Morgan found himself silently regarded by the other men. They had left him for ages in the garden before calling him inside. Tea was being served in a room the housekeeper called the conservatory. It looked onto the garden and provided seating for four around a small table. A pool containing lilies and a glimmer of goldfish gurgled in the center of the room. Morgan wondered gloomily whether he’d be expected to rehearse last night’s ghastliness, though it seemed long enough ago to have been another term, if not life.
The woman produced cold poached salmon, some dressed greens, and a bowl of blackberries. Despite his uneasiness, Morgan was famished. He scanned quantities and wondered how much he’d be allowed.
The Bishop said grace and made the sign of the cross, a gesture Dr. Sebastian mirrored. Morgan had never done such a popish thing and, despite feeling impolite, couldn’t bring himself to do it now. The Bishop dispensed the food and tea in distressingly small portions.
Morgan watched Dr. Sebastian for a cue as to how fast he might eat. It seemed Dr. Sebastian was ravenous as well, for he finished his plate quickly. No one had spoken since grace, but when Dr. Sebastian sat for a minute or more gazing hungrily at the serving platter, the Bishop waved impatiently.
—Go on, he said, I don’t suppose you’ve eaten properly on your journey.
—No, sir, Dr. Sebastian said, reaching for the fish, only a couple of sandwiches.
—And you expect that boy to get along on a couple of sandwiches? No wonder he scarcely knows how to speak.
When the food had been cleared away, the Bishop pronounced a second grace and then crossed his legs and fixed his gaze upon Morgan.
—You are a pupil at St. Stephen’s?
—Yes, sir.
—Your Grace, Dr. Sebastian said.
—Your—
—How old are you?
Morgan told him. The interview progressed factually, how long he’d been at the Academy, who his people were, where his father lived and what he was. He enjoyed cricket? And what had he been reading?
Morgan stumbled over the last query. He couldn’t remember having read anything lately, unless The Pearl counted, and he knew perfectly well that it did not.
—You do read, don’t you?
—Yes, Your Grace.
—Well, what have you read recently?
—Nothing special. I mean, only the ordinary things. We were doing Wordsworth, sir.
—What do you read on your own? A man’s character is reflected in what he chooses to read.
Lady Pokingham? Life Among the She-Noodles?
—I see, the Bishop said.
Had he spoken aloud? He shouldn’t have eaten. He wanted to eat more. When, oh, when, would they dispense with the sinister preliminaries and bring on whatever torture they intended?
—Jamie, the Bishop scolded, the boy’s fainting away. He’s got eyes like a panda and he’s pale as death. Just what have you been doing with him?
—Nothing, Father!
Morgan choked. Dr. Sebastian poured him some more tea. When he recovered, the Bishop was staring at him, the corners of his mouth turned slightly up:
—I see my son hasn’t told you everything.
—He hasn’t told me anything! Morgan spluttered.
—Hasn’t he indeed?
The Bishop burst into a laugh and rang the bell.
—We’ll continue this conversation in the morning, he said to Morgan. Ah, Mrs. Hallows, could you please see young Wilberforce to bed?
Morgan stood, his balance suddenly precarious.
—Good night, Dr. Sebastian. Good night, Your Grace. I’m very sorry, I—
—In the morning, the Bishop rejoined. Just you concentrate on getting a good night’s sleep.
Morgan turned to follow Mrs. Hallows. Behind, he heard the Bishop speaking:
—As for you, we need to have a chat about frightening little boys half to death.
—Chop-chop, Mrs. Hallows said.
Morgan tripped after her.