Chapter 14 REPERCUSSIONS
Chapter 14
R EPERCUSSIONS
Winchester, England
October 29, 1880
Miles was up most of the night, considering his plight. The dread of being caned was enough to stop his heart. How had he not taken the threat more seriously as he’d casually slipped out the window for his adventures? Even worse was the idea that he might not be able to make a life for himself without a degree at Oxford, the inheritance due to him, and the surname that he was born into. But such a life spared no room for a lower-class woman like Lillian. Soon he would have to choose, and both options promised dire consequences.
He woke on his hard wooden bed to the sound of the prefect striking a pan while marching up and down like the general of this army of young souls. No older than Miles, his name was Nicholas, and he’d been deemed a prefect for his exemplary behavior and excellent marks in the classroom. He had certain privileges, such as enjoying finer cuts of lamb on the weekends, but it came with certain responsibilities, too, including the wake-up call and carrying out much of the disciplinary action.
The men had twenty minutes to shave and shower in the arctic water before a quick breakfast of bread, cheese, and beer. The grub house on the ground floor was large enough for fifty men and the staff. The small windows offered a view onto Kingsgate, where early risers rushed toward the city walls. On one end of the rectangular room hung a portrait of the headmaster, his eyes always watching. A short bundle of sticks burning in the fireplace took on the daunting task of warming the air. A pot of water on the way to boil hung in the center. The chapel bells rang in the distance.
Miles sat at one of the long tables and reached for a piece of bread from the basket. He could take only a small bite, as his stomach was in knots. He could not find the courage to look over on the wall to the cane that would soon become the instrument of his discipline. The one thing he knew, though, was the torture coming would not elicit regret for visiting Lillian. She had settled in his heart and was giving him strength even now.
The men were all chatty, including Miles’s friend Quimby, who was unaware of Miles’s predicament. Quimby was making chitchat about a man who’d supposedly wet his bed when Housemaster Warren entered the grub house, the wrinkles that etched his face showing a man who did not tolerate rule breakers.
He cleared his throat, and it was the equivalent of firing a rifle as the chatter in the room came to an abrupt stop.
“You men are leaders,” he said, his voice an echo, “and you are tasked with the responsibility of achieving greatness.” His hand rose in a flash and came down even faster at the end of one of the tables. The plates all rose in unison and then came crashing down in a clatter of fury. If there was any noise left in the grub house, his act decapitated it.
“I will not tolerate insubordination,” he said through gritted teeth, and Miles swallowed back fear. “The rules of Winchester College and of this boardinghouse exist for a reason. And if one of you chooses to break these rules, you will be punished severely.”
Warren shot his angry eyes at Miles. “Mr. Pemberton chose to sneak out of the house late last night for a wandering. You shall stand before me now.”
Miles’s legs felt watery and kept him from standing.
Warren hammered the table again with so much force that several of the beers nearby spilled. “Dammit, boy, stand before me!”
Miles scurried away from the table and rushed toward Housemaster Warren. No room in all of England could have been more silent.
Warren called out for the prefect. “Nicholas, take the cane off the wall and deal this man his blows.”
As if commanded, all eyes snapped toward the infamous cane hanging by the fireplace. Like Housemaster Warren, it wasn’t exactly a threatening sight without context. It was a bamboo cane with a leather handle at the end. Its flexibility allowed it to cause greater damage than a rigid cane when brought down on an unruly student. He could still hear the screams of the boy who had been caned the previous year.
Housemaster Warren returned his attention to Miles and told him to remove his shirt. Miles did what he was told, feeling the sting of the cold air pass over his flesh. Nicholas came over with the cane held out in front of him like a sword, his eager desire to use it clear on his face.
Warren dragged a chair from the closest table to a clearing and told Miles to place his hands on the back of it. As Miles did so, doing everything he could to keep from shaking, Warren instructed Nicholas. “Ten strokes. And let this be the last lesson I must teach this year.” He gazed upon the room of men who were not yet men at all.
Miles set his eyes on the wall, where the portrait of the headmaster stared him down. He made sure he wasn’t biting his tongue, and then he closed his eyes and steadied himself for the first stroke.
When it came, the bite stung hard, shooting fire across his body. But Miles would not fall and not gasp either. He refused to be beaten down. No matter what happened in this room today, his father had dealt him far worse, and Miles had learned to find pride in how he handled his pain.
The second swing came, the cane sounding like a whip making contact, and he lost his breath but bit down hard so as to not let out a cry. Pain shot up his back. His cheeks quivered as a tear escaped.
The prefect hit him again, calling out, “Three!”
Miles squeezed his face tight, doing everything he could not to scream. A warm liquid that he knew was blood seeped down his back. He recalled the reason for his beating, and he let himself escape to the memory of the previous night. As if he had wings and was floating above High Street, he could see himself looking at her through the window.
Lillian.
Her eyes . . .
“Four!” Whack.
She could take the pain away from any man, and that was what she’d done.
“Five!” Whack. Blood. Tears. His legs nearly buckling.
Miles wished himself to London, his bride sitting in the front row, enjoying his performance of a new Shakespeare production. The audience cheers this newfound English treasure known as Miles Pemberton.
“Six!” Whack.
By the tenth stroke, Miles could barely stand, and his back was bloody, his face smeared with tears. One more strike, and he surely would have fallen to the hard floor.
And yet he’d found strength through Lillian, and he knew now what had been building since the moment he’d first come upon her on the bridge.
He would do anything to have her in his life.
Miles thought it amazing that his father had no time for his son unless something went wrong. Eyeing the carriage from the boardinghouse window, Miles knew his father had been summoned, and a sharp blade of fear cut through him. Hadn’t he suffered enough? He could barely walk, let alone sit, from the caning. It hadn’t helped that rumors of his punishment had spread quickly, and every man had gawked at him all day, whispering about what he’d done to earn a beating.
Dressed sharply in all black, his father traipsed down the steps of the carriage and motioned for Miles to walk his way. James stood there in his suit and hat and polished shoes with fury on his face. Their coachman sat with his eyes fixed on the horses. He knew as well as every other servant at Elmhurst that one was better off avoiding contact with Lord James Pemberton when he was on the rampage.
“Get in,” James snapped.
Miles did so, sitting across from his father, still feeling the searing leftovers from his earlier beating. He kept his eyes on his shoes, terrified of what was to come but determined to salvage his dignity and stay strong.
“Carry on,” James ordered to the coachman.
They moved along College Street at a slow, bouncy pace. His father’s breath was an angry steam engine climbing a grade. They passed through town and then by the sports fields before breaking into open country.
Ten minutes later, his father thumped on the ceiling of the carriage. “That’s enough.”
The carriage stopped, and Miles waited for a fist to come his way.
His father’s words came out in a growl. “You have one task in your life, and that is to uphold your duties as a man of this college, as a man of this family, and as a man of England. Look at me, dammit.”
Miles looked up to see his father’s jaws trembling as he spoke. The man didn’t realize that Miles carried his own anger inside.
“What if I have no interest in upholding my duties?” Miles asked, saying it while well aware of the potential consequences.
James paused, bit down on his own teeth, as if holding himself back. “You have no choice. You were born into this family, and you will not embarrass us.”
Miles held strong. “I have no interest in being your subject, a doll that you can throw around and tell what to do.” He knew what was coming. “I don’t care about your ...”
His father’s hand came up so fast that Miles barely had time to blink before he was backhanded so hard that he suddenly tasted the iron of his own blood. He reached for the pain, feeling his jaw shaken by the blow.
“Whether you like it or not, you are my son. You are my firstborn son. And you will fall in line. Your childish desires have no place here.”
“And that is the problem!” Miles spat back to him. “My desires are far from childish, and I have every right to entertain them.”
James was clearly holding back his attack. “You were born into a privilege that you do not deserve, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Here your younger brother is doing exactly as he should. He is the example you should follow.”
“He’s a bloody fool,” Miles said. “Your soldier and nothing else.”
Another swing from his father, a backhand that drew more blood and humiliation and fear. But he could not falter. “I will not let you beat the life out of me,” he said, thinking of Lillian, hoping desperately that he had the resolve to withstand his father’s wrath.
With an eye on his father’s rising fist, he said, “I am my own man, and I will do what I choose with my life. I will marry whom I choose.” Miles heard the lack of strength in his tone as his bladder gave way. Urine dripped down his legs, taking all the man out of him, making him feel once again like the prisoner he’d been all his life.
Miles’s defiance shook loose something dangerous in James, and he lunged at his son. Miles held up his arms and tried to protect himself, but he was no match for the fury of James Pemberton. The man screamed obscenities as spit flew from his mouth, and he proceeded to grab Miles by the collar and swing at the side of his head until Miles nearly lost consciousness.
“Goddammit!” James yelled as he finally backed away from his son and sat down on the bench. “You force me to punish you!” He panted in exhaustion.
Miles fought hard to keep his head up. Anger soared through him, but it wasn’t only anger directed at his father. He was perhaps even more angry at himself, as all that he’d told himself about no longer taking these beatings, taking this abuse, had fallen to ashes under attack.