The Pleasure Merchant Read Free Page B

cheered him up considerably.
    “Goodness, my boy,” said Mr. Dray, admiring the Wilmot wig on the stand. “You’ve done a fine job with this one. I doubt Rochester himself could find a thing wrong with it.”
    “Thank you very much, sir.” Mr. Dray was a kind father, a good master, and a better wigmaker. Working alongside him was a privilege as well as a pleasure. His compliments meant the world to Tom.
    “Anything new? Hizzy said there’d been a customer?”
    “Yes… I sold those three hairpieces to the young gentleman.” Tom saw annoyance flit across Mr. Dray’s face, to his surprise. “I apologize if I erred,” he said quickly, “but the lad needed a few locks of hair, for the party, and I hated to disappoint him. He paid five guineas for it all, and promised five more, plus an account.”
    “I see,” said Mr. Dray, looking more content. “I do wish you’d gotten it all, but I understand how it goes with the young men these days. We’ll see if he really does come back… but for now, I must see to Mr. Sedley’s barrister’s wig. I was going to use those pieces you sold, but I suppose I can eke it out with horse-hair. It’ll all be powdered white anyways…”
    Tom breathed a bit easier after Mr. Dray turned to his work. He was unhappy to have incurred a rebuke, even a mild one. It didn’t happen often, given Tom’s diligence and obedience, but it always made him a bit nervous. It was within Mr. Dray’s rights to terminate Tom’s apprenticeship at any time… not that Tom really thought he would. Still, it never hurt to be cautious—to be dismissed at this juncture would be nothing short of disastrous. All his future plans, professional and personal, depended on completing his apprenticeship.
    They were very busy the rest of the day. By the time they closed the shop, hours later than usual, Tom had forgotten all about Master Callow Bewit. But the night of the party, when he was in his attic room, reading by himself, Tom remembered.
    What a time Callow Bewit must be having! Rumor had it that fifty cases of champagne had been imported for the event, along with twenty pounds of caviar, and seventeen Wiltshire hams. Someone had declared the kitchens had prepared forty gallons of white soup, and as for the volume of cream, eggs, milk, and flour ordered for fancy puddings—why, it was more food, and finer, than Mrs. Dray bought in a year. The fishmonger had claimed Lord Chandoss’s cook had demanded twelve enormous pikes to be cured for the event, and Jordan, the milliner’s errand-boy, had reported a troupe of gypsy actors had been hired for an entertainment, as well as three different ensembles for musical interludes. Tom couldn’t begin to imagine the spectacle, and he very much doubted he would ever to see anything like it.
    A low knock at the door drew Tom’s mind away from these musings.
    “Tom?” It was Hizzy. With a sharp snap Tom shut Robinson Crusoe and threw it on the bed as he leaped off it. Only once before had Hizzy dared to sneak up to his room, and his memory of that encounter made his heart beat the quicker as he opened the door for her.
    “Come in,” he whispered, taking care to shut the door softly. Mr. Dray might be fond of his foundling apprentice, but not fond enough to overlook his trifling with his only daughter.
    “I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I kept thinking about the party.”
    “Me too,” admitted Tom.
    “That boy,” she said, coloring slightly, “how do you think he looked? As a woman, I mean?”
    Forgotten jealousy welled inside Tom like black blood in a wound. “He had a womanish look to him already,” he said acidly. “Though you seemed to like him well enough.”
    Hizzy seemed a bit taken aback. “I was only being polite,” she said softly.
    “Were you?” Tom sniffed and turned his back on her, all his former excitement gone. “You warmed to his advances quicker than you did to mine—but I suppose it’s to be expected. A pretty young