by Molly Tanzer
Thomas, thank God, stepped aside. Henry scurried past and pelted upstairs; as he hastily changed he heard raised voices, and took a few extra moments to arrange himself to the best of his abilities before descending.
“We must go, Mr. Milliner.” St John was standing in the main room when Henry’s foot touched the floorboards. Thomas was nowhere to be seen. “Have you your books?”
“Yes, my lord.” Henry held up his two required tomes.
“And your robe?”
Shit. “I … left it on my bed, my lord. Shall I go and fetch it—”
“Thomas will get it. Thomas, did you hear that?” St John raised his voice. The servant was nowhere to be seen, but either from the bedroom or the chamber under the stairs, a grunt of assent could be distinguished.
“Let us away, then,” said St John, and came as close to breaking into a trot as Henry had ever seen a nobleman get in his haste to be out the door and down the stairs. Henry had to trot to catch up, and once he did, he puffed in an undignified manner as St John strode across the gravel quadrangle towards the classrooms.
“Now that you have come to stay with us, we shall instruct you in many things,” St John said, when the color had returned to his cheeks. “I shall, of course, tutor you in Greek and prepare you for entering the natural philosophy seminar, but also in proper dress, manners, deportment, eating habits, cleanliness, and how, how to manage one’s servants.”
This last came out in a sort of low snarl, and Henry made a mental note to try never to piss St John off. He was maybe being a little scary.
“And you shall sit with us in class.”
“What?” The day was cool and misty, even this late in the afternoon; to sit near the brazier would be wonderful. “I mean, yes, my lord, if it pleases you. Thank you, my lord.”
“Good. For a moment I thought you would not like to.”
Henry protested this with the comeliest language he could muster, but he did not confess what made him happiest about this new arrangement.
Rochester, he guessed, would turn positively green at the sight of him, deep in the bosom of the Blithe Company.
Chapter Seven: An Unheroic Exchange
Henry tried not to act as if he noticed—and enjoyed—the palpable surprise in the classroom when he entered beside St John, but when the Lord Calipash took him by the hand and introduced him to the assembled Blithe Company as “young Henry Milliner, who shall be one of us now,” he was hard-pressed not to grin like a Merry-Andrew. Simply everyone noticed; he saw an extraordinary number of elbows digging into sides and heads inclining in his direction. Being popular must be wonderful, he concluded, but to rise in a blaze of glory, phoenix-like, from the ashes of disgrace—that was awesome.
It did bother him how distraught Rochester looked when the boy glanced over and saw Henry making small talk with the Company. The young lord had, of course, taken up their customary position far off to the upper right of the Master’s podium, and though Henry motioned him over, he refused, looking dejected. Henry had anticipated envy rather than dismay from that quarter, but honestly, if Rochester couldn’t be happy for his newfound social success, then bugger him. Bugger him right up the bottom-hole. Of course it would annoy a member of the noblesse to see an upstart middling sort enjoying the same advantages that had been handed him all his life. Bugger bugger bugger him.
“I say, what’s this?” A young man of about seventeen with a shock of dark hair was looking down at Henry with an ugly sneer. “You’re in my seat, piggy. Move.”
“You may find another seat, Mr. Jones,” said St John. He was getting out his parchment and quills, arranging them meticulously, and did not look up as he spoke. “Mr. Milliner’s presence is at our request. We would not have you treat him shabbily.”
“But I’ve sat here for years.” Jones looked disproportionally annoyed.
“Give it a rest, Lucas,” said Anthony Neville, who was clearly enjoying the scene. He was finishing off an apple—Henry wondered if Neville had been the one who’d pelted him with that apple-core—and spat out a seed just at Jones’s feet. “Milliner’s all right, let him be.”
The worm, Henry mused, had truly turned.
“I will not give it a rest! This is my seat!”
Henry, not wanting to cause strife among the Company so soon after his inclusion, half-rose from his seat, an apology hovering on his lips, when St John finally looked up. He gave Lucas Jones such a withering glare Henry wondered why the boy didn’t run away and skip class entirely.
“Sit down, Mr. Jones.”
“Give him Neville’s seat, he’s Scots.” Jones spat back at Neville. “They’re used to being colonized by now, I should think.”
Neville was instantly on his feet, his dark eyes blazing, and he backhanded Jones across the mouth. Jones squealed when he was struck, and kept whimpering after Neville had been pushed back down into his chair by Aldous Clark and soothed into stillness by the rest of the boys.
“Mr. Jones, you are making a scene,” murmured St John, who hadn’t gotten up at any point. “If you cannot control yourself, then you must, I think, excuse yourself.” He smiled. “If you prefer the former, I think there is a seat beside Lord Rochester.”
“You can’t kick me out, St John,” hissed Jones. “I know everything, I could ruin you—break up your whole little party here. So you just keep that in mind before you cross me again, all right?” And then he flounced off across the room, kicking the chair beside Rochester out from under the table and sitting in it with a loud huff.
Rochester looked even more pained at this turn of events, but Henry couldn’t spare him much thought. The Blithe Company boys were all deep in conference about what was to be done about Lucas Jones.
“Do you think he’ll really squeal?” asked Henry nervously.
“Nay,” said Neville, obviously still a little hot under the collar. His face was flushed and though his eyes had dimmed to a shine much less violent than their earlier inferno, his expression was still rather frightening. “He knows what we’d do to him. Wounded pride isn’t worth that.”
Huh. This sent a chill down Henry’s spine, but he didn’t have long to think about it.
“We will remind him of his duty to the Company,” whispered St John, lowering his voice. Master Fulkerson had just entered the room. “Tonight. We were intending to get up to some high jinks anyways, were we not? I’ll give instructions later; for now, act normally and say nothing. If he sits with you at supper, be kind and conciliatory, keep him thinking he’s still one of us. Even you, Mr. Neville,” said St John, and Henry was surprised when Neville inclined his head in acquiescence—but then St John smiled, and said, “I understand fully the wrong done to you this day. I promise you shall have your revenge, but you must trust me.”
“I do, my lord,” said Neville, but then Master Fulkerson cleared his throat, and class began.
Henry found it easier and harder to concentrate from within the merry band of gentlemen. Feeling more confident than he ever had before, he managed to correctly answer one of the Master’s questions—he hadn’t studied or anything, it was just that they had moved on to Plato’s Republic, and Henry’s father had read that to him as a child—and yet his thoughts were largely elsewhere. It was clear the Blithe Company had its own set of rules, and he had not been taught any of them. Perhaps he was supposed to learn through experience? It was already obvious to him that St John was completely in charge. Challenging his authority would lead to punishment; following him would lead to rewards. Mr. Neville’s attitude toward the incident with Lucas Jones was enough to pick up on that, at the very least.
“You’ll sit with us at supper, of course?”
Master Fulkerson was collecting his effects—class had ended while Henry had been contemplating these topics, and Neville was looking at him expectantly.
“Oh,” said Henry. “I’d love to!”
“Do it, then.” Neville smiled warmly, and it was like a ray of sunshine had fallen across Henry
’s face. He was extraordinarily handsome, and in quite a different way than St John. His black eyes snapped and sparkled, his wavy hair was a deep cocoa-brown, and there was a cheeky devilishness to his smile. Standing between him and St John was like being caught—pleasantly—between Dionysus and Apollo. “Happy to have you. But mind you guard your tongue—here comes Lucas now, the totty-headed mincer.”
“Easily done,” murmured Henry, as Jones slunk over to try to apologize to St John, “as I’ve nothing to say.”
“No?”
“You are all the masters, and I the student.” Henry smiled. “Though these might be the nicest lessons I’ve had, they are lessons still.”
Neville’s smile made the last one seem retroactively cold. “Good lad. Welcome, say we all.” This last he pronounced with a much louder voice, which elicited nods from all the Company save Jones, who scowled. Regardless, it was a tremendous feeling to leave the classroom as part of a chattering, high-spirited throng.
Upon reaching the yard, it occurred to Henry that he’d left Rochester behind. When he looked back he saw the boy just leaving the classroom, books clutched to his chest, looking as wretched as a hen in a hailstorm.
“Save me a seat,” he said to Neville, and cocked his thumb back at Rochester. Neville nodded amiably, and Henry backtracked.
“What-ho,” he said. “Did you hear Master Fulkerson comment that my response was ‘surprisingly adequate’? Not bad for young Henry Milliner, eh?”
Rochester sniffed at him. “Nice to see you’re still talking to me.”
Oh, good Christ. “Don’t be sore. I invited you over! Not my fault if you declined.”
“I don’t want to be part of the Blithe Company,” said Rochester in the snittiest voice Henry had ever heard. “They’re not very nice, I don’t think their frolics are funny, and I think you, Henry, will end up worse off than you were before you managed to get in with them.”
“You’re cheerful, aren’t you? I wish you could be happy for me.”
This seemed to wound Rochester. “I’d be happy for you if I thought there was reason to be so.”
“And getting something I’ve wanted for so long isn’t reason?”
“I had just thought—you know, after the other night …” Rochester looked on the verge of tears. Henry felt conflicted. On one hand, he wanted to comfort his friend, but on the other, sticking it to the spoiled little brat right now, after all of his two-faced betrayals, would be the best of possible paybacks.
“After the other night what?”
“I thought … after the other night … what you wanted might have, you know. Changed.”
Henry laughed. “During those brief, tender moments, you mean?” Henry shook his head. “If you think I’d trade the world for a kiss, you’re sorely mistaken.”
“What?” Rochester stopped walking toward the dining hall and stared at Henry, wide-eyed and hurt as a puppy who’d been cuffed for greeting his master. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that, for example, after one brief conference, the Lord Calipash has rented me his cockloft, invited me to sit with him in class, and promised to tutor me not only in Greek but in the refined arts of society.” Henry looked down his nose at Rochester. “You, by contrast, have professed friendship since I came, but really, what have you done but ridicule and betray me? You laughed at me when Master Fulkerson humiliated me in class, and before that, you mocked my poetry!”
“I—”
“Did you offer me the rent of your garret at any point? Did you invite me to any of the Company’s meetups, or did you hoard that pleasure for yourself?” Henry shrugged. “I know what I should have done were I the lord and you someone like me, but such is life.”
“So you’re saying you like him more because he gives you all the things you want.” Henry could not help being impressed by Rochester’s tchah, it held more contempt than Henry could have managed, he was sure of it. “Well. I’m not sure your admission casts you in the best light, but if you really are happy, so be it.”
Henry’s mind whirled. “If that’s the way you want to think of it, then whatever makes you happy. Just keep in mind that I have never been so lucky in my friends as you; those in my situation are forced to earn them rather than the alternative.”
“And what, exactly, is the alternative?”
Henry couldn’t think of anything appropriately cutting. “What I mean is that not all of us are able to rely on our title to make friends. We have to distinguish ourselves in some way.”
“And you’ve distinguished yourself through, what? Lickspittlery? Flattering?”
“Tut, tut, Lord Rochester. Just because you were never able to see my quality doesn’t mean others are so blind.” Henry looked over his shoulder where the rest of the boys had gone in to eat. “I must fly—I’m needed in the dining hall. Are you coming?”
Rochester’s face was so purple it looked like he’d fallen into a vat of dye. “I—I’m not hungry!” he cried, and ran off toward the dormitories, tears streaming down his face.
Chapter Eight: Not All Souls Beauty Know
Henry watched Rochester go with mixed feelings. Showing up the little rat hadn’t felt as good as he’d anticipated; he was surprised to find that he felt kind of rotten about it. Annoyed—at himself, and at Rochester—Henry shoved his hands inside his pockets, whereupon he discovered he still had St John’s curious spectacles. Putting them on, he saw Rochester was apparently filled up with an eggplant-purple mist.
So weird. He needed to ask St John about what the deuce he was up to with his philosophical researches. But that was for later—the Company awaited him, and upon entering the dining hall he forgot all of his troubles. Anthony Neville and Nicholas Jay waved him over, and he took his seat between them with enthusiastic dignity.
Meals were generally quiet affairs at Wadham. According to the statutes of the college, unless it were a feast day or some other special occasion, there was a strict rule against conversation during dinner or supper—unless it could be managed in a “useful” language like Latin. Given that it was difficult to spread gossip or discuss modern politics in such, the most that could usually be heard at table were the sounds of chewing and the occasional clipped whisper.
Henry was used to eating in silence, given his general lack of friends and poor language skills, but he was happy to be quiet that day. The mood among the Company boys was a thing to be savored. Most of them, upon catching his eye, smiled at him or raised their eyebrows conspiratorially; Lucas Jones, however, was sitting at the end, looking unhappy. For Henry, simply not to be an object of ridicule was a pleasure, and he gobbled his stew with more than his usual gusto.
“Psst,” hissed Fitzroy Lowell into his armpit closest to Henry. “We’ll mill about the lawn after, of course, but later—there’s going to be a fête, all right? Just don’t tell Jones.”
“I’m game,” whispered Henry, but that was all they could manage to communicate.
It was easier to chat after the meal’s conclusion. When the weather was fine, most students typically milled about the gravel quad for half an hour or so before withdrawing to study, and the weather was indeed fine that night. The torches had been lit, and everyone was out and about discussing whether or not the King was really on his way home and whether he would retake the throne on his birthday, the 29th of May, or not. With General Monck’s support and the Convention Parliament’s declaration that Charles had been king since his father’s execution, it seemed, for those students with Royalist sympathies at any rate, a happy inevitability, but there was no way of predicting the timing.
The members of the Blithe Company kept to these topics exclusively, which frustrated Henry even though he understood the reason. Of course he wished for Charles II’s restoration as much as the next good Anglican, but he was not much in the mood for political discourse—he wanted to know the plan, and he could tell the rest of the Company were anxious to discuss it, too. But Jones, perhaps suspecting this, hung around them like
a cat haunting a fishmonger’s—until a boy came running up to him with news of some urgent matter requiring his attention.
Not a minute after Jones had reluctantly departed, St John shimmered into their midst.
“Goodness me,” he said, smiling at them all, “if I could so easily bribe everyone with three shillings and a crumb of ginger-bread, I would rule all England, would I not?”
“Thought he might be acting on your orders,” giggled Rowan Zwarteslang. “Poor Jones.”
“What’s the plan, Calipash?” demanded Lowell.
“Yes, how shall we entertain ourselves tonight?” said Neville, keener than a scent-hound who’s sniffed a fox.
“Later tonight—eleven, say—let us convene in the Fellow’s Common Room and Library,” said St John, “and I will tell you all the details. Oh, and bring your cricketing bats—no, that’s all I shall say on the matter.” St John shook his head, raising his hand in a gesture that instantly dismissed all protests. “I have not had time to contemplate all which I wish to do to Lucas Jones, but I am in the mood for some sport.”
Henry laughed along with everyone else, a new experience for him, but as the party broke up to go about their respective businesses, St John held him back.
“Here is the key to my—our rooms,” he said. All of a sudden, Henry thought he looked out of spirits, but it might have just been a trick of the light. “I shall not return with you. There is … a matter which demands my attention.”
Henry was deeply disappointed. “Of course, my lord.”
St John cocked an eyebrow at him. “Is there something else?”
“Er, earlier … you had intimated we might study together this evening …”
“Oh, I am sorry, Henry,” said St John. “Here—I promise, if you read the text and make notes on what you find difficult or confusing, I’ll go over them with you early tomorrow, before our classes. And, for additional practice—” he smiled when Henry groaned, “I want you to translate the first ten lines of Plato’s Apology. Find the original Greek on my rear left bookshelf, it’s a slender, blue-bound edition.”