"Why are you so angry, Peter? I'm doing this for you!"
In the study of his father's home in Belgravia, Peter Newkirk slouched in the olive green barrel-back leather chair in front of the mahogany desk and scratched its arm. He hated coming to his father's house, but he liked this chair. Its sleek, clean silhouette was aesthetically pleasing, and he could annoy his father by swiveling. And the smell of leather reminded him of the boyfriend he had lost, which comforted him.
"Who asked you? I didn't ask to get married."
"You need to get married, Peter. And stop scratching the arm of that chair. Must I tell you every time that you're wearing a hole in it?"
I want to wear a hole in it, Peter thought, but he didn't answer. "I don't need to get married, especially to some bloody Yank general I've never even met."
His father spoke softly to him. "You do need marriage, Peter. It will settle you. I know losing David was hard."
"You don't know!" Peter snapped. "You never liked him!" The mere mention of Captain David Fuller from his father's mouth infuriated Peter. As he snarled at his father, Peter's Cockney tones were getting more and more pronounced, as they always did when he was angry. He was every inch his mother's son.
"I had nothing at all against David, dear boy. It's just that I'm old-fashioned, and I want grandchildren."
"You have Charles, Magdelene, and Patience to give you grandchildren! You don't need them from a guttersnipe like me!"
George, Marquess of Heyford, shook his head. It was so hard to get through to this boy. Would Peter ever understand that he was his favorite son? Charles, his eldest, was a useless twit. Graham, his middle boy, had promise, but he perished early in the war. The girls were capable of giving him grandchildren, but they couldn't carry on the name.
But Peter was special. Clever, quick-witted, and instinctive. The news that his youngest son was queer had hit George hard—but only because he wanted his name to live on through this boy. He was determined to make that happen, because Peter, for all his naughty ways, was the best of his sons and the best of himself.
Ideally, Peter would have done what most queer men of George's class did throughout history. He would have married a woman for convenience, sired a few children, and gone on with his private life. But Peter's romance with David made crystal clear that he would never agree to that. He would marry a man. George had to admit it, he was still getting used to the idea of same-sex marriage, but it was here to stay and many couples were very happy. He was certain his heartbroken boy needed a life partner, and it was a father's duty to make a match if Peter couldn't do it himself. George's own father had done the same for him 40 years earlier when he was mooning over a college chum at a time when love affairs between men were forbidden.
"It's been a hard year, Peter. Since your unfortunate capture…"
"Like you know anything about being a POW," Peter scoffed.
"I don't. You're right." He had in fact served in the Second Boer War and had been taken captive, but Peter didn't know that. His experience had been so brutal that he never mentioned it. He let the fact that he had just agreed with Peter sink in and then continued. "And then losing Mummy and Mavis. I know how awful that must have been."
"You could have kept them safe! You have four country houses! You could have sent them to any one of them! It's your fault they're gone!"
George nodded. "I wish that too. I truly do. I loved your mother, Peter." What he didn't say was that he had tried. He had offered refuge, but Margaret wouldn't budge from London. She was both stubborn and terrified. Her second husband ruled over her and her five children with an iron fist, with a definite emphasis on iron.
"You divorced my mother! You only stayed married long enough to make sure I wasn't a bastard! You didn't do Mavis that favor, though, did you?" Peter was practically spitting now.
The words on the tip of George's tongue were "Mavis was not mine," but he didn't say it. Peter was right on one point. He'd married Margaret against everyone's advice, and he did so not only because he loved her, but to ensure that one more son would be in line to his title, which had been passed down generation after generation since the Norman invasion. She'd left because Mavis was on the way, taking Peter with her to grow up in a slum, yet it took that cad Arthur 13 long years and the arrival of his own son before he married her. The birth of three daughters, apparently, was not reason enough. What sort of man was that?
As for his older children, George understood early that Graham was queer, and the war resolved any chance that he would acquiesce to marriage and provide an heir. And he sincerely hoped that Charles' boyhood bout with mumps had rendered him sterile as the doctors had warned, because the thought that he would produce the next heir to the title nauseated George.
He hadn't expected Peter to be queer too, growing up in a tough neighborhood like he did, but he was. It was how things were these days. In his time, most boys were queer for a few years at boarding school and university and then they got over it and settled down with a wife. He certainly had, more or less, apart from a tryst now and then. He didn't hold it against Peter, but he had hoped the boy would be a bit more fluid than he was. He was strictly homosexual, and though he liked girls a great deal, what attracted him was their clothes, hairstyles, and ways of moving. Intimacy with girls held no appeal so there were going to be no heirs that way.
George hoped that with the right husband at his side, Peter could be persuaded to try the newest experimental reproductive technology. With the right intervention, it was increasingly possible that two men could conceive a child of their own. It was a dashed miracle, really. And Robert Hogan certainly seemed like an excellent fit for Peter, with superior genetics and the dark good looks that he knew Peter preferred. Plus, he was older and more mature—and George felt sure Peter needed that in a man. George himself wasn't getting any younger. At 73, he knew his years were numbered and he wanted his favorite son settled and to see his children.
George's reverie was interrupted by the sound of Peter's voice getting louder and louder.
"Are you listening to me at all, you bleeding twat? I don't want to marry some Yank!"
"You've always wanted to go to America, Peter," George said calmly. "This could be good for you. A big adventure."
At that moment, the dam broke. "You really don't understand, do you? I don't want a husband or an adventure. I want my Mum and Mavis. And I want David."
George stood and walked around the desk to his son. He crouched in front of him. "I know you want that. I want that too. But they're not coming back, and we need to plan for your future happiness. Please do this nice thing for Daddy? Darling, please?"
Peter wailed and pushed George away.
"David really loved you, Peter. I know that," George finally said. At that, Peter's tears cascaded, he finally let his father gather him up in his arms as he sobbed. George could feel him nod as he clutched his boy close.
"That's right, Daddy's here, my sweet child. Peter, I know you're frightened of marrying someone you've never met, but it happens all the time in our class, dear. My marriage to Alice was arranged, you know. And my investigators have assured me that General Hogan is a very fine man."
"I'm not in your class," Peter muttered, but he held onto his father. He'd never had enough of his father's embrace—of any man's embrace. It felt good to be in his arms now, even though he was still sad, confused and furious. He loved his father in his way, but he resented him deeply for being so weak as to divorce Mum and leaving him to grow up far away.
What Peter didn't understand was that Margaret was the one who had left after she fell in love with a costermonger from her old neighborhood and fell pregnant by him. George begged her to stay, but she was mad for Arthur. And George knew what infatuation was, because had fallen hard for Margaret after his first wife, Alice, died delivering a stillborn son. George's father, brothers and friends had all warned him that marrying a working class Cockney girl was a mistake he would live to regret, that she would never adapt to her future role as Marchioness, but he adored Margaret from the moment he saw her dance in the music hall, and he ignored all advice.
George's only regret was that Margaret was stronger and more determined than he was and he caved in when she said she wanted the marriage to end.
"What am I supposed to tell Arthur," Peter said through snuffles.
"You don't owe him an explanation," George said, handing his son a handkerchief. "He's not your stepfather anymore." George reminded himself that if he'd had any more backbone, he would have beaten that man senseless a long time ago for the way he treated Peter and even Mavis, Beryl, Susan, and little William. Stepfathers beating their stepchildren wasn't extraordinary even if it was reprehensible. But why Arthur Corbersley had raised his fist to his own flesh and blood was unknowable.
"Billy needs me, though. I have to be nice to Arthur or I won't see Billy and Beryl and the baby ever again. And I won't be able to see them if I live in America, Pater!" The use of the family's name for "Father" warmed George's heart; it was a sign atht he was getting through to Peter now.
George knew separation from his younger brother and sisters was a legitimate fear for Peter, although it was also one that money could solve, and Peter didn't yet understand that he was coming into money. Peter was a good big brother. Of his three surviving younger siblings, Susan was 21 and had just married her childhood sweetheart upon his return from the war. Beryl was 19 and had a 2-year-old son called Jimmy by a Yank soldier named Jim, who hadn't seen fit to marry her or even mention his surname. Billy was only 13, having arrived when Peter was the same age.
"Peter, my darling—we will cross that bridge when we get to it, all right? The important thing for you to do right now is rest and wait for General Hogan to arrive so you two can get acquainted. Your room is ready, and it's right next to mine, all right? We'll motor out to Edgebrook together in the morning."
Peter nodded and sat back in the chair, scratching again at the leather, and this time his father didn't scold. "What are you getting out of this, anyway?" he asked in a low, angry voice. He was in full Cockney voice now.
"We need the Americans here for defense of our nation, Peter. And I have plans for the proceeds from the lease on the land. Important scientific breakthroughs are happening and I plan to support them."
"So basically you're selling me for a lot of money."
George sighed. "Money is involved, yes. But Peter, I am not selling you. I am creating a better future for you."