Chapter 7 THE WYKEHAMIST

Chapter 7

T HE W YKEHAMIST

Winchester, England

September 4, 1880

Miles could not climb fast enough into the carriage. Whereas some boys might enjoy the days between summer and fall terms, he was eager to escape the hell that was his home. The only time there was ever peace at Elmhurst was when his father was away. Even then the man’s energy lingered in every room, strangling the air and poisoning any joy that attempted to take root.

It was just under an hour’s ride to Winchester, where Miles and his brother, Edward, attended Winchester College, a preparatory school for thirteen- to eighteen-year-old boys. Miles was seventeen and facing his last year before graduation. Typically the coachman would take the boys alone, but their father, a gentleman who carried a position in the House of Lords, had business to attend to in the city. Therefore, both the Honorable James Pemberton and his wife, Cora, had come along as well.

Like their father, the boys—or men , as they were addressed at the college—wore polished shoes, pressed shirts, and long waistcoats over trousers. James wanted nothing more than for his boys to be exact replicas of him, and it was this desire that fueled the feud between Miles and him. In fact, Miles was still seething from a fight with his father two days earlier. He could still feel the welts from the proper beating he’d endured.

Miles watched with a tight jaw as his father pulled himself up into the carriage and set down his cane. A horse had bucked him off when he was a boy, and he’d walked with a limp ever since. This particular cane had come home with him from London. The golden lion-head handle gleamed in the sunlight that shot through the windows. Lord Pemberton was a tall man, intimidatingly so, and his hat reached near the top of the carriage’s roof. Rarely did Miles ever see him showing anything other than an agitated look on his mustached face.

“Let’s go, Cora,” James shouted to his wife, who scurried in as quickly as she could.

“I’m doing the best I can,” she muttered softly, taking her place by her husband and adjusting her blue dress.

“Then we should have left an hour earlier,” James replied coldly. “And we’ll leave first thing tomorrow, no time for shopping.”

“Yes, dear.” Cora clasped her fingers together and rested them on her lap. She had her own bruises hidden under that velvet gown, and she surely had no interest in collecting another.

Cora came from a family in Southampton and had been pushed into marriage by her father, who owned a fleet of merchant ships and several sugar plantations in the West Indies. In a rare moment of both honesty and warmth, she’d once admitted to Miles that she’d never loved James but had been given little choice in the matter. A marriage contract had been struck between James and Cora’s father.

Was it any wonder Miles grew angry when his father started telling him what to do? As the firstborn, Miles would one day inherit his father’s position in the House of Lords. His entire life was already predetermined. Following a long line of Pemberton men, he studied at Winchester College and would attend New College at Oxford. Next, he’d return to his upper-class existence at Elmhurst, where he’d wave the Whig flag and marry a woman of his father’s choosing. What a miserable existence to have no say in how your own life played out.

Once they were underway, Miles kept his gaze out the window, brushing his brown unruly hair out of his eyes and watching the rolling hills of the Hampshire countryside pass by. Despite the beauty of the terrain and the sensational weather they’d been enjoying lately, he couldn’t quite get away from the discomfort the four of them created in such a small space. The only consistent sounds were the clop of the horse’s hooves and the movement of the carriage as it bounced up and down on the rather rutted road.

As they drew near to the city, James spoke to his youngest son. “Edward, you’ll be joining the rifle corps this year, yes?”

Edward had been dozing off but stirred at the sound of his father’s voice. “Yes, I will.”

“Good, very good. If you keep it up, you might one day be able to outshoot me.”

“It’s certainly something to aspire to.”

James nodded, seemingly satisfied with the interaction.

Miles wondered how many times his father had expressed his wish that Edward be the older son. He couldn’t stand the way Edward snapped to his father’s attention like a soldier to a general. The man hadn’t earned such filial respect, no matter how much violence he used to attempt to command it.

As they came into Winchester, even the outskirts teemed with life. The new hospital had brought more people to a city already thriving as both the legal center of Hampshire County and a popular tourist destination due to its rich history. The ancient Norman cathedral, home of the bishop, loomed mightily in the distance as they crossed the gin-clear river Itchen and then rode along the grassy shore before cutting into town on College Street.

Founded by William of Wykeham in 1382, Winchester College was one of the finest institutions of England, a school that Pemberton men had attended since the late fifteen hundreds. As it was the arrival day, the street was overcrowded with carriages. The air was hazy from the dust kicked up by the horses’ hooves and smelled of manure and cigar and pipe smoke and a thousand other elements. Miles looked at the men and their families pouring in through the porter’s gate. Mothers asked for last hugs, and fathers issued final warnings as their sons hurried toward a new year. Miles did not feel the pride of following in the footsteps of his family, but he was excited to escape the prison of his homelife.

His father stuck his hand out of the carriage and waved and made small talk to the other gentlemen as they pushed through the crowd and turned left onto Kingsgate, where Miles would stay. The college had outgrown the boardinghouse, so only the scholars, who were the top of the class, slept within its walls now. Most of the men, including Miles, stayed in various boardinghouses down the street. Miles had been a part of Moberly House since his first year.

Miles peered down Cannon Street as they passed by. The opium dens and brothels would come alive at dark. “Lots of trouble that way,” the housemaster told them every year. “And a caning if you ever choose to quench your curiosities.” As stated in the rules, their boundaries as men of the college were explicit. They could not leave Kingsgate or College Street unless given permission.

Two short blocks down, they came to a stop at Moberly House, a two-story redbrick building that matched most of the others on the street. The grub house and housemaster’s quarters were located downstairs. Upstairs was the bunkhouse, which provided room for about fifty men. Miles exchanged a wave with his good mate Quimby, who appeared in the upstairs window.

Miles climbed out and waited for the footman to take down his luggage. He didn’t even acknowledge his brother, who remained in the carriage and was staying two streets down. James and Cora exited the carriage momentarily, if only to stretch their legs and mingle with a few other parents.

James soon approached. Miles could barely look at him.

“Come here, boy.”

“Sir.”

“Don’t embarrass me, you understand?”

Miles gave a sharp nod. His father’s words always landed like threats.

His mother was next and spoke to him like he was still a child. “Be a good boy.” With that, she turned, and Miles watched his parents take their leave.

He felt an arm slip over his shoulder. “Good summer, mate?”

Miles turned to Quimby and laughed. “Simply marvelous.”

The first month of school sped by. Miles fell into his routines, waking in the morning, bathing in the frigid water that came directly from the river, then dining in the grub hall before spending most of the day within the school’s walls. They had mathematics first in the morning, followed by Greek and Latin before a lunch of boiled beef and potatoes. Afterward, they’d take a short break before continuing to French and German.

Though most of his studies were tedious and boring, he greatly enjoyed his time in the Shakespeare Society, a group that met three times a week to read the Bard’s plays. If he had it his way, he’d trade his place at Oxford for a role in Hamlet in London without hesitation. Sometimes at night, when he couldn’t sleep, he’d imagine what it might be like to take the stage with such greats as Henry Irving and Ellen Terry, absorbing the praise of an audience after giving his all to a character.

Of course, acting out the plays would have been too exciting for Winchester College, so their performances were simply readings at the end of each term. Still, Miles loved the way the Bard’s words danced off the tongue, and the way he felt when stepping into another’s skin.

Overall, though, he was torturously bored, and increasingly annoyed by the expectations put on him. He often found himself looking around at the other men his age who were eager to fall in line like his brother. Miles didn’t understand it. Wasn’t there more to life? Had he no choice as to his future? Now into his last year of secondary school and on the precipice of turning eighteen and becoming his own man, such questions demanded answers.

His frustration with the place where his desires clashed with others’ expectations had led him toward rebellion lately. Sometimes it was by sneaking into the kitchen to find something actually decent to eat, like a leftover cut from the housemaster’s lamb. He hated the rotten mutton typically forced down the students’ throats. Other times, he might push the boundaries with a stroll up Cannon Street to witness the madness for himself, or take a quick walk through the city to see what he was missing.

One cool eve in October, about six weeks after his father dropped him off for the fall term, he decided to sneak out of Moberly House. He sat up from the bed amid a sea of sleeping men. Some snored, some stirred as he crept past. Even if they were awake, they’d assume he was going to relieve himself. He passed through the room and down the stairs, then found the window he’d left open during dinner. His heart pounded as he lifted himself up and went out headfirst. He came down into the street with a tumble, nearly knocking his head on a rock. But he’d made it, and he dusted himself off and stood to surveil his surroundings.

Miles was dressed in simple slacks and a shirt and wished he’d brought a jacket as he quickly walked toward the river in the brisk air. He guessed it was around midnight, and he was surprised to see so many people milling about. Hearing the river calmed him, and as he slowed to a stroll, he enjoyed the fresh free air and the star-filled sky and the river Itchen that held so many promises in its current, as if leaping in could simply take him away.

“Spare some change, sir,” came a husky voice from the darkness.

Miles jumped and turned to find a beggar wrapped in a cloak, huddled against the crumbling old wall that once protected the city. He was missing a tooth and shook a cup that jingled with coins. “Just a few pence for food.”

Miles reached into his pocket, found a shilling, and dropped it into his cup.

“God bless,” the man muttered back.

Miles felt on guard for a moment, his hackles up, as he continued along the shore. The darkness exposed a side of the city to which he was not accustomed. He soon saw light ahead of him—candles and gaslights—and he knew he was coming upon High Street.

A stone bridge crossed the river straight ahead, and he caught sight of a lone young woman driving a small carriage over it. She was about his age, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Her curly brown hair shimmered in the moonlight, and he was instantly spellbound. Perhaps it was the way she seemed so content, or the way she handled the horse, giving him a solid whip and whistling for him to carry on.

Miles picked up his pace. She barely looked at him as she passed by. He didn’t care that she wore only a simple white frock with leather boots that begged to be polished. She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen, elegant in her movement, dazzling with her poise. Her eyes glowed in the night, not like a fox’s, but like the stars themselves. She made no effort to lure him, but he followed her anyway, watching her gently bounce up High Street to the rhythm of the horse’s gait. She looked utterly at ease amid the madness of the city, dodging drunk pedestrians paying her no mind.

She eventually came to a stop outside a pub. From inside came boisterous laughter and the clinking of glasses and a tipsy fellow attempting to carry a tune. She climbed off the cart and tied up her horse, took two jugs from the back, and walked into the pub. Miles seized the opportunity to get closer.

Through the window, he watched her set the jugs on the back bar. An older man said something to her before she started back toward the door. She made three more trips to the cart to unload more supplies before assuming her position behind the bar, pouring beers for the patrons. Another man, slightly older, possibly her brother, came and climbed on the cart and took it away.

Miles watched her for a moment. If anything, the light of the pub showed that she was even more beautiful than he’d first suspected. Brown hair the color of autumn fell across her shoulders. Her smile was enough on its own to light the inside of the pub.

A man left some coins and abandoned his seat at the bar. Miles couldn’t take it a moment longer and stepped inside. People were so immersed in their own conversations that they barely acknowledged him. He sat at the bar and waited as she pulled pints for another customer.

She looked at him, or barely so. “What will you have?” She was so busy that she went about taking two glasses off the table while waiting on his answer.

When she finally gave him a second look, he smiled at her.

She chuckled to herself. “You gonna stare or have a drink?”

Miles smiled even wider. “A pint, please.”

She nodded and went to pour him one.

“I saw you coming up the road earlier,” he said.

“Oh, is that right? You followed me?”

Miles laughed to himself. “Maybe I did.”

She slid the beer his way. “You hungry too?”

He shook his head.

“You’re going to hurt yourself, staring like that.”

“Would be a good way to go, I suppose.” Miles sipped his beer. “What’s your name?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He shook his head, feeling his dimples reveal themselves. She was feisty, this one—so very different from the dull and submissive girls with whom his father wanted to pair him. Miles had no interest in marrying a woman like his mother.

“Nothing to eat then?” she asked.

“A beer is quite fine. I’m called Miles.”

She leaned toward him again. “Miles, you seem a little young to be out and about.”

He answered quickly. “I’m in town on business.”

“Hmm. I pegged you for a Wykehamist.”

He felt like a burglar caught red-handed, and his face surely showed guilt. “What makes you say that?” Pupils of Winchester College were known as Wykehamists, deemed so after their founder, William of Wykeham.

The young lady who hadn’t shared her name looked him up and down. “I spent my whole life here. You all stand out.”

“If I were a Wykehamist, I’m sure I’d be tucked away in my boardinghouse by now.” Being caught would come with grave consequences. He’d seen a boy caned toward the end of the previous year. The screams could surely have been heard in Scotland.

She nodded and walked off. Even as she cleaned glasses, she looked angelic.

When she came back around, she asked, “You really are going to watch me all night?”

“I can’t think of anything I’d rather do. Other than know your name, of course.”

She turned to him. “Name’s Lillian.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

They held a gaze that could have set the world on fire, and Miles felt as if he’d sprouted wings. “You work here?” he asked.

“A bright one, aren’t you?”

Miles reddened in embarrassment.

“My family owns it,” she said, saving him from further humiliation.

He wondered whether his father had ever passed through here.

“And what’s your story, Miles, if you’re not a Wykehamist?”

He took a long sip of his beer, seeking courage. “If only I could tell you in this short amount of time. Could we meet again?”

Lillian studied him, perhaps wondering if he would be worth her time. Miles held his ground.

Finally, she shrugged. “We’ll have to see.”

“What does that mean?” he asked, but she was already walking away.

He watched her climb a set of stairs in the back. Suddenly the man who’d moved the cart had taken position behind the bar. He looked at Miles and said, “Have another there?”

Miles shook his head. “No, I’ll settle up now.”

After paying, he glanced back at the stairs one more time before exiting the pub and walking—or floating, more like it—back down High Street. He figured that if he was to see her again, he’d best get back to where he belonged tonight.

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