The Rectory was like many buildings of its time, he supposed, and objectively no more impressive than Uncle Charles’s place at Longmere. A cab had delivered them from the station, passing beyond the town and into the green, canal-ridden country. They were in Wiltshire, he learned. The house stood tall, pink-bricked and slate-roofed, atop expansive grounds. The air teemed with insects and small birds. Morgan’s school trunk stood on the threshold of the house, a brash reminder of the place he had fled. Dr. Sebastian by contrast carried only a small case. The man wore what he’d worn yesterday, but his shirt and collar were fresh; he removed his hat and wiped his brow.
—Right, he said, brace yourself.
He pulled the bell. It sounded far away, deep in the house. Above the bell rope, a lion in bronze guarded the door. Dr. Sebastian had told him only the name of the place, the Rectory, conjuring an ecclesiastical prison. But perhaps the name bore no relation to the establishment. Perhaps the Rectory was home to some tutor, like the man produced over Easter as an alternative to St. Stephen’s. Or had they arrived at a crammer for errant boys, last chance before locking up in Borstal? It was probably seductive to look at but sinister on the inside. Why else would Dr. Sebastian have told him to brace himself?
The lion regarded him, neither hostile nor tame, but conjuring—if it could—something like fear, like sadness, and faintly like love.
A round woman opened the door and greeted Dr. Sebastian by kissing both of his cheeks and chattering away in a stream of questions and remarks.
—Mrs. Hallows, Dr. Sebastian inserted, this is Morgan Wilberforce.
Morgan bid her good evening, but she only looked him up and down. Calling for William to come see to the cases, she ushered Dr. Sebastian inside and took his hat. Morgan removed his school cap, but as she didn’t offer to take it, he folded it into his pocket.
—He’s in the garden, she said to Dr. Sebastian, but perhaps you’ll want the cloakroom?
Dr. Sebastian disappeared behind a panel, and the woman departed, leaving Morgan alone in the corridor. A tall clock ticked, its face revealing the sun chased by Death with a scythe, and the moon followed by a dove with a twig in its mouth. The polished parquet floors, the spotless paneling, the well-dusted rails of the banister, all testified to scrupulous housekeeping. A table displayed several envelopes addressed and ready for posting. As Morgan’s eyes adjusted to the indoors, he discerned a wooden cross hanging above the table. Simple, roughly hewn, substantial, it spoke more loudly than anything about the atmosphere he had just entered. It didn’t flaunt itself, golden or finely wrought; it simply occupied the wall, an uncompromising announcement. Of what, though?
Was it lavender he smelled, like his mother grew beneath the kitchen window?
A panel opened, and Dr. Sebastian emerged.
—Go on, he said impatiently, mustn’t keep him waiting.
Morgan used the toilet, washed his hands, and despite a strong aversion to the looking glass, splashed water on his face. Dr. Sebastian opened the door and told him to stop dawdling. He scrutinized Morgan’s appearance, adjusted Morgan’s tie, and used the hand towel to clean something off Morgan’s ear. The feeling of being treated as a child only continued when Dr. Sebastian ordered him out of the cloakroom, dusted one of his trouser legs, and told him to stand up straight. Without further comment, Dr. Sebastian led him smartly down the corridor and out to a bricked patio.
An older man in a straw hat trimmed roses in an archway. He addressed them without turning around:
—You’ve had no tea, I suppose.
—No, sir, Dr. Sebastian replied.
—I’ve waited.
—That wasn’t necessary, sir.
The man clipped a yellow rose and turned to them:
—Nevertheless.
He didn’t smile in greeting, but something like pleasure tugged at the corners of his eyes.
—Well, he asked, how does it feel?
Dr. Sebastian cleared his throat:
—I can’t say yet, but this is … what I told you about.
The man acted as though he had only that moment glimpsed Morgan.
—Is that so?
—May I present Morgan Wilberforce. Wilberforce, the Bishop of—
—Yes, yes, the man said impatiently.
—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.