A Pretty Mouth (16 page)

“I was a champion footballer in my youth,” remarked the Master. “Why—your bottom has scuffed my shoe, Mr. Milliner. I shall summon you later to attend to the mark.”

“I’ll make sure he does so,” said a sonorous, disapproving voice from somewhere above Henry’s head. He looked up—and saw the last person at Wadham College he wanted to encounter at that moment.

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 old.

“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.