. He didn’t actually seem all that happy, but that wasn’t too surprising, given his strange tendency to grow melancholy over good news.
“It’s a shame the doctor’s orders were to keep you in bed,” said Tom, trying to mollify his master, “otherwise you could go tonight.”
“Yes, it is too bad.” Mr. Bewit sighed. “It was my fondest wish for so long… to make Brooks’s, I mean. But now that I have…” He shook his head.
“Sir?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just… now that I’m in, I cannot help but think there is so much I ought to have cared more about than that , were I not the sort of man to let ambition rule my reason.”
Tom wasn’t following him at all. “I’m afraid I don’t understand…”
“Of course you don’t. You’re young.” Mr. Bewit’s sad smile quirked to one side. “You will find, Tom, as you learn more of the world, that sometimes, when a man’s desires are realized, they often pale beside what might have been had one not sacrificed certain things to achieve them.” He emptied his glass with another long pull of the fragrant distillation; Tom leapt up to refill it. He wanted to keep Mr. Bewit talking. He tried to think of a way to ask just what Mr. Bewit had ‘sacrificed’ to get into Brooks’s—and if those sacrifices had to do with a certain wig—but didn’t know how to phrase the question without seeming too interested. Thankfully, Mr. Bewit answered his unspoken question after taking another sip.
“I sacrificed little enough to get into Brooks’s, that is true,” he said. “A little of my time… some money. And yet I’m certain those hours and pounds might have been spent more thoughtfully. I mean—really, Tom, tell me honest, do you think I should go to Geneva?”
Perhaps Mr. Bewit wasn’t quite over that dose of laudanum the doctor had given him. “Sir? Why would you go to Geneva?”
“To visit Callow. To get to know my son better. To guide him. He is a spendthrift and a coxcomb, and while I have done my best with the boy, he has turned out a ruin. Only now it occurs to me how little time I have spent with him since he went off to school! He has had much opportunity to fall under fell influences, and I fear what I once thought were mere youthful indiscretions show signs of becoming permanent flaws.”
Mr. Bewit had never much spoken of his son. Tom had asked a few questions here and there—being careful to keep away from what Mrs. Jervis might consider “gossip”—and had come to the conclusion that the boy in the wig shop must have really been an impostor, for none of the descriptions matched the lad who had come in that morning. Cook had called Callow “limp,” and Kitty had once described him as “the worst-tempered young man in London.” When Mr. Bewit’s hostler had spat and opined that “no amount of perfume could disguise the scent of a turd,” Tom had stopped asking; the matter seemed settled.
“Well…” said Tom, trying to think of something to say, “why not go? I’m certain you’ll be feeling better by the time the necessary arrangements can be made.” Tom idly
Similar Books
