Byron followed the headmaster into his study. The walls were covered with dark bookshelves. He felt lonely down in the pit of his stomach as he heard the door shut behind him. He wasn’t sure what to do or what to say. He thought it was probably imperative that he had an eloquent, verbal defense of what he’d done in the chapel. He began without knowing quite where he was going. “The thing is, sir, Mr. Drury’s never liked me, sir, if you’ll pardon my saying so, sir.”

The headmaster sat behind his desk and folded his hands in the air in front of him. He gave Byron an impartial look. “Whether he likes you or not is not in question.”

“Well, he’s never been fair to me.”

“Anyone might object to your playing a grass harp in the midst of a divine service.”

“A grass harp?”

“Calling upon the celestial powers with a blade of grass. That was inspired. I must say.”

“Thank you, sir.” Byron wondered what he was talking about.

“What is not in question is that you shall be punished.”

“Sir!” objected Byron. “But he called me a black …” Byron sputtered. He couldn’t say the word.

“Sticks and stones, boy. I don’t care what he called you. No doubt it was richly deserved.”

“I’ve written to my mother.”

“I don’t doubt it. But in the meantime, you must undergo your punishment.”

“But, sir!”

“Silence, boy!” Here the head raised his voice and Byron listened to him. Had his father not died when he was two, would he have learned to obey better than he had? Would he have learned to listen to men, rather than to call for the interference of his mother? These questions occurred to Byron but he was quiet.

“Lord Clare is only recently arrived. He’s in your house. He’s experienced some trouble. Here on the hill. I’d like you to look after him, Byron.”

“What?”

“As I said. Look after him. Protect him a little. I believe you’ve already shown him the pond?”

How did the headmaster know about that? That had been a free afternoon. Byron didn’t think they’d been observed. This was the second adult who seemed to have been watching them.

“It’s hot weather. The whole school will be given an afternoon off tomorrow. I expect a good many boys will go down to the pond tomorrow. Take Clare, will you? Make sure nothing untoward happens, won’t you?”

“You want me to … ?”

“Oh goodness gracious, Byron. Must I spell it out? You’re a year older than him. You’re more accustomed to our ways. Make sure he’s not injured. Make sure he doesn’t drown. Can you do that?”

“Well, I …”

“Good, because I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. It will take some time away from the preparation of your lessons. But you’ll have to find more time and work harder. Do you understand me? That is your punishment for the incident of the harp.” At this the headmaster stood up from his desk, not angry exactly, but weary.

Byron, who’d never been invited to sit down, watched the head rise from his chair. He waited a moment, and then asked, “Please, sir?”

The headmaster glared at Byron. He raised his eyebrows as if to say “What now?” but he remained silent. He’d done everything in his power to pacify this difficult boy. He saw very well that, in addition to his foot, there was something in Byron’s personality that must’ve had its origins in a traumatic past. As a result Byron was excessively proud, excessively touchy, excessively negative for a sixteen-year-old boy. It was this that made the other boys wary of Byron. It was this that had provoked Mark Drury. The head didn’t know what the event was in Byron’s childhood, but he hoped by treating him leniently, by being tolerant of his occasional misbehavior, the boy would come around to trusting him. Maybe one day he’d tell him. At this moment, however, it was absolutely necessary for Byron’s future that he not say anything rude in response to the so-called “punishment” that the head had decided upon.

“Would you ask Mark Drury to write me a letter of apology, sir?”

“No!” bellowed the head. “Leave this instant before I decide on twenty strokes of the lash!”

Byron disappeared out the door before the head’s voice had ceased to echo off the bookshelves.