by H. S. Cross
—Let us forget about Donne.
The Bishop emphasized his suggestion by dumping the six sheets of foolscap into a wastepaper basket.
—Let us return to the conversation we were having earlier today, and to the metaphor we both employed to describe your state of mind. Something is battering at the gates, you said?
It sounded fey now.
—I think, sir, that I must have been …
—Disturbed? I concur. You’d been whisked away from school, thrust into a strange household, and then subjected to two bouts of stiff exercise and an unpleasant telephone conversation. I should say you were disturbed.
Morgan wished the Bishop wouldn’t mention telephone conversations, but at least he grasped the essential facts. On second thought, he summarized as if …
—Sir, did you plan all that?
The Bishop’s eyes flickered.
—Sir, Morgan demanded, how long am I to stay here, and what exactly do you require of me?
—Perhaps you’d do better, the Bishop said, to forget about what I require of you and work out what you require of me.
With this, the man abandoned his seat behind the desk to come and stand beside Morgan, focusing his gaze again on him in the magnetic fashion he had employed in the summerhouse.
Morgan didn’t know if he had any energy left for dueling. He’d been feinting the whole time, trying to avoid traps, trying to hedge against his own errors. Only now he wasn’t sure that the Bishop was playing the same game.
—When you were a boy, the Bishop said, breaking the silence, how did your father deal with you?
The mention of his father dealing with him stirred that childhood yearning even now.
—He’d listen until the truth came out.
The Bishop nodded.
—And even when the truth was horrible, Morgan continued, he stayed with you. Even when he was punishing you, he never left, and then afterwards you’d be with him and away from the horrible thing, and you’d know there was nothing too horrible for him to deal with.
The Bishop leaned against the edge of the desk.
—That’s what you need now, isn’t it?
Morgan’s arm wrapped around his face as if to scratch the back of his head. The fabric of his blazer scraped across his cheek, sunburnt and raw. A little bell began to chime, and far away, a deeper one. A hand gripped his forearm and pulled it gently from his face.
—You aren’t a little boy any longer. It’s up to you to choose whose hands you put yourself into.
Morgan’s throat hurt:
—I don’t want to put myself in anyone’s hands! That’s what it means to be grown-up, to be only in your own hands.
The Bishop relaxed his grip:
—We are always in each other’s hands, but often we’ve no idea into whose grasp we’ve fallen.
He froze. The Bishop froze. Someone knocked at the door.
—Yes? the Bishop called.
—In the drawing room, Your Grace.
—Thank you.
Morgan felt urgent. The Bishop released a fragment of a smile.
—I mustn’t ask you to make important decisions before dinner, he said. We wouldn’t want you to feel pinned.
—Sir, I didn’t mean—
—Let’s take that as read. We’ll continue tomorrow after breakfast. Now our dinner guests have arrived.
The sense of menace was dispelling.
—Who are the dinner guests, sir?
—I couldn’t say with certainty.
The Bishop unlocked the door with a key. Morgan followed him from the room.
—Oh, and Wilberforce? the Bishop said as they descended.
—Sir?
—I’m afraid I must ask you to refrain from flirting.
—Sir?
—With my staff and with my family.
They broke through the corridor and into a red chamber.
—You know what I mean, and I would consider it a personal favor if you would spare me the song and dance of pretending that you don’t. Elizabeth, darling, how are the children?
40
The Bishop broke habit and introduced all of his guests to Morgan, presumably so Morgan would understand in no uncertain terms with whom he ought not to flirt. Three of the Bishop’s daughters had come that evening to attend him. Elizabeth, his eldest, was married to Mr. Fairclough and had four children at home with the croup (thankfully on the mend). Agnes turned up shortly after Elizabeth, and her husband, Mr. Goss, arrived sometime later, delayed by trains, curse them. Last to drop anchor was Lucy, who turned out to be Miss Flynt. Her husband did not make an appearance, and no one seemed to expect him. All of the Bishop’s daughters were as attractive as Miss Flynt, though only Miss Flynt was young enough to give Morgan any consideration. Not that she was considering him—she was married—but if she weren’t married, he suspected that he could convince her to consider him very seriously indeed.
—You’ve met all of us save Flora, Agnes said with a heart-stopping smile.
—Our other sister, Elizabeth explained.
—She’s the beautiful one, Agnes told him, but she wastes it grubbing away for trade unionists.
—Surely no one could be more beautiful than the three of you, Morgan said.
The Bishop cleared his throat.
—They aren’t trade unionists, Lucy corrected. Our sister is working to establish a school and hospital for poor children in Bristol.
—Their parents are trade unionists, Agnes said.
—Some of them.
Agnes winked at him:
—Trade unionists or Red communists.
—Everyone who works with his hands isn’t a trade unionist or a communist! Lucy replied hotly.
—All the young men of Flora’s acquaintance are Bolsheviks, Agnes insisted.
The way she said Bolsheviks made his trousers tighten.
—So, she continued, apart from Flora, you’ve met the whole family? Father, did you say he’s met Jamie?
—Stop being mischievous, Agnes. You know perfectly well he has.
Agnes sipped her sherry. The others sipped their sherries. Morgan sipped his lemonade.
—My sister’s name is Flora, too, he said.
The conversation revived as they interviewed him about his sisters, delighted that he, too, was a youngest and only son like their brother. Did he give his father half as much trouble as their brother did? When they found out about his mother, they surrounded him in a chorus of pity—their mother had died, too!—allowing their sensational hands to touch his jacket, his hair, his cheeks. It was as much as he could do to keep his trousers presentable in the midst of them and their intoxicating scents.
—Father, did you hear that? Agnes demanded. This poor boy is half an orphan.
The Bishop pursed his lips. He seemed to treat Agnes rather as Morgan’s father had treated Emily when she was going through her Difficult Stage, with a certain firmness underpinned by indulgence.
Morgan tried to imagine how it must have been for Dr. Sebastian to grow up amongst them, with the addition of beautiful, bolshie Flora. They spoke of Dr. Sebastian as if he were still an incorrigible boy. The picture corresponded in no way with the man who had brought Morgan down on the train. He couldn’t help feeling that something about the portrait was untoward. The whole evening was ludicrous, but then so much had been ludicrous lately that he saw no reason to resist this.
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 bl
ocked 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.
