Wilberforce (62 page)

Droit fell into step beside him:

—Don't panic. We'll sort it out. Lucky the old scarab has decent whiskey.

—Yes, Morgan said, weaving slightly.

—Just leave it to me.

Morgan wasn't sure what Droit wanted left to him, but it sounded reasonable to leave things to someone else. He threw back the rest of the whiskey, stripped, and dove under the covers, where a spinning oblivion took him.

 

53

The morning was so intolerably grim he almost felt grateful to the whiskey for distracting him. His head was like a bell at midday, and his eyes ached as though someone were squeezing them into too-small trousers. It was all he could do to shave, and even that did not proceed without incident. The arrival of Dr. Sebastian, chipper and well groomed, at six o'clock seemed incidental to the military operation required to haul Morgan's body where he had to haul it.

Dr. Sebastian carried a small case and Morgan the string-wrapped box Mrs. Hallows had provided for the journey. They had a carriage to themselves, but by some miracle Dr. Sebastian did not insist on conversation, instead retreating behind his newspaper and leaving Morgan to close his eyes. He woke as they were pulling into Waterloo. His eyes screamed. His stomach lurched. There was no way he'd make it through the day.

Dr. Sebastian led him briskly from the station and into the cacophonous streets. Morgan felt a sliver of gratitude towards his hateful boater for blocking the sun from his eyes. After a harrowing march across bridge and park, they arrived at a facade in Pall Mall. It was a club. Dr. Sebastian's club.

They repaired to the cloakroom, where they found flannels, soft white soap, cologne. After washing his face, combing his hair, and applying a zesty aftershave, Morgan began to feel less inhuman. Dr. Sebastian asked if he was hungry. Morgan was not.

—Good, Dr. Sebastian replied with a roguish smile. Civilization first. Lunch later.

Morgan found it oddly agreeable to follow the man blindly. It was all rather like the secret outings Emily and Captain Cahill organized for him when they'd first come to London.

—Sir, Morgan asked, what about my father?

—He's expecting you at teatime.

Morgan couldn't conceive why they'd left at such an ungodly hour, except that Dr. Sebastian must have things to attend to.

—I won't keep you from your business, Morgan said.

Dr. Sebastian turned the Bishop's lip-pursed expression on him.

—Behave yourself, he said sternly.

*   *   *

At the British Museum, Dr. Sebastian purchased a leaflet for Morgan and then bounded up the stairs to the Egyptian rooms. While Dr. Sebastian fell into a mind-numbing conversation with a docent, Morgan drifted over to a colorful sarcophagus surrounded by a school party in straw hats and pinafores.

The girl sent a jolt through him, head to groin. Was it the shape of her legs in the stockings? Was it the pinafore, announcing schoolgirl yet displaying a woman? Or was it the heart-slaying warmth of the smile she sent his way?

She tittered with a clutch of other girls. Morgan sidled into their midst and pretended to examine the case.

—What did they do with all those beetle thingies? the girl asked.

Her hand fell on his sleeve, warm, light, paralyzing. He pressed the leaflet into the pocket of her blazer. He needed to say something, but where in the great universe to start?

A woman called, and the girls departed in a fit of giggles. He followed at a distance as they descended to the ground floor. In the commotion of the entry hall, the girl looked back over her shoulder—for him?—for him! He snaked through the crowds, following to the rotunda.

His hand was in his pocket, and Droit's was on his pencil:

To the young lady who asked about the scarabs, I apologize. For behaving like a cad, for thrusting my leaflet at you without a word. You were more than attractive. Circumstances were not as they appeared.

Unaccountably, I have come under the authority of my Headmaster, who is flogging me round the museum. There would have been a good deal more flogging if he saw me conferring with a young lady as charming as yourself. You may not have noticed him examining papyri nearby.

I'm no use at dancing, but I did hit a hundred and fifty in an afternoon last month.

If this hasn't appalled you, why not leave word with the librarian in the reading room? Direct your notice to Anton O'Masia. Not my real name, but I promise to make it worth your while.

He amazed himself that he had thought to carry a pocket notebook and pencil with him. It was the habit of a man seizing control of his destiny. He entered the library and approached the desk. Across the room, the girl and her party consulted with a tweed-suited man.

—Good afternoon, he said to the librarian.

She was a mousy woman. He flashed her the smile of a man seizing control of his destiny.

—Could you very kindly give this to the young lady over there, when it's convenient? I'd be much obliged.

He pointed out which young lady he meant. The mousy woman said she would see to it. Morgan thanked her with another seizing-control smile. She smiled back. He sauntered from the room.

 

54

—I'd be very much obliged, Dr. Sebastian said icily when Morgan returned to the gallery, if you wouldn't wander off.

Morgan murmured apologies and inquired into Dr. Sebastian's conversation with the docent.

—Where did you go? Dr. Sebastian replied.

Morgan found the museum rather dizzying, so he couldn't say with certainty where he'd been, but he'd earwigged an interesting conversation about scarabs and had drifted after the group to hear more.

—And what did you ascertain about scarabs?

He wished for his leaflet, but he no longer had it.

—They were plentiful. And sacred. The museum is exceedingly lucky to have them.

Dr. Sebastian narrowed his eyes:

—Wilberforce, we are not going to get on at all if you continue to treat me as I presume you treat the Common Room at St. Stephen's.

—
Sir?

—As old, blind, and indifferent.

Before Morgan could protest, Dr. Sebastian led him in peremptory style downstairs to the Roman coins. That tedious examination was followed by an interminable survey of sketches by someone Morgan pretended to have heard of. His head still throbbed from … things that didn't matter to a man seizing control, but his stomach had recovered itself enough to growl aggressively. Dr. Sebastian at last emerged from scholarly absorption:

—Oh, dear, we've forgotten about lunch, haven't we?

Morgan had not forgotten about lunch. He would never forget lunch, and he hoped that Dr. Sebastian's amnesia would not mean surrendering the meal. The man consulted his watch:

—We can still make service at the club if we're sharpish.

They wound their way through the growing crowds outside. Morgan froze halfway down the steps.

—One moment, sir. I'll be right—

He did not wait for Dr. Sebastian's reply but dashed back inside, across the entry hall, out to the courtyard, and into the library. His mousy librarian was not at the desk. The tweed-wearing man was.

Droit ran a hand through his hair and straightened his collar. He approached the man with the calm seriousness of one in control of his destiny. He was sorry to disturb the man, but he wondered whether anything had been left for Mr. O'Masia. The tweed item looked over his spectacles as if he recognized him.

—Yes, sir.

He handed Morgan a library slip. Morgan pocketed it and strode in scholarly manner from the room. Outside, Dr. Sebastian looked a thunderstorm. He said nothing the entire march back to the club.

*   *   *

They arrived just in time to catch the end of lunch service. Morgan thought he might faint from hunger, and the aroma of food in the dining room only brought on the crazed panic of a long fast.

They ate without speaking, like the Bishop's household, but more awkwardly in the middle of a club. Dr. Sebastian declined dessert, much to Morgan's dismay; his nerves restored by food, he now felt distinctly uneasy.

—Follow me, Dr. Sebastian said.

They retired to a small, empty room whose purpose Morgan could not guess. Dr. Sebastian closed the door and turned on him:

—Empty your pockets.

—Sir?

—You heard me, Wilberforce.

Morgan laughed from nerves, but Dr. Sebastian held him in a glare like the Bishop's, only more savage. He emptied his jacket pockets onto the table beside him. There was nothing incriminating amongst his few belongings: the notebook and pencil, a clean handkerchief, some coins, a half-empty box of matches, no cigarettes thankfully—because he was a man who had seized control of his destiny!—and an unopened envelope addressed in juvenile hand.

—What is this?

—It's from one of the boys at the village school where I …

He had control. The weights of yesterday could bugger themselves. Dr. Sebastian returned the envelope to the pile.

—And the rest.

When one was well and truly trapped, it was best to stop struggling. Ways out might present themselves later, but men in control of their destinies knew better than to make things worse. He turned out his trouser pockets and the library slip. Dr. Sebastian scrutinized his face before picking up the paper and scrutinizing it.

—Who is Anton O'Masia?

—It's a pseudonym.

—Obviously.

—He's the uncle of a friend.

—I very much doubt it.

—Honestly, sir. I only borrowed the name.

Dr. Sebastian turned the excavating gaze on him again. Having decided he was telling the truth, he pocketed the slip.

—And who is Miss Miranda Peacock, and why does she propose to meet in the restaurant of Harrods at half past four this afternoon?

She said she would meet him?
She said she would meet him!
Why had he not read the missive earlier? Half past four was less than an hour away! He had only three shillings on his person. What did things cost in the restaurant at Harrods?

—Wilberforce! I've asked a question.

No diversion drew Dr. Sebastian's gaze. They were standing together in the little room and there was no way out.

He admitted everything. When he said it in words, it sounded cracked. Dr. Sebastian stared at him. Morgan wondered if he was about to get a clip round the ear.

—Wilberforce, Dr. Sebastian said unsteadily, you are the most infuriating boy it has ever been my fate to care for.

—I'm sorry, sir.

—You aren't the least sorry. Don't speak. Sit.

Dr. Sebastian thrust him into a chair.

—I am going to make things exceptionally plain.

At last.

—You are no doubt resigning yourself to a permanent dismissal from St. Stephen's. Perhaps you even engineered this escapade in pursuit of that goal.

He had never tried to get disposed! Dr. Sebastian held up a hand:

—You don't know me, you don't trust me, you aren't comfortable in my presence. I can only say, too bad. I am not dismissing you from St. Stephen's, not today, and not before time. Just you resign yourself to that!

He couldn't mean it. There were so many things he could do to get disposed.

—I do mean it. I've never meant anything more. You are returning to St. Stephen's come hell or high water. You have fallen into my care, and you are going to remain there.

Had his father disowned him?

—However, Dr. Sebastian continued, towering over him now, you ought to know that I see straight through your maneuvers, and I won't stand for them. The more you insist on pursuing your juvenile enterprises, the more painful you will make it for yourself.

Just what could the man mean?

—You know the
disce aut discede
. You've drawn the third option.

—Sir?

—You are going to stay—at St. Stephen's and in my care—and so long as you insist on behaving this way, you are going to be punished. You've no say over the first part, but the second is entirely in your hands.

He felt two inches tall. He wondered whether he might wake up and find everything restored as it ought to be.

—Any questions?

He could not think of a single thing to ask or to say.

—Good. Come with me.

His legs carried him as if through water. Not only was this actually happening, but it was going to continue to happen. There wasn't going to be a way out later. This was going to hurt, and keep on hurting.

They entered the library, a breathtaking room two stories high. Dr. Sebastian had a word with a man behind a desk and returned bearing a reference volume.

—Sit.

Morgan sat. Dr. Sebastian placed the tome before him.

—Turn to the page with words beginning
a-n-t
and read out the entries to me.

They had fallen into an entirely new dimension of the bizarre. Unsteadily his hands leafed to the page.

—
Antoeci. Antonine. Antono …

—Go on, Dr. Sebastian insisted.

—
Antonomasia. Noun. Substitution of an epithet for a proper name. e.g., The Iron Duke for The Duke of Wellington
.

Dr. Sebastian snapped the book shut and returned it. Then, hauling Morgan up by the elbow, he dragged him from the room. They retrieved their hats and departed the club.

—Sir, Morgan stammered as they strode up Pall Mall, I didn't—

—It's plain someone's been having you on. Perhaps you'll see fit to tell me about it sometime.

When they arrived at Harrods, Morgan felt his lunch rising.

—Sir …

Dr. Sebastian took his elbow again:

—I said you'd be punished, didn't I? It's starting now.

His feet did not consent, but they carried him through the crowded store and upstairs to the restaurant. Dr. Sebastian did not release his arm. Fate did not release him from its jaws. The girl—Miranda something—was standing by the entrance, holding a satchel and a magazine. Morgan's feet stalled. Dr. Sebastian forced him on.