Wilberforce (45 page)

—Good evening, sir, Morgan said.

—Your Grace, Dr. Sebastian prompted.

—Your Grace.

The Bishop's mouth twitched.

—You didn't say you were bringing
this
.

The Bishop looked to Dr. Sebastian for explanation, but the younger man seemed lost for words. Morgan was that appalling, then. Worse than the warder of this prison had been led to believe and too disgraceful to explain.

The Bishop beckoned Morgan to the archway.

—What do you know of roses? he asked.

—Nothing, sir.

He handed Morgan the shears.

—Finish pruning this. Any spent blooms, deadhead them.

He demonstrated clipping off the drooping blossom just below the petals.

—This much, no more, the Bishop said. Waste in there—

He pointed to a basket.

—Don't leave it strewn all over the grass. Clear?

—Yes, sir.

The Bishop stalked back to the house, Dr. Sebastian in tow. Morgan stood beneath the buttery roses and quaked.

 

30

Morgan found himself silently regarded by the other men. They had left him for ages in the garden before calling him inside. Tea was being served in a room the housekeeper called the conservatory. It looked onto the garden and provided seating for four around a small table. A pool containing lilies and a glimmer of goldfish gurgled in the center of the room. Morgan wondered gloomily whether he'd be expected to rehearse last night's ghastliness, though it seemed long enough ago to have been another term, if not life.

The woman produced cold poached salmon, some dressed greens, and a bowl of blackberries. Despite his uneasiness, Morgan was famished. He scanned quantities and wondered how much he'd be allowed.

The Bishop said grace and made the sign of the cross, a gesture Dr. Sebastian mirrored. Morgan had never done such a popish thing and, despite feeling impolite, couldn't bring himself to do it now. The Bishop dispensed the food and tea in distressingly small portions.

Morgan watched Dr. Sebastian for a cue as to how fast he might eat. It seemed Dr. Sebastian was ravenous as well, for he finished his plate quickly. No one had spoken since grace, but when Dr. Sebastian sat for a minute or more gazing hungrily at the serving platter, the Bishop waved impatiently.

—Go on, he said, I don't suppose you've eaten properly on your journey.

—No, sir, Dr. Sebastian said, reaching for the fish, only a couple of sandwiches.

—And you expect that boy to get along on
a couple of sandwiches
? No wonder he scarcely knows how to speak.

When the food had been cleared away, the Bishop pronounced a second grace and then crossed his legs and fixed his gaze upon Morgan.

—You are a pupil at St. Stephen's?

—Yes, sir.

—
Your Grace
, Dr. Sebastian said.

—Your—

—How old are you?

Morgan told him. The interview progressed factually, how long he'd been at the Academy, who his people were, where his father lived and what he was. He enjoyed cricket? And what had he been reading?

Morgan stumbled over the last query. He couldn't remember having read anything lately, unless
The Pearl
counted, and he knew perfectly well that it did not.

—You do read, don't you?

—Yes, Your Grace.

—Well, what have you read recently?

—Nothing special. I mean, only the ordinary things. We were doing Wordsworth, sir.

—What do you read on your own? A man's character is reflected in what he chooses to read.

Lady Pokingham? Life Among the She-Noodles?

—I see, the Bishop said.

Had he spoken aloud? He shouldn't have eaten. He wanted to eat more. When, oh, when, would they dispense with the sinister preliminaries and bring on whatever torture they intended?

—Jamie, the Bishop scolded, the boy's fainting away. He's got eyes like a panda and he's pale as death. Just what have you been doing with him?

—Nothing, Father!

Morgan choked. Dr. Sebastian poured him some more tea. When he recovered, the Bishop was staring at him, the corners of his mouth turned slightly up:

—I see my son hasn't told you everything.

—He hasn't told me anything! Morgan spluttered.

—Hasn't he indeed?

The Bishop burst into a laugh and rang the bell.

—We'll continue this conversation in the morning, he said to Morgan. Ah, Mrs. Hallows, could you please see young Wilberforce to bed?

Morgan stood, his balance suddenly precarious.

—Good night, Dr. Sebastian. Good night, Your Grace. I'm very sorry, I—

—In the morning, the Bishop rejoined. Just you concentrate on getting a good night's sleep.

Morgan turned to follow Mrs. Hallows. Behind, he heard the Bishop speaking:

—As for you, we need to have a chat about frightening little boys half to death.

—Chop-chop, Mrs. Hallows said.

Morgan tripped after her.

 

31

The pleasures which I made haste to seek in my disguise were, as I have said, undignified; I would scarce use a harder term. But in the hands of Edward Hyde, they soon began to turn toward the monstrous. When I would come back from these excursions, I was often plunged into a kind of wonder at my vicarious depravity. This familiar that I called out of my own soul, and sent forth alone to do his good pleasure, was a being inherently malign and villainous; his every act and thought centered on self; drinking pleasure with bestial avidity from any degree of torture to another … The women writhed and twined themselves about the floor, fucking, screaming and shouting in ecstasy
—Shut up—
my loving mistress partook of the universal excitement with the rest
—Shut up!—
placing herself in the most lascivious positions, throwing up her legs
—SHUT—
outstretching her arms, she would invite me, in the most licentious terms, to enter the amorous lists
—WAKE UP!—
how tight did her cunt clasp my prick
—DREAMING, YOU'RE DREAMING—
as my piston-rod shoved in
—WAKE—
and out
—MUM—
I had gone to bed Henry Jekyll, I had awakened Edward Hyde
—MUMMY!

—Wilberforce!

Light. Blinding. Woman above.

—Like waking the dead, she declared.

His heart pounded. His cock pounded. Sweat trickled down his—

—Bath's drawn, just there.

The woman indicated a door by the window, which admitted a painful light.

—Breakfast, half an hour.

Where was he? When?

—Speak so I know you're awake.

—Half an hour. M—Mrs.—Matron?

—Mrs. Hallows.

—Mrs. Hallows.

*   *   *

He washed the sweat, the night, and the last two days from his body. The tepid water regulated his temperature. He drank liberally from the tap. The blue tiles reflected the morning light like the sea, not that he had ever been under the sea, but he imagined it as something like this, a half-remembered softness.

That man, the Bishop, had said
in the morning
. Morgan sometimes knew when disasters were coming. He'd known it with Spaulding, and he recognized in this morning the unquestionable taint of calamity. Could he not simply slip beneath this sea and …

—Listen, you, it's time to buck up.

Droit stood before the looking glass, slicking his hair back with brilliantine.

—Leave me alone, Morgan said.

Droit looked at him with a wounded expression and demanded to know why Morgan should treat him thus. Morgan launched into a litany of Droit's unwelcome utterances, not least the rubbish with which he'd been oppressed all night. Droit took offense. Was he the one who had provided the foul story of Jekyll and Hyde? Was he the supplier of Lydon's tasteless morsels?

Morgan had to admit that he wasn't. That was correct, Droit confirmed, he wasn't. If Morgan had retained the most appalling selections from his reading, he could look elsewhere for someone to blame, for he, Droit, insisted on quality in his amusements and had been slaving all term to reform Morgan's taste.

The nauseous atmosphere was dispelling. Morgan wished he could have a cigarette. He did have some in his tuck box, but he wasn't sure he dared smoke them in the bathroom of a Rectory.

Droit parted his hair and bade Morgan finish his bath and listen carefully: Morgan must on no account allow himself to be seduced by the glamour of this house or its inhabitants. That uneasy feeling Morgan had sprang from his rather developed instincts. This was no time for false modesty. They both knew that Morgan often understood things about people that people didn't understand themselves. The point was this place. Morgan mustn't let down his guard. They would attempt to seduce him into every kind of nefarious thing, but Morgan must defend himself.

Morgan got out of the bath and dried off, not at all sure what Droit meant.

—You know precisely what I mean, Droit retorted. Why else would they have brought you to a soothing little house in the country if not to lull you into a false sense of security? And why else should they haul you clear across the country to see a bishop if they didn't hope to succeed where S-K failed?

Morgan's stomach turned at mention of his aborted confirmation. He forced himself to breathe calmly as he put on the clean shirt someone had laid out for him. Did Droit mean to suggest that Burton and Grieves had colluded with Dr. Sebastian to coerce Morgan into the sacrament of confirmation? Wasn't that rather far-fetched?

Droit did not think it far-fetched, actually, but in any case, that was not what he was saying. Droit was simply saying that these men had taken advantage of Morgan when he was weak. They had humiliated him and abducted him. They were on no account to be trusted, not Sebastian, not the Flea, not Grieves, and certainly and above all not this sickening Bishop person. Whatever they had in mind, he was not a child, and he must not permit himself to be maneuvered. That was all.

 

32

Mrs. Hallows was waiting at the bottom of the staircase. She adjusted the collar of his jacket, and after informing him that the Bishop took his breakfast in silence, she led him to the dining room.

A large table was set for two. Yesterday the Bishop had expected gardening tasks, today obviously Morgan would serve the silent meal. Was it some pious clerical custom to observe silence before noon? A clock on the sideboard approached nine. Perhaps the Bishop's voice required resting, or perhaps he habitually meditated on obscure matters in the morning. Presumably Dr. Sebastian would also keep silence.

Dimly, the circumstances unveiled themselves. Dr. Sebastian, Burton-Lee, or both of them must have contacted his father. His father had tried everything over Easter to give Morgan another start, and now to be wired by the Academy before the end of the term and informed of—Morgan couldn't bear to think it, not without panicking. His father would be so appalled that he would withdraw from the world even more than before.
Unsuitable conduct
, Droit murmured, that was what they would have said. Unsuitable conduct. His father would accept that. He had lost the habit of inquiry some years before. He never, any longer, wished to know the gruesome details, and there would certainly be no point in it now.

Why did his father not tell them to send Morgan home? He could wait there for other arrangements to be made. Unless they considered his unsuitable conduct too unsuitable for a decent career? Perhaps Dr. Sebastian, out of charity and in appreciation for Morgan's performance on the cricket pitch, had scrounged a position for him in the Bishop's household. The Bishop was Dr. Sebastian's father—had that not been revealed last night? And the Bishop was an elderly Bishop, so presumably he required assistance around his premises. Was Morgan being evaluated as a possible secretary? Something like that, but given his recent conduct, the Bishop would wish to prove him as groundsman or footman before allowing him the run of his correspondence.

—You can shut up, Morgan said to Droit.

—Have I spoken?

—Perhaps you'd quit being clever for a minute and remember what Dr. Sebastian said on the train.

Droit groaned and produced a tin of Altoids.

—This isn't something I can think my way out of.

—He would say that, wouldn't he? Droit retorted. He doesn't want you thinking. If you start thinking, you might out-think him, and then where would he be?

—I'm only saying that whatever they want me to do, it's better than dying of boredom at home.

—You say
boredom
, you mean
shame
. When are you going to get it through your head that shame is something imposed by other people. If you refuse to feel ashamed, then they've no power over you.

Droit offered a mint. Morgan refused.

—I'm not ashamed of anything.

—Liar.

The Bishop strode briskly into the room. He nodded at Morgan and came to the head of the table. Morgan wished suddenly for an appropriate uniform, but he stood at attention by the sideboard, hands behind his back, eyes forward. The door opened again but admitted Mrs. Hallows, not Dr. Sebastian. She carried in the breakfast tray and set out tea, a rack of toast, and four eggs. The clock chimed a pretty little bell, the kind of clock a lady would wind. If Dr. Sebastian was the Bishop's son, where was the Bishop's wife?

After a glance to the Bishop, Mrs. Hallows sighed in exasperation and pointed Morgan to the table. He reached for the teapot to pour, but a smack stopped his hand. She grasped him by both elbows and moved him to the second place setting. The Bishop cleared his throat, pronounced grace, made the embarrassing gesture, and pulled out his chair to sit down. Morgan looked to Mrs. Hallows. She regarded him as one might a half-wit, and then, apparently resigning herself to unpleasantness, she pulled out the chair and shoved him into it. As the Bishop served himself an egg and toast, Mrs. Hallows stalked out of the room, leaving Morgan alone before Dr. Sebastian's place setting.