Wilberforce (42 page)

Burton's face drained of color:

—Is there any way this can wait until the morning?

—Absolutely not, John insisted. If you let him walk out that door, I can't vouch for what might happen. For one thing, Pearl minor might come down from the Tower, and if they met—

—What has Pearl minor to do with this mess?

—Plenty.

—You aren't making sense.

—I'm making every kind of sense. It's this cursed, infernal day that isn't making sense, and Wilberforce's catastrophic judgment in every single matter that doesn't involve a cricket ball!

—What's so appalling about young Wilberforce? Jamie interrupted.

Burton visibly prevented himself from barking at Jamie.

—Nothing at all, he said. But if you'll excuse me one moment.

Burton tried to look as though he were merely drifting to the door, but John knew he wanted to thrash about as he normally did. Why wasn't he, in fact? Burton never had qualms about taking a pair of verbal steak knives to whomever he chose. Why should he tolerate a young visitor intruding in a private, sotto voce conversation between himself and his staff? Burton's only word on the gathering had been
awkward
, and he had said he needed John's help. Of course, he hadn't said how, which was typical. He expected John to know everything without being told, like some kind of medium.

—Gentlemen, Burton said, if I might press upon your patience briefly, there is something that requires my attention for a few minutes. Clarke here—

He indicated a boy he'd conscripted from the corridor.

—has volunteered to give you a tour of the House.

Overall and his lieutenants found the invitation agreeable and followed the boy into the corridor, Jamie bringing up the rear. When the door at last closed behind them, Burton turned on John:

—Just what is this about?

John looked to Wilberforce, who blushed and looked at the floor. Burton stormed to the sideboard, poured himself a fresh drink, and downed it furiously.

—We are exceedingly short on time, and this is an exceedingly bad moment. Grieves, kindly get to the point. And Wilberforce—

Burton turned a severe expression on the boy.

—whatever this is about, I expect to hear the truth from you. All of it. Understood?

Wilberforce swallowed as if he might be sick. Burton leapt forward, seized him by the arm, and shoved him onto the settee. Burton then dragged over a straight-backed chair and sat in it.

—Well?

As Burton had not offered John a seat, he remained standing.

—Wilberforce was not on the Ramble this evening, John began.

—Then what took so long when I sent for you?

They both looked to Wilberforce. He swallowed again. John wanted to clip him round the ear. Instead he crammed his fists into the pockets of his dinner jacket:

—Are you going to tell him or am I?

Wilberforce licked his lips. If he could explain for himself, John decided he would revise his excremental opinion of the boy.

—It's difficult to say, Wilberforce began.

—Speak up, Burton snapped. Is there anything about the past twelve hours that you cannot recall?

—No, sir.

—Then stop trying my very short patience and present a brief, audible chronology.

—It's difficult to say, Wilberforce whispered, because …

—Yes?

Burton pitched his voice equally low, as if to draw out the words that choked the boy. Wilberforce blinked. John wondered if he would cry. Wilberforce had not cried last term over Spaulding, not when John snapped his dislocated arm back into its socket, never under punishment. Now, though, his face had turned so red that John thought tears might roll down it as they had at his table in the middle of that night, another age ago.

The boy scratched at the mud on the leg of his trousers and spoke in a whisper:

—Because I'm so ashamed of it.

Burton took a quiet breath. The man clearly longed to release his frustration in a gush of verbal abuse, but every aspect of Burton's behavior remained under his express control. John had never understood how Burton had acquired his reputation for extracting confessions, but now he realized he was witnessing the technique.

—We've all done things we're ashamed of, Burton said evenly.
I am come not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.

Wilberforce glanced up and searched Burton's face.

—Go on, Burton told him gently. Show your mettle.

Wilberforce resumed cleaning his trouser leg:

—I was with someone out-of-bounds.

Burton made no sound. Wilberforce cleared his throat.

—I've been seeing her all term. Usually in the kitchen. She's … We love each other.

John picked up his glass and wiped away the ring it had left on the table. Burton continued not to speak. Wilberforce continued his confession, omitting details John considered relevant (for instance, that the kitchen in question had to have been at the Cross Keys), but details which, John realized, must have seemed irrelevant to Wilberforce. He stumbled along, admitting to liaisons, outlining his growing devotion to this girl (carefully avoiding naming Polly), and finally his decision, their joint decision, to meet this evening for the purposes of
l'amour complet
. John had never heard the expression; it turned his stomach.

A knock at the door, though Wilberforce and Burton seemed not to notice.

—Sorry, Jamie said quietly.

Burton put up a hand to demand silence but did not break Wilberforce's gaze. John set his lemonade back down before he dropped it. Either he had gone over the edge and begun hallucinating, or there was something revolutionary afoot that he had entirely failed to grasp. He scarcely knew where to focus, on Wilberforce, now narrating his plan to seduce Polly in “the barn,” or on Jamie, slinking against the door and watching the scene with fascination. Whatever Jamie had to say to him, it was ludicrous that he intrude upon a most sensitive interview, and what's more, having intruded, that he fail to say it, instead lounging around as though Wilberforce's moral nadir had something to do with him. If not for John's respect for Burton's technique, he would have told Jamie then and there what he thought of his manners. As it was, he inched towards the door.

—The trouble was, when I arrived, someone else was there. Mr. Grieves already said it, so I'm not telling tales, am I?

—No.

It was the first word Burton had uttered. With that gentle encouragement to Wilberforce, he thrust an impatient arm towards John, using his actual finger to direct John back to the spot where he had been standing. John obeyed.

Jamie's hand was resting on the edge of the table beside the door, his fingers, long and slender, running back and forth along the table edge. Jamie, like Burton, seemed mesmerized by Wilberforce, though perhaps Jamie was also mesmerized by Burton's control of the confession. John had never seen anything like it, never seen a boy speak his misdeeds as Wilberforce was doing, never seen Burton sit so silent and still.

Wilberforce confessed to losing his temper at Pearl minor and setting upon the younger boy. He claimed to have come quickly to his senses and sent the boy away. John wondered if this was the truth. It was possible. Wilberforce could have landed the blows to the ribs first, knocking Pearl minor to the ground. He could then have delivered head shots, breaking the nose, blacking his eyes, and cutting open his cheek. If the punches had been accurate, hard, and unexpected, Wilberforce might have done the damage in ten seconds or less. It occurred to John that the Academy ought to revive boxing.

Wilberforce was struggling as he came to the act of
l'amour complet
. He assured them that the girl had consented, not only consented, but had helped plan the tryst. He reiterated the point three times. John felt a sliver of relief, in contrast to how he'd felt when Wilberforce was spewing nonsense outside the barn, the moment when John had wavered in his self-command. But there was no point in dwelling on that. Wilberforce had emerged from the washroom without a glimmer of accusation, as if he'd cleaned the memory as well as the blood from his face. He'd suffer no lasting harm, and anyway, in comparison to what Wilberforce had done to Polly and to Pearl minor, John's momentary lapse was—

—And that's when Kilby and Mr. Grieves arrived.

Wilberforce exhaled heavily, as if that concluded his testimony. Burton sat back in his chair, clasped his hands, unclasped them. He looked to John and purposely did not look at Jamie. And why should he look at Jamie? It was no affair of Burton's if Jamie had appalling manners and insisted on earwigging interviews that were nothing to do with him. Ignoring him was precisely what he deserved.

Burton spoke again in the soothing voice:

—Well done.

Wilberforce glanced up at him, a flood of ridiculous gratitude on his face.

—Is there anything he's neglected to mention, Grieves?

Burton still wasn't looking at him. It was embarrassing to be treated as a valet, and in front of Jamie.

—Oh, John replied icily, only a few minor details.

Burton's attention flashed to him.

—The girl is the daughter of Wakes, the landlord of the Cross Keys. Pearl minor came away with two black eyes, a broken nose, and at least one broken rib. And the barn in question—

Burton leapt to his feet, but John spoke:

—McKay's.

Burton's glance to the door, to Jamie, carried something more than mortification.

—So you see, John concluded, Wilberforce's adventures are all rather economical.

Burton was at a loss. Wilberforce put his head in his hands.

—McKay's barn? Jamie asked. Is that where—

Burton held up a hand to—

—Yes, John replied chirpily.

Jamie let go of the table and approached Burton's desk, piercing the perimeter of their conference.

—Who else knows about this? he asked.

—Kilby, Fardley, and Pearl minor, John said. Otherwise, no one.

—Let's keep it that way, Jamie replied.

A wave of relief crossed Burton's face.

—I'm glad you see it that way, Burton said. I'll deal with it. You can be sure—

—How will you deal with it? Jamie asked.

—Excuse me, John said. I know I'm insignificant, so obviously it isn't worth the trouble to explain anything to me, but I still fail to see what one syllable of this has to do with you!

He finished with a savage glare to Jamie. Burton began to burble. Jamie began to laugh.

—I do apologize, John. How this must look from your perspective I can't begin to imagine.

—Can't you?

—I must seem the most appalling meddler.

Jamie turned casually to Burton, as if they'd known each other for years:

—Do you want to?

Burton waved him on:

—Be my guest.

Jamie appeared not to notice the bitter chill in Burton's politeness. He opened his mouth to make his pronouncement but then hesitated. His teeth scraped his lower lip. He clasped his hands behind his back.

—It's as odd for me as it is for you, Jamie began, and nearly as much of a shock.

—Yes? John prompted impatiently.

—Please believe me when I say I didn't know you were here. I would never have imagined—

—Why couldn't you imagine it? John retorted. Can't believe anyone would employ a Red conchie like me?

—What? No! Nothing like that!

John was struggling to stop himself from throwing a punch at Jamie's head. Jamie sighed at the realization that John did not follow.

—And when we met today at lunch, it wasn't by any means certain.

Burton made a noise that could have been a clearing of the throat but that sounded more like a scoff.

—It wasn't certain in my mind, Jamie said in response. I can't speak for Overall. His tactics are opaque.

—They're nothing of the kind, Burton declared.

—I can't expect you to believe me, Jamie told Burton, but it is true.

—Wait a minute!

They all three looked to the settee. Wilberforce had spoken and was leaping to his feet.

—Sit down and be quiet! Burton snapped.

—But, Wilberforce stuttered, Dr. Sebastian's going to join the SCR, isn't he?

—Wilberforce! Burton barked. You are out of order.

—It's all right, Jamie rejoined. That's correct. I am.

—Why? John exclaimed.

Jamie inhaled.

—Didn't someone just say you were at Marlborough? Good for you. Why, in the name of God, the King, and the Marylebone Cricket Club, come here?

Burton, enjoying Jamie's discomfiture, refilled his drink and neglected to offer either John or Jamie another. A look of comprehension crossed Wilberforce's face, followed swiftly by unease.

—Exactly what are you looking so pained about? John demanded.

Wilberforce spoke to John's knees:

—It's Dr. Sebastian, sir.

—Well?

—He's been here all along. It isn't exactly the way one hopes to meet one's new Headmaster, sir.

John's mind had a string of petulant remarks queued for delivery, but he spoke none. Burton swirled his tumbler, clinking ice against crystal.

John wondered whether he might leave the room now. Wilberforce had been delivered and the essential details conveyed. John needed to go to his desk and retrieve the headache tablets from the lower right-hand drawer. There were at least three left, and if he took them all, he might be able to see straight by the time the supper began. He needed to repair to Lockett-Egan's and borrow his washroom, clothes brush, comb, and possibly his shoe polish. And as for what Burton would serve at supper, John hoped it would not involve cream. There had been a good deal too much cream touching nearly every dish at luncheon, and John did not get on well with cream. It made him feel congested and left his stomach heavy. Besides that, he was allergic to strawberries. Even touching them made his skin erupt. It was appalling the way English cooks depended so slavishly on strawberries in the summer. Could they not vary their ingredients to include more plums, greengages, grapes, or even other berries? But that, obviously, was asking too much. Strawberries grew everywhere in England, so strawberries they would have, morning, noon, afternoon, night, until they all turned fleshy, red, and rotten.