by Molly Tanzer
It was his academic advisor, Phineas Berry.
Chapter Two: Upon Receiving a Warning
Henry’s backside throbbed awfully where Master Fulkerson had punted him out of the classroom, but he did not complain about the cushionless wooden chair that amplified the ache. Instead, he sat as quietly as possible, eyes fixed upon his folded hands, while Phineas Berry sighed and fretted at him.
“You really must apply yourself more,” said Mr. Berry, leaning forward over his desk and peering at Henry with watery grey eyes partially obscured by greasy silver-rimmed spectacles. “Even before I heard from another student about the—ah—incident in Fulkerson’s class today, I was going to come and speak to you about your academic performance here at Wadham College.”
Henry looked up, his interest in the conversation rekindled. He’d petitioned to be admitted to the Natural Philosophy class in the fall—perhaps he had been approved?
“Yes, sir? What about my performance, sir?”
“That it’s shameful of course. Your marks in Mathematics are poor—and before you waggle your waddle saying that mathematics don’t matter as you’re intending to become a lawyer like your father, let me remind you that your performance in Logic is disgraceful, and your languages make me wonder how it is you are able to speak passable English.”
Mr. Berry fell silent. Henry presumed his advisor was giving him an opportunity to defend himself.
“I try—I really do. And my Latin isn’t so very bad—”
“No, it isn’t,” began Mr. Berry, his tone easing somewhat, “but only your written work,” he finished, Henry’s spirits sinking further as his advisor’s voice hardened again, like a pond re-freezing after an all too brief thaw. “Your oral examinations are terrible, and frankly, looking upon your Greek translations strikes the eyes like a blow. Overall your work is abysmal—no, that is insulting to abysses, for they are deep by nature, and you are merely deep in the soup.” Mr. Berry polished his spectacles and re-settled them on his nose. “To summarize my complaints, you are not doing well here, and that could mean bad things for you if you can’t find a way to turn your performance substantially around.”
Henry nodded, now staring at the tips of his shoes just visible beyond the hem of his black robe.
“You told me you wished to take Natural Philosophy next semester.”
“Yes, sir.” Henry figured showing some enthusiasm might go a long way. “I do, sir. Very much, sir.”
“Well, it’s only for advanced students—the best of the best here at Wadham. I don’t need to tell you that you are not the best of the best. You are not even good at anything, as far as I can tell.” Mr. Berry sighed. “I’m sorry, Henry, but I cannot recommend you.”
Henry despaired. St John and the rest of the Company all had Natural Philosophy together, and his plan for months now had been to get in with them via that class. There were so few students in Natural Philosophy they all had to work together during their laboratory experiments; to be thrown together with them would give him ample opportunity to show he was worthy enough—witty enough—smart enough to be part of the Blithe Company. If he couldn’t even qualify for the class he was destined to get their attention only through unintentionally becoming the class jackanapes.
“I know you’re disappointed, but—”
“Please, sir … I … I want it so very much, Mr. Berry.”
“Wanting is not enough, Henry. Really, your priorities are as nightmarish as your marks. If you don’t pull up your marks you’ll have a lot more to worry about than not being in Natural Philosophy in the fall.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Berry, not unkindly. “That’s enough of that. Tell me of your plan, then.”
Henry looked up. “My what?”
“Your plan. To improve your performance. You’ve been nodding at me like a performing donkey, it’s time to show me you’ve absorbed some of my wisdom! Tell me what you intend to do to keep yourself here.”
“Oh,” said Henry. He thought wildly for a moment, then settled on, “I’ll … find a tutor?”
“A Greek tutor?”
“Oh no, an English one, I should think.”
Mr. Berry pressed his fingertips to his eyebrows. “Yes. Well. That does seem like a good idea, good show. Of whom were you thinking?”
St John’s winsome countenance blazed across Henry’s mind like an avenging angel in a saint’s vision, but he decided against mentioning the Lord Calipash, just in case his tutor had heard the antecedent to his being booted—quite literally—out of the classroom. “Lord … Rochester?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Well, sir, if I could get your take on the matter, that might help me pick someone most able to help me.”
“Haven’t had enough of boots today, so you come a-licking at them?” Mr. Berry rolled his eyes. “Well, Henry, in that case no—I don’t think the Lord Rochester would be a good tutor for you. His Greek is good only in comparison to yours, and I know you two are friends and thus would likely get up to freaks and high jinks rather than anything useful.”
“The Lord Rochester is quite studious, really; he’s a serious lad, academically inclined—”
“No, he’s a stick in the mud, there’s a difference—and I don’t want you turning what he has for a mind toward dissipation and indolence. He’s a good lad, while you, Henry, are … I cannot even find the words. It seems unfair to call you stupid, for I believe you have a mind somewhere inside that skull of yours, but you waste yourself. I’ve seen how eager you are to ingratiate yourself with as pernicious a crowd of ne’er-do-wells as we’ve ever had at Wadham. Yes, I do speak of the Lord Calipash and his dreadful posse of badgers, and your tendency to pursue them like a bulling cow. What advantage do you see in it, Henry?”
Henry thought of St John: His easy manners, academic ability, his lordly, lean face free of spots or flaws, the way he was able to make even the rotten college-issue student robes look like a new suit of clothing from a high-end tailor on St. James’ Street; he contemplated the Blithe Company as a whole, the fancy parties they threw for their peers, their wittiness, camaraderie, and popularity, the tales—those told by them and those that were mere rumor among the lesser students of the college—of sneaking out after hours to drink and to seduce women, the way no one challenged them when they always snagged the best seats (those by the brazier in winter; by the windows in summer), how their dinners always looked so much more ample and carefully-prepared, and most of all, how all the Masters and advisors and everyone else turned a blind eye to their faults and disobediences—and sighed. Eventually, Mr. Berry did the same.
“It occurs to me your desire to get into Natural Philosophy has less to do with your desire to learn the scientific method, and more with St John and his boys, does it not?”
Henry could not deny it, so he said nothing.
“All right, all right. Perhaps we can use this as a motivating force, eh? Listen to me, Henry: If you promptly find yourself a tutor, and if, afterwards, your grades improve—substantially—I shall recommend you for the class next year. Do we have a deal?”
Henry, thrilled, opened his mouth to agree, but Mr. Berry interrupted him.
“Yes, yes, you’re delighted, you’ll surely follow through, and all that. We’ll see. For now, leave me,” he said, shooing Henry out of his office with a flicker of his fingers. “Go, begone! I can see by your vapid expression that save for my dubious notion to bribe you everything I have said has gone in one of your ears and fallen out of the other. No wonder you’re such a menace in the classroom, I’m sure all the other students must take care not to slip on the bits of knowledge that must seep out of you and puddle on the floor. There’s the bell anyhow. Go. You must be longing for your dinner.”
Insulting, but not untrue. Henry rose and slunk toward the door, only to hear a knock. He looked back at Mr. Berry, who nodded, and Henry opened it, revealing a freckle-faced boy of about fourteen years ol
d.
“M-Mr. Berry,” he said apologetically, “Master Fulkerson, he sent me on to escort Hen—uh, I mean, Mr. Milliner to his office. He says he can’t go to dinner with his boots in such a state, and Mr. Milliner is to—”
“I’m to polish them, yes,” said Henry dully. “Lead on.”
“Don’t sound so distressed, Henry! It’s only one pair, I’m sure you’ll get your slice of meat-pie,” chuckled Mr. Berry as Henry followed his escort out the door. “And if not, well, it’ll only help your studying. Don’t they underfeed watchdogs to keep them keen? Perhaps we should apply that theory to our kitchens, I’m sure our foundress would be most pleased to see the reduction in our annual expenses—and the Warden, too.”
As it turned out, it wasn’t only the one pair of boots Henry had to polish. Of course it wasn’t only one pair, he thought bitterly as he plodded back to his chambers in the gloaming. Master Fulkerson had insisted Henry clean every pair in his closet, and it had apparently been some time since he had meted out this task to anyone, servant or student.
Henry’s stomach rumbled from emptiness, his knees ached from kneeling on the wooden floor of Master Fulkerson’s chambers, and his hands were blacker than the night sky with filth and polish. But it was the unfairness of it all that chaffed worse than anything! Really, who didn’t write poetry these days—and yet he alone was punished for the crime of artistic expression! How could he have anticipated that, at Wadham, admiring one’s betters through verse would be viewed as some gross sin, akin to shitting on the Bible or poisoning an especially cherubic child?
Like most of the common students, Henry shared a room with two other boys. It was a decent enough situation; Henry had heard tell of the terrible overcrowding at many of the other universities in Oxford, and Maximilian Dee and Bruce Travers weren’t bad sorts. But they were stupid and frivolous, so Henry was not entirely surprised when he pushed open the door of the dormitory and was greeted by the sight of them and several other boys bent over, mooning him, with one of his bed-sheets hung like a banner above their pale bottom-cheeks, the words Congratulations Henry, Best Poet at Wadham scrawled across the linen in charcoal.
“Did you keep watch for me, or have you been hanging about with your trousers down for hours?” he said wearily, shutting the door behind him.
“Oh, hello there, Henry—we didn’t hear you come in!” giggled Maximilian, getting to his feet and hiking up his breeches. The rest of the lads followed suit. “Didn’t see you at dinner—where were you? Out gazing at the stars, committing more verses to parchment?”
“Oh, of course. Wrote an entire saga on my way up the stairs,” said Henry. He tugged on the edge of his sheet to try to pull it down from where they’d tacked it. “You bastards, I haven’t got a spare, and it’s a week ‘till laundry-day.”
“It was filthy already. What are all those stains, eh?” said Bruce, poking him in the side.
“You know we’re not supposed to have girls in our rooms—not even Miss Rosie Palmer and her five daughters,” hooted a boy called Richmond Blakemore.
“Hilarious.” Henry wadded up the sheet and threw it on his bed. “Didn’t snag me anything at dinner, did you?”
The boys’ giggling was all the answer he needed. Entirely defeated, Henry sat down on his bedstead and took off his square cap; tossing it on his pillow, he ran his hands through his mouse-brown hair.
“Ho there, anyone at home?”
Henry looked up at the familiar voice and saw Lord Rochester there, holding—could it be true, could it be real?—a plate with a hunk of bread and a wedge of pie oozing gravy.
“Welcome, my lord,” said Bruce, with a bow. Though Henry and his roommates were all about sixteen and Rochester had barely thirteen winters to his name, the Earl’s rank could not be ignored. “You honor us with your presence.”
“Do I? How nice,” said Rochester, stepping inside with such an aristocratic air that even Henry felt the urge to bow and scrape. “Hungry, Henry? It’s a nice evening, care you to dine out in the Grove?”
Nodding and grabbing his hat, Henry followed his friend into the cool quiet of the hallway and out into the twilit garden. Rochester handed over the plate as they ambled, and Henry, too hungry for dignity, immediately grabbed the bread with his dirty hand and gobbled it in two bites.
“How did you know?” he said, through a mouthful.
“Fellow Commoners dine with the Masters, don’t we?” said Rochester, with a shrug. “I heard Master Fulkerson comment that you’d be polishing his shoes all night.”
“Thank you, my friend,” said Henry, feeling a little overwhelmed by this show of kindness after the day he’d had. He hoped his misty eyes wouldn’t drip.
Rochester smiled, his beautiful, almost girlish mouth turning upwards, the lips parting to show pearly teeth. “You’re a good friend to me, too, you know.”
“But to give up your dinner!”
“Oh, that’s not mine.” Rochester shook his head. “It’s Robert’s. I asked them for a second helping, but they wouldn’t. He said he didn’t mind.”
Robert was Rochester’s manservant. Henry felt a brief flash of guilt, but then shrugged it off. “Well, thank you. It’s more than appreciated.”
“My pleasure. You can’t know how nice it is to have someone I can, I dunno … be myself around. The rest of the Fellow Commoners … well, I’d rather be here with you in the garden than out at that beano at the Hors—ah.”
“You were invited?” Henry paused, pie-slice halfway to his mouth. “You didn’t tell me!”
“I—well, I didn’t, well …” Rochester looked as miserable as a cat in the rain. “Henry, I couldn’t bring you, and I didn’t want, you know, to—”
“Nonsense!” Henry bit into his pie and yamed the slice noisily. At last, the opportunity he’d been waiting for! Today was finally looking up, at last—if he could but convince Rochester to take him hence to the Horse and Hat, he could use it as an opportunity to thank St John for his benevolence—and tell him, in turn, of his recent academic woes. He was sure, if St John knew how badly he struggled in Greek, he would agree to tutor him. Why else would he have shown him such mercy today if he did not care for him a little?
“Henry—”
Henry spoke through a mouthful of pie. “Let me just finish this and we’ll be off. I haven’t anything better to change into anyway.”
“But we’re not allowed to leave the campus except in the company of an older student—”
“I’m older than you.”
Rochester’s lip trembled, he looked as though he might burst into tears at any moment. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Henry. What if we’re caught?”
“We won’t be caught,” scoffed Henry. “We’ll slip out the back gate and be home before anyone notices!”
“But if they see you! They’ll know you weren’t invited …”
“You saw the Lord Calipash’s kindness to me in class, did you not? You think he, after such treatment, would kick me in the whirlegigs and cast me out into the street like a dog?”
Rochester was shaking his head so vehemently Henry thought his cap was in danger of flying off. “It’s not a good idea, you don’t understand what they’re like away from school—”
Henry frowned. “And you do?”
“Oh. Well …”
“So you’ve gone off to these parties before, without me?” Henry huffed. “I should’ve known.”
“Yes, I went once,” snapped Rochester. “I need not give you an account of all my activities, you know. But before you ask—yes, there was drink, and there was music, and there were women, too. Lots of them, breasts everywhere, their skirts hiked up to show their dark hairy cunnies.” Rochester snuffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Edwin Harris stuck his tongue into one and wiggled it about for the—I don’t know, edification of us all, he said, as well as for her pleasure. He kept at it for so very long that your precious, kindly, benevolent Lord Calipash, exclaiming how boring it was to watch
such a display, snuck up behind them and poured claret down her belly.”
“I say!”
“Edwin nearly drowned. And afterwards, your St John announced he would use them all in a line, so the ladies—women, rather—bent over the tables while the rest of the Company cheered him on.” Rochester sighed. “A few other lads did it, too. I wouldn’t, and they mocked me for it—as if chastity wasn’t respectable.”
Henry thought back to Phineas Berry’s allegation that Rochester was ‘a stick in the mud.’ He was such a soggy merkin, what was wrong with him? Could he be allergic to fun? His nose was certainly running enough while he described a scenario Henry thought sounded jolly good. “How did I never hear tell of this? Surely there must have been a scandal …”
“They wear disguises,” sniffled Rochester. “If you go like that, in your robes, there’ll be a scene.”
“Then lend me a coat!”
“But I don’t even want to go!”
Henry looked away, disgusted. How like a lord to despair of an invitation; to scorn what he’d been handed by right of birth. It was so very unjust. Here he was, sitting in this clammy garden, alone except for a prudish little boy, while others drank and sang and—
“You really want to go, don’t you,” said Rochester softly. “You’d rather be there with them, than here with me.”
Henry felt a pang. “I—well.” He coughed. “I wouldn’t put it like that.”
“Fine then.” Rochester stood, his slender figure silhouetted against the candle- and torchlight of Wadham College. “We’ll go, and you’ll see how miserable it is. But you’ll have to wear Robert’s coat.” Rochester turned on his heel and said over his shoulder, “You won’t fit into any of mine, you great pudding.”
Chapter Three: Here The Deities Disapprove
“Shh,” cautioned Rochester. Henry had uttered a prodigious groan as he heaved the Earl up onto the ledge of the wall surrounding the college. “Come on, before someone sees you!”