Wilberforce (51 page)

When they went in to dinner, the Bishop sat Morgan beside him and filled his glass halfway with hock. At Morgan's other side sat Mr. Fairclough, and across from them, Lucy. He was grateful the table was wide or he might not have been able to stop himself reaching for her with his foot.

Conversation during the meal tiptoed around the Bishop's health, a subject that irritated him and occupied his daughters in equal measure. Dimly Morgan became aware that they had come to dinner en masse to check up on their father. Lucy emphasized repeatedly that life at the cathedral was under control. The archdeacons were managing splendidly (
Sowing their oats
, the Bishop muttered), and the two new curates actually had to be stopped from taking on too much in their zeal. Today's chapter meeting had adopted several resolutions concerning the east gutters (
Resolutions are not actions!
) and concerning recruitment for the choir school.

—What I can't understand, Agnes said, is why Jamie thinks he ought to leave Marlborough and move house hundreds of miles away to go and work at a dreary little school no one's heard of.

—Let us leave your brother out of this, the Bishop said.

—Agnes has a point, Elizabeth rejoined. The choir school will be up and running next year. Why go somewhere else in the meantime? It's unsettled.

—Has he got himself into a mess at Marlborough? Agnes asked with ill-concealed hunger.

—No, he hasn't! the Bishop said with raised voice. When your brother gave his notice this morning, they were devastated. The fact is St. Stephen's is exceedingly fortunate to have him.

—St. Stephen's? Elizabeth asked. I've never heard of it. Have you?

She turned to her husband, but he had not heard of the Academy, and neither had Mr. Goss.

—I've heard of it, Lucy said.

Morgan set down his fork.

—St. Stephen's Academy in Yorkshire, Lucy continued. It was in the papers at Easter.

—Lucy, the Bishop warned.

—We all know what you think of the
Mail
, Father, but that doesn't mean they were wrong.

—Not that place where the boy was killed? Elizabeth asked aghast.

Lucy nodded with satisfaction. Morgan clamped tongue between teeth.

—But that's dreadful! Agnes cried. What in God's good earth is Jamie doing at a place like that?

—Turning it around, I should think, the Bishop retorted.

—But, Father, you can't let him! Agnes insisted. He's throwing everything away! And think of what it will do to the choir school once it opens.

Morgan's heart began to pound.

—And, yes, Agnes continued, I know you and he—but seriously, Father, what kind of Headmaster will he be to this place, St. Swithin's—

—St. Stephen's.

Agnes waved impatiently at Lucy.

—If there's even a shred of truth in the
Mail
, the place is dreadful and ought to be closed at once. What good will it do for Jamie to hack up there, practically fresh out of school himself—

—Agnes, that will do.

—and
fiddle
with the place for a year before leaving it in the lurch when he comes home for the choir school. It's madly irresponsible.

Morgan wondered if he might be sick at the table. All three of the Bishop's exquisite daughters and two of his well-cut sons-in-law agreed that St. Stephen's was a sewer that would ruin anyone who came near it, most especially their brother, who was in any case a callow youth unqualified to be Headmaster of anything.

The Bishop set down his cutlery, daubed his mouth with a napkin, and rang the bell. Everyone looked to him, for his decision on the fate of their brother and the fate of his own choir school. The Bishop smiled in a way that made Morgan suspect a knife.

—Wilberforce, he said mildly, you've been exceptionally quiet. What have you to say about all this?

His mouth tasted of steel. He wondered if he could have some more hock.

—Is Dr. Sebastian really only going to the Academy for one year?

—I don't believe it's been settled, the Bishop said.

—But, Father, Lucy protested, you've wanted the choir school for ages. It took all that time to get it approved, and even longer to get the Bishop's palace fitted out, and now it's almost ready. Who else can run it but Jamie?

—Everyone always said he'd run it.

—But that doesn't mean he must, the Bishop replied, or that he will.

Morgan felt the urge to swear. He concentrated on what he was saying:

—If Dr. Sebastian is going to St. Stephen's pro tem, do they know that?

—They ought to know it! Lucy declared.

The table looked to the Bishop.

—I don't believe that was the understanding.

An explosion of disbelief. The Bishop turned placidly to Morgan. Morgan struggled to think straight.

—Is it very impertinent to ask how old Dr. Sebastian is, sir?

—Quite impertinent.

—He's twenty-eight, said Lucy.

Morgan swallowed, as much to give the impression of thought as to pull himself together. Twenty-eight wasn't as young as the girls made it sound. (And did that mean they were all over thirty? Even luscious Lucy?) Twenty-eight wasn't barely out of school. Twenty-eight was old.

—Sir, Morgan asked, do you think Dr. Sebastian can save St. Stephen's?

The Bishop held Morgan's gaze as he had in the study, even as the girls fluttered amongst themselves.

—If St. Stephen's can be saved, James can do it.

A fullness settled in Morgan's stomach, like eating a large dessert. The alarm of the day lifted for a moment, and he felt a relief like the arrival of a summer thunderstorm to drive away the heat and bring them air they could breathe.

The girls were gabbling, reiterating points, harping now on their brother's chronic insubordination, his penchant for unwise heroics, and his selfishness in proposing to leave the Academy after only a year.

The cooling air turned quickly cold. Dr. Sebastian could save the Academy and rescue it from everything wrong. The unexplained authority he had exerted in the railway carriage he would exert over the school, over people such as Colin, Laurie, perhaps even over Alex. But if Dr. Sebastian remade the place into the kind of school it could be (the kind of school it had once whispered to Morgan about wanting to be), then a garroting loomed. They would grow fond of him. They would trust him, depend on him, require him. And then he would leave.

It wasn't right to make people trust you and then abandon them. It was worse than failing to help in the first place. It was almost as bad as exiling them in their hour of need.

—Wilberforce, Agnes said, slicing through the chatter, did you come down with our brother?

They stopped talking and turned again to him.

—Yes.

This seemed to settle some question.

—And what did you read?

He hesitated, confused.

—
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
for the most part.

A moment of silence, then Agnes laughed:

—I suppose theology is exactly like that at times, isn't it?

Morgan nodded mutely. They fired questions at him, but he couldn't answer. He wasn't clever enough for girls like these. They kept speaking of doctrines and of orders and the ways in which those topics intersected with the works of people such as Dr. Floyd—a name that vexed their father—and Dr. Young. The Bishop objected most strenuously, and Lucy quickly took his side against Agnes, who was enjoying herself enormously. Good and evil were not the same as the conscious and the unconscious, the Bishop insisted, and Agnes was glib to suggest it. Everyone looked to Morgan as if he were on Agnes's side. She winked at him again.

—I suppose, Father, that it's Wilberforce's Jekyll and Hyde ideology you've determined to reform.

Lucy threw Agnes a savage glare. Even Elizabeth's face revealed horror. The Bishop lowered his voice:

—Agnes, dear, that really will do.

Agnes plunged forward, but her darting gaze made it clear she knew she'd committed a blunder and was trying to cover it up.

—You'll forgive me, won't you, dear? she asked Morgan.

He would forgive her anything if she would use that velvety tone towards him again.

—The last thing I would dream of doing is intrude. You know that, don't you?

—Of course.

If only she would intrude regularly, deeply, and personally.

—Splendid, she replied with a smile. Why don't you tell us everything.

Some hot thing blocked him from speaking. The Bishop cleared his throat and refilled Morgan's glass. Morgan looked to him for a clue as to what he was doing wrong, but the Bishop was looking across the table.

—Here's the trifle, he announced.

Arrival of the dessert diverted them, but to Morgan's chagrin, Agnes resumed as soon as they'd been served.

—Don't imagine you're getting off that easily, she said. Tell us every juicy detail about our brother.

He abandoned thoughts of stuffing his mouth with trifle.

—He's very impressive.

Lucy snorted.

—Oh, yes, Elizabeth deadpanned, enormously impressive.

—He …

What else was there to say about the man?

—I believe he made quite an impression on the Board. The chairman clearly thought the world of him. And he made an impressive start. He isn't a man to be afraid of anything, or to hesitate. He even impressed Burton-Lee—he's the Headmaster pro tem—even if things were awkward between them. The only person he didn't impress was Mr.…

They were staring at him in … disbelief? Horror? He drank the hock.

—It's time you girls stopped tormenting young Wilberforce and let him eat, the Bishop said.

Something in the man's expression provoked in them the opposite behavior.

—You can't possibly stop there, Agnes insisted. Where and when was this? He hasn't told us this story!

When exactly had it been?

—The day before yesterday? Morgan said. At …

They hung on his word. The Bishop set down his spoon and looked at him indulgently. He had to think straight. Had there been some sort of confusion in the room?

—At St. Stephen's.

—St. Stephen's? Agnes repeated.

Morgan nodded.

—St. Stephen's from the
Mail
?

Again he could only nod.

—But—I'm not following this—what were you doing at St. Stephen's? Up in Yorkshire?

—Playing cricket.

Agnes looked to her sisters, but they were equally baffled. She turned to her husband:

—Darling, have I got scatterbrain? I'm simply not keeping up.

—It isn't scatterbrain, Elizabeth replied. I'm not pregnant and I'm not following either.

Lucy, mouth full of trifle, let out a muffled squeal. She tapped the table as she swallowed.

—You aren't from Oxford at all, are you? she exclaimed.

—Of course not, Morgan said.

—But…?

—He's from Jamie's new school! Lucy told them.

—But, Agnes wrinkled her brow painfully, you said you came down with our brother.

—I did! Morgan said exasperated. We came down on the train yesterday. If you can call it coming down together. I'd call it more like kidnapping!

He had thought these girls liked him, fancied him even, but now they were pressing him to admit things that didn't belong at a family dinner, and furthermore acting as though Dr. Sebastian's economy with information was a widespread family trait.

—Just a minute, Lucy said. How old are you?

Morgan blushed.

—I'm twenty-two.

—Oh, yes? the Bishop said.

A chair scraped at Morgan's right. Mr. Fairclough stood and placed his hand on Morgan's shoulder:

—I say, old chap, could I borrow you for a moment? There's something I need to …

He gestured to the door and gave Morgan a bashful, desperate expression. The girls had stopped speaking again. Morgan looked to the Bishop, who nodded, imperfectly hiding his amusement. Morgan wiped his mouth, folded his napkin, and followed Elizabeth's husband from the room.

At the bottom of the drive, Mr. Fairclough produced a case:

—Smoke?

—Thanks.

The cigarette was smooth, expensive, well kept.

—Sorry for all that, Mr. Fairclough said. They don't mean to be cruel. They always carry on when they get together. And I think the Bishop was being a bit naughty with them.

—I'm afraid I've no idea what you're talking about, Morgan said.

—Yes, you do, Mr. Fairclough replied. This family thrives on incomplete truths. All we knew was that an acquaintance of James was the Bishop's new project. No one said it was anything to do with the new post.

—Oh.

—Or that the young man was still at school.

—I—

—You aren't twenty-two, plainly.

A pinch as something bit the back of his neck.

—Sixteen?

—Seventeen … I don't know why I said that.

Mr. Fairclough gazed at the field.

—I've said worse. They push you to it. You should see what it's like when Flora's there.

They finished their cigarettes in a comforting silence. Morgan's neck itched. Mr. Fairclough slapped his own cheek.

—They're eating us raw. Come on.

They went back to the house. Mr. Fairclough paused outside the dining room but then turned instead in to the library, where Morgan had suffered the hideous lines earlier that day. That ceaseless, purgatorial day.

The sun had not set, but Mr. Fairclough lit a lamp and took it to a little piano Morgan had not noticed earlier. He sat, ran his fingers down the keys, and began to play something liquid, like the bath-warm, fish-filled, syrupy sea.

—So, Mr. Fairclough said, what did you do?

Morgan thought to protest, but he didn't want Mr. Fairclough to stop playing.