More, by All Mores

Chapter 1My father had two sons—Garrick, who as the oldest, the heir, could do no wrong, and me, the barely acknowledged younger son who could do no right… I sighed and endeavoured to push those thoughts from my mind, without much success. Why haven’t you accepted this by now, St John James Ashford? For whatever reason, your father cannot like you, never mind love you. I told myself this over and over, and over, but still I hoped one day to be proved wrong. However, I was determined to make him notice me. I had tried being perfect, like my brother, taking O and A levels at school and never being expelled—but no matter how well my instructors thought of me, Father was not impressed. I toyed with the idea of being disreputable like Uncle James, Mother’s brother, to whom I bore a strong physical resemblance. The problem was neither drugs nor girls appealed to me, and I loathed the way I had felt the morning after my sole attempt at drunken debauchery, as well as being dismayed to discover not only a ring piercing my left n****e, but a scandalous tattoo of a scantily dressed Betty Boop on my right buttock. I woke the next morning in a little hotel, my head throbbing, my n****e hurting, and my buttock sore, and abruptly I grew concerned the group of young men and women might have introduced me to the…delights…of the flesh without me recalling. And oh God, I’d had to find a discreet clinic where I could be examined without word of it getting back to Father. Paradoxically, while I was quite willing to rub my whorishness in his face, I wasn’t ready for him to learn I had actually contracted a sexually transmitted disease. I didn’t even bother going home. I found a clinic in the phone book that promised discretion, and I went there. “You’re fine, young man,” the bristly-moustached doctor told me, and I sagged in confused relief. For whatever unknown reason, I’d been spared that, for which I would give unending thanks. “I’d suggest going easy on the alcohol next time you go out on the town. And perhaps finding a new group of friends you can trust more.” “Yes, Doctor.” I didn’t tell him the likelihood of a “next time” with either alcohol or those particular “friends”—more Garrick’s than mine—was nil. I entered the house, unseen by anyone. At that time of day, Father was most likely in his office with his solicitor, trying to track down a highborn bride for Garrick, while my brother was no doubt still in bed. I went to the kitchen, coming to an abrupt halt when I spotted Boucher, Father’s French chef, seated in the small alcove. The man was reading the newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee; the sight of the huge brunch beside his place almost turned my stomach. He glanced up, ran his gaze over my dishevelled appearance, then returned his attention to his newspaper. I ignored him, poured myself a glass of orange juice, and took a packet of biscuits from the pantry. There was a bottle of aspirin in the butler’s pantry just off the kitchen, and I slipped it into my jacket pocket. The house was quiet, but I didn’t want to run the risk of meeting Father just then, so I climbed the servants’ stairs up to the attic to my refuge in what used to be the playroom. I put down the juice and biscuits and reached for the bottle of aspirin. A crackly sound caught my attention, and I withdrew a square of paper I didn’t recognize. Was it a message from my brother, mocking me for being unable to hold my drink? I set it aside, shook out a couple of aspirin tablets, and washed them down with some sips of juice. I opened the packet of biscuits and had some before I removed my jacket and draped it over one of the small chairs no one had ever bothered to dispose of. After another sip of juice, I picked up the paper, unfolded it, and scanned the neat writing. Dear St John, Oh. Not from Garrick. He wouldn’t address me so politely. You’re okay, don’t worry, mate. I chased off those sons of bitches before they could hurt you—and believe me, they would have taken great delight in doing so. I’d come to that same conclusion, but it was kind of this person, whoever he was, to let me know. But what did he mean by chasing them off? I resumed reading. I don’t know if you remember me. My name is Six. We met about ten years ago when I delivered a birthday gift from your Uncle James. I did remember the man. He had been kind to me, not only presenting me the gift of marbles from Uncle James, but also teaching me how to play. I hate to be the one to tell you, but your brother Garrick was behind this. Think about it, please. Who introduced you to that lot? He was right. I didn’t know how he was aware of this, but yes, going out the previous night had been my brother’s idea, and he was the one who’d introduced me to the raucous group of young men and women. I sighed. They’d seemed friendly enough and actually appeared pleased to meet me. I arrived on the scene too late to stop you from getting the n****e ring or the tattoo, and I hope having that done didn’t hurt too much and that you’re all right with them. By the way, it’s a cute tattoo, and I’d get one like it myself only my employer would object to it. His employer would? But how would it be known if Six had a tattoo on his buttocks? I shook my head, dismissed my wonder, and continued reading. I hope your hangover isn’t too bad. Take some aspirin—I’ve found through personal experience ibuprofen tends to irritate an already upset stomach—with a glass of water or juice, munch on some dry toast or biscuits, and go back to bed if at all possible. I’d also suggest going easy on the sauce next time. And please watch out for your brother. I don’t think he’s your biggest fan. Your friend, Six I folded the note, put it back in my pocket, and picked up my Paddington Bear. Then I squeezed myself into the child’s rocker, and rocked and held onto my bear while I thought and thought. Six was correct. I’d hoped otherwise, but…As much as it hurt, I knew I’d have to be very careful around my brother. There was nothing I could do about Garrick, so I turned my thoughts to gaining my father’s attention. If neither good exam results nor bad behaviour worked, perhaps I’d try another road. Father knew of Errol Dorincourt from his time in the armed services during the last war, and I had learned if there was a man he loathed more than my Uncle James, it was Errol Dorincourt. Mr Dorincourt, who’d been awarded a CBE for his work during the war—much to Father’s displeasure—was happily married and had a number of children. I’d seen pictures of his sons, and while Robert, who was unabashedly gay, was more to my taste, he would eat me alive. Mr Dorincourt’s oldest son, on the other hand…He was heterosexual, but word had it he might be curious and willing to sample a young man’s charms. I intended to make sure that young man was me. * * * * I succeeded in drawing Andrew Dorincourt’s attention, although it was a challenge. The man didn’t seem to drink, at least not in any of the nightclubs my brother frequented. However, Andrew Dorincourt did have a sweet tooth, and I tracked him down to a shop which offered the most decadent desserts. Andrew was extremely handsome, his blue-black hair contrasting sharply with the colouring of the rest of his very fair siblings. His height of six foot three also had him taller than the men in his family, most notably, the brother closest to him in age. In addition, Andrew was twenty-six, making him the oldest man I had yet to date. I struck up a conversation with him over Black Forest gateau, and we left the shop together almost an hour later. I’d hoped we were going to a hotel, where he would rid me of my virginity, but he seemed to be the old-fashioned sort who intended to court me. At least that was what I assumed. “Give me your address, St John. I’ll pick you up at eight for dinner.” “That would be splendid.” It would be safe enough. Father was dining out in Hackney Wick and would be gone by the time Andrew called ‘round for me. I didn’t want Father to be aware of my date until my relationship with Mr Dorincourt’s son was tied up in a pretty bow. I knew I should be ashamed of my attitude, but I’d reached the point where I was desperate for my father’s notice, and I was willing to do anything. The suit I chose to wear was suitable for a restaurant whose menu was strictly à la carte, although Andrew was dressed slightly more casual. I frowned but made sure he didn’t see my disappointment. We dined on charred squid salad for starters, roast lamb rump with sumac, aubergine, pomegranate and mint as our main, parmesan fried courgettes with tomato salsa for our vegetable, and rich dark chocolate fondant for dessert—which the man almost swooned over. After dinner, he returned me home and walked me to the door. I received no more than a handshake, and I was wondering if I’d have to search elsewhere for a candidate to ensure Father’s attention, when he said, “A Chorus Line is at the Theatre Royal. Would you like to see it this weekend?” “I…I would enjoy that very much. Thank you.” “All right, then. I’ll pick you up at six. We’ll have the pre-theatre dinner at the Holly.” He smiled into my eyes, and this time he kissed my cheek. “Good night, St John.” “Good night, Andrew.” I let myself in, certain he liked me. Well, he wouldn’t have asked me out a second time if he didn’t. I went up to bed and dreamed not of him or of Father’s reaction when he learned who would soon be sleeping with his son, but of a tall, dark stranger who stood between me and Andrew, almost as if warning me to find another lover. I woke up tense and headachy but determined to keep to my course. * * * * Although the Ashford title was less than two hundred years old, Father insisted my brother Garrick only date young ladies of the bluest blood. Andrew was the wrong s*x and also not of the peerage, which was possibly worst of all. Not that I cared, but it would drive Father insane, since the most Andrew could claim were a couple of minor baronetcies in his ancestry, and even those were questionable. I hoped by taking Andrew to my bed—or giving that impression—my father would finally be forced to acknowledge my presence. Of course it hadn’t reached that point just yet, but I saw no reason not to settle for Andrew. I had no idea why he was being recalcitrant. After all, we’d been going out for a month, and still not even a proper kiss. I was sure with a bit more effort on my part…I knew it would simply be a matter of time. I was certain my plan was working when, at dinner one night, Father actually addressed me. “St John.” It took an effort to keep from flinching at the harsh sound, although the tightening of my fingers around my knife and fork would have betrayed my distress if Father had chosen to look. He didn’t, and long practice kept my expression blank. “Sir?” “Garrick tells me you’re seeing the eldest of Errol Dorincourt’s sons.” I cast a glance in my brother’s direction. He sat at our father’s right hand, looking angelically innocent with his fair hair and vivid blue eyes. He never had to do anything to gain Father’s favour. He was so obviously the Ashford heir. “Yes, sir.” I touched my napkin to my lips. “Do you object?” Please, Father. Forbid me to see him. Show me you care. Show me I mean as much to you as Garrick. “Do as you please.” He curled his lips in a sneer that had never failed to frighten me when I was younger. Now…I sighed. It still frightened me. “It is nothing more than I would expect of your mother’s son.” He turned back to the pheasant on his plate, slicing at it viciously, and refused to acknowledge me further. * * * * None of my…dates…ever evolved into anything, and I assured myself it didn’t matter that I was still a virgin at nineteen. I would have liked to experience physical love, but more than that, I longed for an emotional connection. I already knew I wasn’t likely to get it from Andrew Dorincourt, but I found myself fascinated by the dynamics of the Dorincourt family. Not only did they love each other, but they liked each other as well. More than anything, I would have liked that for myself, but I had no idea how to go about winning their regard. So I set about it in the only way I knew how. I fussed and sniped, insinuated myself into others’ conversations, offered opinions where none were asked or desired, and was supercilious as only my father’s son could be.