32

Mrs. Hallows was waiting at the bottom of the staircase. She adjusted the collar of his jacket, and after informing him that the Bishop took his breakfast in silence, she led him to the dining room.

A large table was set for two. Yesterday the Bishop had expected gardening tasks, today obviously Morgan would serve the silent meal. Was it some pious clerical custom to observe silence before noon? A clock on the sideboard approached nine. Perhaps the Bishop’s voice required resting, or perhaps he habitually meditated on obscure matters in the morning. Presumably Dr. Sebastian would also keep silence.

Dimly, the circumstances unveiled themselves. Dr. Sebastian, Burton-Lee, or both of them must have contacted his father. His father had tried everything over Easter to give Morgan another start, and now to be wired by the Academy before the end of the term and informed of—Morgan couldn’t bear to think it, not without panicking. His father would be so appalled that he would withdraw from the world even more than before. Unsuitable conduct, Droit murmured, that was what they would have said. Unsuitable conduct. His father would accept that. He had lost the habit of inquiry some years before. He never, any longer, wished to know the gruesome details, and there would certainly be no point in it now.

Why did his father not tell them to send Morgan home? He could wait there for other arrangements to be made. Unless they considered his unsuitable conduct too unsuitable for a decent career? Perhaps Dr. Sebastian, out of charity and in appreciation for Morgan’s performance on the cricket pitch, had scrounged a position for him in the Bishop’s household. The Bishop was Dr. Sebastian’s father—had that not been revealed last night? And the Bishop was an elderly Bishop, so presumably he required assistance around his premises. Was Morgan being evaluated as a possible secretary? Something like that, but given his recent conduct, the Bishop would wish to prove him as groundsman or footman before allowing him the run of his correspondence.

—You can shut up, Morgan said to Droit.

—Have I spoken?

—Perhaps you’d quit being clever for a minute and remember what Dr. Sebastian said on the train.

Droit groaned and produced a tin of Altoids.

—This isn’t something I can think my way out of.

—He would say that, wouldn’t he? Droit retorted. He doesn’t want you thinking. If you start thinking, you might out-think him, and then where would he be?

—I’m only saying that whatever they want me to do, it’s better than dying of boredom at home.

—You say boredom, you mean shame. When are you going to get it through your head that shame is something imposed by other people. If you refuse to feel ashamed, then they’ve no power over you.

Droit offered a mint. Morgan refused.

—I’m not ashamed of anything.

—Liar.

The Bishop strode briskly into the room. He nodded at Morgan and came to the head of the table. Morgan wished suddenly for an appropriate uniform, but he stood at attention by the sideboard, hands behind his back, eyes forward. The door opened again but admitted Mrs. Hallows, not Dr. Sebastian. She carried in the breakfast tray and set out tea, a rack of toast, and four eggs. The clock chimed a pretty little bell, the kind of clock a lady would wind. If Dr. Sebastian was the Bishop’s son, where was the Bishop’s wife?

After a glance to the Bishop, Mrs. Hallows sighed in exasperation and pointed Morgan to the table. He reached for the teapot to pour, but a smack stopped his hand. She grasped him by both elbows and moved him to the second place setting. The Bishop cleared his throat, pronounced grace, made the embarrassing gesture, and pulled out his chair to sit down. Morgan looked to Mrs. Hallows. She regarded him as one might a half-wit, and then, apparently resigning herself to unpleasantness, she pulled out the chair and shoved him into it. As the Bishop served himself an egg and toast, Mrs. Hallows stalked out of the room, leaving Morgan alone before Dr. Sebastian’s place setting.

The Bishop seemed capable of concentrating on only one thing at a time. Meticulously, he cut the top off his egg and scooped the white from the cap. He buttered his toast as an artist with a palate knife and then cut it into soldiers. After sprinkling a precise portion of salt on the egg, he broke his fast.

They ate in silence, the Bishop contenting himself with one egg and two pieces of toast. After Morgan had eaten two eggs and two toasts, he glanced to the Bishop, who was still finishing his portion. Was the Bishop gauging the extent of his gluttony? He was still hungry. The eggs were perfectly done, and the last wouldn’t be good once it had cooled. The Bishop met his gaze with the expression of a reluctantly indulgent father. Morgan extended his hand towards the egg dish, casually enough that he could pretend to be reaching for the tea if the Bishop frowned. He did not frown. Morgan took the egg. The Bishop still did not frown. Morgan took another piece of toast and put it on his plate with the egg. The Bishop reached for the teapot and poured himself another cup.

*   *   *

Droit provoked him. Morgan’s hunger was almost assuaged by three eggs and three toasts, but one toast remained. Droit dared him to take it. The Bishop would think it gluttonous, Morgan argued, especially given the lack of egg to dip it in. But surely, Droit replied, waste offended more than appetite? If Morgan didn’t eat it, who would? Besides, Droit continued, what if the toast constituted a kind of test? Morgan had never heard of such an examination. Of course not, Droit replied, because Morgan had never faced a man as sinister as this one, a man determined to intrude into his character in the most cunning manner. Last night he’d tried the old What do you read? Now this. If Morgan did not take the toast, it would not only signal his abject surrender, but it would also substantiate his cowardice.

Morgan didn’t see why highbrow language was necessary, and as it happened, he was no longer hungry.

—Coward. Worm.

He snatched the toast. The Bishop sighed and gazed out the window. Morgan slathered it with butter and crunched as he ate.

The other one wasn’t there, a relief amidst it all; at least it should have been, except that his pointed absence made Morgan suspect something truly awful waiting in the wings.

—Don’t worry, Droit said. I’ve dealt with it.

—What do you mean dealt with it?

—Trust me once, won’t you?

Seated across the table at the Bishop’s left hand, Droit looked imploringly to Morgan. Perhaps he relied on Morgan’s faith and approval more than he revealed. He wasn’t so much older than Morgan. Perhaps he wasn’t older at all. Perhaps he was one of those boys who looked older, a boy thrust into advanced experiences. What if Droit were an orphan or half orphan? What if he had left school early, against his will, and had been forced to get on in the world alone?

The Bishop stood abruptly, jolting Morgan to his feet.

Benedicto, benedicatur. Amen.

Again the tasteless gesture.

—Follow me, the Bishop said.