The Maestro breathed a loud sigh of relief. By working all night his staff had finally managed to bring everything together. The table was set, the flowers finally in place, and the footmen were placing the chairs the proper 28 inches away from the edge of the polished table. All that remained was for the candles to be lit and the shades placed over the gilt frames.
"It looks very nice," came a voice.
The Maestro turned and saw Chef and smiled. "Thank you, I do try," he said.
Laughing, Chef waved his hand at the long, polished table laden with silver and flowers. "I must say I have never seen anything like it!" He nodded approval at the napkins, folded into the "Prince of Wales Feathers" style. He noticed that they were resting on . . . cork chargers?
The Maestro saw the look and explained. "Necessary to protect the veneer of the table. The plates are very hot, as you know, and I had the chargers made up. They're painted rather prettily with London scenes."
Chef nodded his understanding. Silver chargers were great conductors of heat, and would ruin the veneer of what was obviously a very old, and very important table. "The silver is magnificent," he murmured as his eyes took in the silver bowls filled with flowers, the mirrored plateaus that supported the four-branch candelabra, the "accent pieces" and the truly magnificent flower-filled epergnes. He also noticed the table silver. He glanced at the Maestro. "Russian? Faberge, I think."
A huge smile broke the Maestro's face. "I knew that you would know! Whenever one mentions Faberge most people think of jewelled Imperial Easter Eggs!" He gestured at the shining array of silver forks, spoons and knives. "Faberge made 700 place settings for Tsar Nicholas II, for the Great Palace at Peterhof. The Bolsheviks sold the silver, along with much of their Imperial heritage, in 1922. I have 100 place settings."
"Really? However did you get them?" asked Chef.
"I bought the lot in 1936, in Berlin," replied the Maestro. "I was working for an antique dealer in New York and was on one of my annual buying trips."
"Somehow I always thought that you were in the catering business forever!" said Chef with a grin.
"Not really. I've had several careers. I didn't start the business until after the war, when I was mustered out of the Catering Corps. Before the war I dealt in fine arts. It was a very interesting business and I learned a lot." The Maestro frowned. "War, revolution, social upheaval, all are wonderful times for antique dealers and collectors. People sell their portable assets, notably jewels, and silver, for a fraction of their worth. I am very much afraid that it was a buyers market. It always is."
"Pangs of conscience?" probed Chef.
"Not really, although I did break the law," replied the Maestro with a conspiratorial grin.
"How did you manage to do that?"
"Well, Chef, at the time the Nazis were doing everything in their power to eradicate the German Jews. The Nuremberg Laws were in effect and the poor wretches were being forced out of their homes. They had to sell up, get would they could for what they had, you see, and the Nazis set the sale prices."
"So what did you do?"
The Maestro chuckled. "Well, I did pay the so-called market price. The chap who sold me the silver used it to buy passage for himself and his family to Shanghai, of all places. They left from Bremen so I went down to say goodbye. I took a box of chocolates. Inside the macaroons and fondants were sovereigns."
Chef gasped, "That was currency smuggling!"
"Of course it was," agreed the Maestro. "But the man had six children and nothing but `Ship Marks', and damned few of them. He needed a little something to help him get settled later on. I wasn't about to cheat him. I also arranged to have some American dollars sent to him in China."
"He survived?"
"Oh yes. He lives in Israel now. He's very happy."
"Sandro, who is dear to me old heart, and Jewish, would call what you did a `mitzvah', a blessing."
The Maestro snorted. "Well I made up for it when I bought the Hanover Service!" he waved at the service plates and bowls and candelabra decorating the table.
"It's German?" asked Chef.
"The original owners were," returned the Maestro. "Actually, it's French and German. The original service was made by Robert-Joseph Auguste and purchased by George III, for use when he was in residence in his German palace. That was sometime in the 1780s. Old George decided he needed more so he had the Court Goldsmith in Hanover, Franz Peter Bunsen make some additional pieces."
"I take it you paid a pretty price for it," offered Chef, his appraising eyes taking in the rich, pure, neoclassic lines of the silver pieces.
"An extravagant price," replied the Maestro with heavy emphasis. He shrugged phlegmatically. "But then I was bidding against a Rothschild!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"A Rothschild," repeated the Maestro. "Alphonse de Rothschild, actually. He already had a portion of the service and wanted to add these pieces to his collection. I outbid him, and his agents still call from time to time asking if I would consider selling what I have."
"Would you?" asked Chef.
"Never," replied the Maestro. He looked at Chef and continued. "My collections, which include china, and crystal, are my legacy to Ginger."
Thinking, Chef now had confirmed the nature of the relationship between the Maestro and his business partner. He nodded, maintaining his silence.
"Ginger and I have been together for many years," said the Maestro without preamble or apology. "I am 76 years old. When I go I want to be certain that he has something to keep him going." He shrugged. "He's a wonderful cook but he has no business sense. He's not stupid of course, but he simply cannot seem to get his nose out of the sauce pots!"
"He might not want to continue the business," offered Chef. "Just from what I've seen today it's a very time consuming, laborious task!"
"It is," agreed the Maestro. "It's the details that are important. Everything has to be co-ordinated, from the colour of the candles to the place settings. Then there is dealing with the clients!" He rolled his eyes. "Not the Old Guard. They don't need to be impressed. If I were to explain the provenance of the silver, for instance, to Mrs. Arundel, or Mrs. Randolph, they would think me pretentious. They know what is good, what is not good, and they ceased to be impressed long ago."
Again Chef thought of the Twins. "Much too grand for the likes of us?" he ventured, remembering how the Twins always downplayed their family's wealth and status.
"Yes, something like that," said the Maestro. "It's the new rich you have to be wary of. They're the ones who haunt every prestigious auction and buy up the legacy of the Old World in order to brag in the New! Everything they own, from the pants they wear, to the motorcars they drive, must be labelled, and come with bragging rights! Their houses, usually nightmares of cubism, must always be decorated by the latest, `in' designer, with no relation to the surroundings. When they entertain they must have flash, pizzazz . . . and ice sculptures!"
Chef, who was no fan of ice except in drinks, nodded. "You don't care for ice sculptures?" he asked with a low chuckle.
"Or of the nauseating flower arrangements they insist on having, filled with the most exotic blooms and ferns the florist can provide, most of which look like the Devil's unzipped codpiece with his pecker hanging out!"
Chef laughed until his sides ached and then asked, "If you feel that way, why do you do it?"
"Well, I do make a very good living at it," replied the Maestro honestly. "But I think I do it more for the opportunity to watch pretentious, shallow, overdressed people, who are no better than they should be, exercise their God-given right to make utter, complete asses of themselves!"
The Maestro turned and motioned for Chef to follow. "I really must check the gardens," the Maestro said by way of explanation. "The chair arrived, thank God, and Major Meinertzhagen was very firm in the way the garden was to be arranged."
"It is important that the venue for this afternoon be just so, that it makes just the right gesture," replied Chef. "It is not every day that mere mortals are raised to the nobility."
The Maestro looked firmly at Chef. "Mere mortals?" he queried, and then answered his own question. "I think not!"
"What do you think?" asked Chef, wondering if the Order was actually as secret as Michael - and he - thought is was.
The Maestro shrugged. "To be honest, originally I thought that the young men were brought here for, shall we say, a little fun in the sun with Michael's friends."
Chef paled. "Really, Maestro!"
Holding up his hand, the Maestro regarded Chef a moment. "Chef, you may have noticed that the young men I hire as under butlers and footmen are handsome, well muscled, striking in some ways, men!"
Chef had to admit that he had noticed.
"I try to ensure that the people I send into a private house will fit in, so to speak. If this were a function in say, Arundel House, I would use older men, more experienced men." He fixed Chef a look. "Less desirable men!"
"Are you saying that you . . .?"
"Pimp?" supplied the Maestro. "Not at all. I actively discourage my people from forming relations with clients, or becoming involved in their little activities on the side. It has happened and from time to time a client will take a fancy to one of my more striking employees and hire him away. Ah, here we are."
They had exited the house and entered the garden. Chef saw that the area had been made to look as churchlike as possible. The small, gold ballroom chairs were formed into two sections, with an aisle between, leading to a long, polished table on which were placed two candlesticks.
"I am sure that this is exactly what Michael wants," observed Chef dryly. "Now please explain what you just said!" He was not angry, but he was unnerved. "What," he asked himself, "did the Maestro know."
As he settled himself on one of the deceptively fragile-looking chairs, the Maestro motioned for Chef to join him. "You know, in the course of my career I have met some characters," began the Maestro by way of preamble. "Some were delightfully eccentric, others exhibiting a venality that beggars description. Two years ago I encountered not one, but a tribe of the latter."
Surprised, Chef watched as a very real shudder of loathing and disgust shook the Maestro's ample frame. "They were that bad?" he asked quietly.
"Chef, I can honestly say that I never encountered a group of . . . I cannot call them men . . . people that I would have joyfully stood at the wall as they." His face grew dark as he said, "And that is saying something because my regiment was one of the first into Buchenwald after the surrender!"
Chef sat back and the delicate chair groaned in protest at his weight. "They were that bad?"
"Worse," replied the Maestro with a nod of his head. "I remember the details quite clearly." His shoulders sagged. "Ginger and I were going through a rough patch - it happens in any relationship I suppose - and business was bad, very bad. We were not quite on our uppers, but close to it, when we were asked to cater a house party, a weekend house party. The money they offered should have twigged my suspicions, but as I say, business was bad. Any money coming in was welcome." Once again the Maestro shrugged enigmatically.
"We were asked to provide the best of everything, the best food, the best wines, hothouse this and hothouse that. No expense was to be spared. Whatever was asked for, we were to provide." He squirmed in his chair. "Then there was the venue." Once again the Maestro gave Chef a piercing look. "The house party was held in Coquitlam," he said heavily.
Chef's face retained its stoic demeanour, but inside his heart was pounding in trepidation and rising anguish. Coquitlam?
"I remember the time of year as well," growled the Maestro. "And if ever there was a perversion of the Christmas spirit, that house was the embodiment of it!" He laughed low and caustically. "And the word `perverse' cannot begin to describe what we saw, and heard!"
"What did you see, what did you hear?" asked Chef, his voice low and icy.
"Chef, in my business we see things, we hear things, but we say nothing. We are only in a strange house for a few hours, usually, and who pays attention to the gossip of servants?"
"I do!" rumbled Chef. "And you were in the house in Coquitlam for several days, I take it."
"Yes. We began with a Christmas Eve supper and ended with breakfast the day after Boxing Day."
"And what then was disturbing to you? What made you want to stand people against the wall?"
"The place was overrun with old men and little boys!" snapped the Maestro acidly. His tone softened somewhat as he continued, "Now, Ginger and I are lovers, and have been for years. He was 16 when I met him, and well, we grew to love one another. Given our situation we were hardly in a position to throw stones."
"You are still entitled to an opinion, to disapprove of something you might see or hear," Chef pointed out. "And obviously you did."
"Oh, yes," breathed the Maestro. "We saw things and heard things that made the blood run cold. First, there were the men. They were all old, or at least middle-aged. They were also quite important, or so it seemed to us. Some were in government service, two were military - brigadiers - but most were businessmen."
"And wealthy?" interjected Chef.
"From all appearances, very much so. There wasn't a Timex in the lot that I could see."
"Go on."
"Then there were the boys, and I do mean boys. Some were very young, little boys with haunted looks who seemed to be afraid all of the time! Others were, well, they strutted and posed, obviously sure of themselves. They were teenaged, 16 and up, I should think, and all of them were beautiful!
"It did not take Ginger and me long to understand that the boys were in the house to service the men. We didn't go above stairs, as all we were doing was supplying the food. But the other servants talked." The Maestro turned and looked searchingly at the house. "One of them, a Scotsman, was the worst. He came down to the kitchens and chattered away, laughing and describing in great detail what was going on upstairs."
Chef's eyes narrowed. A Scotsman? A Scotsman who worked as a servant in the house in Coquitlam? "Was he by any chance short, stocky, a bit of rough trade?" ventured Chef.
"Why yes, yes he was," answered the Maestro. "Both Ginger and I thought it somewhat ironic, given the time of the year, and the company, that he was called Noel."
"Noel!" thought Chef as his old heart skipped a beat. "The son of a bitch!"
"Did you know him?" asked the Maestro.
"He was in service, here, for a while," replied Chef without elaboration. "But no matter. What of the men?"
"Well, as I say, they were all filled with their own self-importance. They were guests in the house of the man who hired us but they treated him with veiled contempt. Sometimes they referred to him as The Grand Master'. More often than not he was called, the dirty old bastard' or `the Old Bugger'!"
Chef felt a chill course through his body, but said nothing.
"One of the men was obscenely fat! He was ancient and if Noel was to believed, incapable of performing - I am sure you know what that meant."
"If you are referring to whom I think you are," thought Chef, "yes, I do." He remained silent.
"Anyway, he showed up with not one, but four, young men. They were all of a type, blond, slim, fey things that seemed more concerned with their hair than anything else."
A lump of nausea rose in Chef's stomach. "Percy Simpson!"
"The others all had a boy with them, or boys, and it didn't take too much intelligence to understand why the boys were there. Not that we needed intelligence. From the servants' gossip it became very clear that we were in the middle of what was an orgy! The boys were passed around, objects to be used when the mood struck their owners."
"Owners?" More and more pieces of the puzzle were beginning to be set in place.
"That was the impression I had," said the Maestro. "Of course, there were other boys, hired for the occasion so to speak. They were hookers."
"And all of them there for the pleasure of the guests."
The Maestro nodded. "Yes, and there was a great deal of `pleasure' going on." He shuddered. "Thank God we didn't have to do the laundry!"
Chef chuckled. "I sometimes think that the laundrymen know more secrets than a priest!"
"It's a toss up between them and the footmen," replied the Maestro. "In the event, there we were, Ginger and I, no neophytes and far from being virgins, in the middle of an orgy!"
"An orgy?"
"Every time Ginger or I stuck our noses above stairs we were confronted by scantily clad little boys scampering about being chased by slavering old men! It was disgusting, really, what was going on in that house but, and here I am to this day still wondering about it, they seemed to reserve their - shall I call it their exuberance - for Boxing Day! That was the worst day of all!"
The Maestro paused and stared into the distance, not seeing the trees, or the flowers, or the red brick wall that surrounded the house. "It was depraved," he said presently. "I eventually came to understand that the men were members of some sort of secret Order. They were formed into what they called priories and each priory vied with the other to impress the man they called `Grand Master'."
Chef's stomach seemed to tighten into an unbreakable knot. He did not want to know what the Maestro was talking about, he did not want to believe what the Maestro was saying, but Chef knew without doubt that every word the Maestro uttered was truth.
Taking a deep breath, the Maestro continued. "On the morning of Boxing Day a man arrived - a German. He had with him some young boys. These boys ranged in age from nine or ten, up to around 15 or 16. They were gifts for the Grand Master."
"Dear God!" breathed Chef.
"It gets worse," warned the Maestro. "The boys were bathed in perfumed water, and dressed in fine silk robes. Now, I know that prepubescent boys have a tendency to look, well . . . pretty, but what was done to them was . . ." The Maestro's voice trailed into silence. He shook his head, trying to banish from his mind the horrible memories of that weekend in Coquitlam.
Chef remained silent. The old Grand Master, a man whom he had despised, had proven as base, as shallow, as Chef had suspected. He had filled the ranks of the Order with paedophiles and perverts and turned what was supposed to be a day of calm reflection, of remembering, into one of bacchanalia!
December 26th, Boxing Day, the day after Christmas was, in the Calendar of Saints, the feast day of Saint John. On this day the Knights of the Order had always gathered to remember the fallen, to welcome new members, a day of solemnity and tradition. That the practice had fallen into abeyance over the years was of no importance. The day was sacred! The old Grand Master was dead, but not all the participants. Simpson was dead, but not Willoughby, not Hunter, not the others.
Chef eyes grew hard. "You are aware that the Order exists? That Michael Chan is the Grand Master?" he asked coldly.
"Of course," replied the Maestro without emotion. Then his voice seemed to fill with passion. "I also know that this Order, the Order that exists here, is no collection of perverts! The boys here are not . . ." he paused, searching for the right words, ". . . slaves, objects to satisfy the lusts of old men!" The Maestro suddenly chuckled and rubbed the side of his nose. "Between thee and me, Chef, there is not a hell of a lot of `lusting' going on at all!"
For a moment Chef was nonplussed. He was aware that some of the young men had formed relationships, and to be honest, he expected that more would explore their sexuality. It was the way of young men, after all, but still coloured slightly as he said, "Well, I should hope not, but then again . . ."
The Maestro held up his hand. "I am not so old a fool as to not know that some of the young men are soiling the sheets! But there is very little of it, and I think only in the schoolboy sense. The difference is that what is going on is consensual. Nobody has been drugged - which I believe happened to the boys in Coquitlam - and not one of them is sharing the bed of what I believe to be a `Senior Knight'."
"The old Grand Master is dead, and certain . . . plans . . . are in motion to rid the Order of the deviates. I cannot say more," replied Chef.
"I would not expect you to," responded the Maestro without rancour. "I am a stranger, as is Ginger. We are unknown quantities."
"Hardly unknown," offered Chef.
The Maestro chuckled. "Well, perhaps not, but as I keep my secrets, so do you, and Michael Chan."
"You have told me a secret," returned Chef. "And because you told me a secret, I must now ask what you want."
"Must ask?" responded the Maestro. "There is no need to ask. I offer what I know freely, without conditions."
"Why?"
"To establish my bona fides," replied the Maestro with a small smile. "You see, dear Chef, I too have my plans."
Chef's face remained impassive. "And they are?"
Once again the Maestro stared into the distance. "For many years I have had access to many houses. If you and Michael are determined to rid your Order of what you call `deviants' I can help. They exist in every culture, at every level of society. I am a gay man, with a gay lover. I have never forced myself on anyone and I have never had the need or the inclination to take little boys into my bed!" He stood abruptly. "Chef, I am of the Old School. I know the frailties of man! I have seen and heard things that would make your hair curl! Most of these things I ignored, or understood. We are all of us different in our tastes and habits. But I am not going to sit idly by anymore. I can no longer stand aside and watch a boy's childhood ruined to satisfy the perversions of men!"
The Maestro began to walk briskly toward the house. Chef hurried after him. "It is a dangerous game we play," Chef warned as he caught up with the other heavy set man.
"I know," replied the Maestro, stopping. He regarded chef a moment. "I will take what risks come my way, but I am determined to help you and Michael. I will give you notes, and try to recall every name, every incident. My conscience is going to be clear when I finally shuffle off this mortal coil."
"Are you ill?" asked Chef , concerned.
"No, I am just old," countered the Maestro. "I am not going to live forever and I believe that I should make arrangements, for Ginger, and for some of my young men."
"Your young men?" asked Chef, confused.
The Maestro laughed. "My young men are my staff, the men who help me make my business the best in the city. They are all gay, but I suspect you know that." Before Chef could confirm the Maestro's words, the caterer continued. "Not only do I give them work, I try to give them hope. I try to convince them that they are not just some fag in need of a job, with nothing to look forward to but their next piece of ass!"
As they mounted the steps leading to the wide terrace, the Maestro waved his arms, partly in anger, partly in frustration, partly in excitement. "I choose them because I believe they have potential! I try to lead them, to direct them, to show them that they have a future, that they have hope!"
Stopping, the Maestro looked directly at Chef. "In short, I believe I am the civilian equivalent of an irascible old cook, a man who believes in the dignity and honour of his charges, who threatens them, cajoles and complains but who, at the end of the day, provides the leadership they need; but also, and much more importantly, teaches them that they are just as good, if not better, than everybody else!" He leaned forward and whispered. "You pretend to be a mean old fart, Chef, but in the end your true self rises to the surface. You believe in those young men, and you make sure that they believe in themselves. You give them something few men are capable of giving."
Stunned at the Maestro's outburst, Chef took a step back. "What . . . what is that, then?"
"Your love," replied the Maestro simply. He gestured for Chef to follow him into the house. "Now come, it is time for you to inspect your new empire."
"My what?" yelped Chef.
"I told you that I have my plans," replied the Maestro without inflection. "The first is to speak with Michael Chan, and request membership in the Order. I will bring to him in exchange honesty, loyalty and probity. He wishes to reform his Order, yes?"
Chef nodded.
"Then he will need men, older men, such as myself, and Ginger. He's as flighty as a bumblebee - but then most cooks are - but he's sharp, and very intuitive. While I applaud the infusion of new blood, I must also point out that you also need to consider that older men, men who will bring stability, are also needed. I offer myself as one of them."
"That could be arranged," returned Chef. "There are some restrictions, you know."
"I don't know, which is why I am talking to you," replied the Maestro patiently. "Every organization has rules, which I expect and which I will honour." He shrugged. "I ask only that I, and what I can bring to the Order, be considered."
"And my `empire'?" asked Chef.
"I am a man who devotes every fibre of my being to whatever it is I am doing. I am also getting on and quite frankly, the catering business is becoming too much for me. Being the best takes a great deal of effort and I fear that while the spirit is willing, the flesh grows weaker as the years pass. I am fast approaching the stage in my life when I cannot give my best, to my clients, to my employees, to Ginger."
He rushed on before Chef could protest. "Which is why I am going to sell you my business, on terms." He turned and laughed quietly. "Don't look so shocked, Chef! After all, there is only room in this old world for one Maestro!" He bowed low. "I pass the torch," he said with a grin.
"I wonder what that is all about," muttered Major Meinertzhagen as he watched the scene between Chef and the Maestro.
Michael, who had not been paying attention to what was going on in the garden, returned, "I am sure we will know in time." He cleared his throat. "I see that the garden is ready for the ceremony."
"It looks quite nice," replied the Major. He held up a sheaf of papers. "The arrangements for the flight to Quebec City are complete."
Nodding, Michael gestured for the Major to continue.
"The funeral is scheduled for 1500 tomorrow. Because of the number of people going from here I have arranged a charter with Air Canada." He paused, not quite ready to tell Michael how much the flight would cost him. "The plane is scheduled to land in Quebec City at 1300. I have arranged rooms in the Chateau Frontenac for the young gentlemen and ladies to change. Buses are laid on for the drive to Ste-Anne-de-Beaupre."
"And the ceremonies today?"
"There will be a small reception before the Investiture, from 1400 to 1500. At 1500 we will gather in the drawing room. I have scheduled the Investiture to last until approximately 1700."
"Just in time for tea," observed Michael dryly. The Major was a creature of habit and nothing short of a nuclear detonation would keep him from observing his daily ritual of tea promptly at five o'clock in the afternoon.
"The ladies will be pleased, and expect tea," temporized the Major. "Of course, we will also have something stronger for those who wish it." He shuffled his papers. "From 1800 until 2000 is free time, which will allow our guests to rest and dress for dinner at 2000." He looked searchingly at Michael. "If there are no speeches dinner should be over and done with my 2130."
"There will be no speeches, except for the usual Toast to the Queen."
"We have American guests," the Major pointed out.
"Then add what is necessary," replied Michael impatiently. "What else?"
"Everything is arranged," said the Major, knowing full well what the "what else" was. "Logan has returned from Victoria. I have spoken with Tsang Su Shun, and he is working with Cousin Tommy. The doctor's delay in reporting to his masters has worked to our advantage."
Michael nodded. "He has unwittingly given us the time we needed to prepare." He looked pointedly at the Major. "Where is he, by the way?"
The Major coughed delicately. "He is, um, examining, the new men."
Watching as the Major blushed fiercely, Michael hid his amusement. "A very long examination I take it?"
"Yes," replied the Major without elaboration. He continued. "Eddy Tsang is funnelling men into the docks. He expects no problems."
"Tell him to be careful. Minh has many eyes."
"I am sure that Eddy knows this. Fortunately all of Minh's `eyes' are Vietnamese, or white. Eddy knows who is with us, and who is not."
"Good. And The Gunner?" asked Michael suddenly.
"He has gathered a group of men together. He and they continue to watch. He plans to move on Labour Day, very early in the morning. He has arranged for a hospital, as you know, to receive the boys rescued. He tells me that a lady is involved who has used her influence, and money, to furnish and equip the hospital, and to arrange for medical staff to be available. Cousin Terry Hsiang is helping. The Gunner is only holding off until events in Quebec unfold. That is the unknown, I am afraid."
Michael glowered. "I do not like unknowns." Then he shrugged. "But then, there is nothing we can do about it. I am not worried. I don't think that there is anything in Quebec. Still . . ."
"A few more minders?"
"Yes, I think that would be wise. While there is no reason to expect that our young gentlemen will be in any danger, I do not want to tempt fate. Call it a `gut feeling'." He looked at the Major. "Have Pete consider some of the new men. I do not want to send all of my experienced security staff away, not at this time."
Rising, Michael said, "Minh is not stupid. He will use his best men in his attempt to eliminate me. I will use my best men to foil his plans." He walked to the door and opened it. "Anything else?"
"The Maestro would like you to inspect the arrangements for the dinner. Everything is in hand, but he wants to make sure that you are satisfied with what he has done."
Sighing, Michael nodded. He really had better things to do with his time. Still, Chef was involved, and he would want Michael to show the flag.
"Very well," agreed Michael. "And perhaps we will also learn what Chef and the Maestro are plotting."
"Wonderful," the Maestro exclaimed as he and Chef descended the stairs leading to the undercroft, and the kitchens.
"Wonderful that Michael approved of the table or of your plans?" asked Chef.
"Both." The Maestro paused and looked at Chef. "What did he mean when he said that I would have to meet with the Proctor?"
Chef let on that he was as much in the dark as the Maestro. "Well, I believe the Proctor is the man who interviews you, you know, tells you about the Order, its history, explains the Rule, and so on."
"Oh." The Maestro stepped into the long corridor and paused again. "There's nothing, um, shall we say, untoward?"
"Nothing at all," replied Chef with a slight smile. "Basically you need three sponsors, profess if you wish - that is, declare openly that you are homosexual - take an oath, and that's it." He considered the Maestro a moment. "There is one article of the Rule that binds all the knights together. It hasn't been relaxed in 600 years and frankly I hope it never is. Mind you, if you kick up a fuss about it you and Ginger can become Companions."
Looking quizzically at Chef, the Maestro asked, "Whatever are you talking about?"
"Article 26 of the Rule," replied Chef carefully. "Candidates have been known to kick up a fuss about it." He shrugged. "But the Rule is the Rule."
The Maestro regarded Chef a moment, his face darkening. "It would help if you stopped beating about the bush and told me what the hell `Article 26' is all about!"
"Well, you have to be circumcised," replied Chef, not quite sure how the news would be received.
Much to Chef's surprise, the Maestro laughed aloud. "Is that all?" he asked. "Why, my dear, fellow, every true gentleman is."
"And Ginger?" asked Chef, thinking that it was best to get everything out in the open. Waving his hand airily, the Maestro confided, "The Proctor won't have to worry. Ginger is as snipped as a little Jewish boy, and that happened to me during the war. I was in North Africa and it was hotter than hell, with sand blowing into everything." He emphasized `everything' darkly. "The medicos recommended it and since it came with two weeks leave in Cairo I took them up on their offer."
Still laughing, the Maestro advanced down the corridor. "Thank God I won't have to explain Article 26 to him! I'll have enough trouble when I tell him that I'm passing the torch on to you!" He shuddered slightly at the thought. "Ginger is a lovely boy but at times he is as neurotic as a diva!"
"You haven't told him?" asked Chef, aghast. He stopped abruptly. "I thought he was your partner!"
"He is," replied the Maestro. "We have a very convenient arrangement. He looks after the kitchen, I look after the business."
From the far end of the corridor, where the kitchens were located, came a crash and a bellow.
"But then again, perhaps I'll wait until after tonight," mused the Maestro.
"Do we really want to go in there?" asked Chef as one of the sous-chefs came barrelling through the kitchen door and scuttled into the bathroom.
Sighing, a fatalistic look on his face, the Maestro nodded. "I'm afraid we do. Ginger needs to be stroked from time to time." He grinned at Chef. "In more ways than one."
As Chef and the Maestro entered the kitchen the shouting and tumult subsided. Chef cast his expert eye around the long, wide, white-tiled room and nodded approvingly. The preparations for dinner seemed to be going along perfectly. Chefs, most of them young, bustled back and forth, sipping, tasting, nodding or shaking their heads over the pots and saucepans that seemed to dominate every burner on the two huge ranges.
In the centre of the room, sous-chefs were busily preparing what looked to be silver trays of sandwiches and delicate hors d'oevres. Others were carefully cutting vegetables into identical pieces. The place was humming like a well-oiled machine.
At the far end of the kitchen Ginger, magnificently outraged, was waving an impossibly large carving knife at two crestfallen, very young looking, apprentice chefs.
" . . . I do not want to ever see that again!" Ginger was bellowing. "Dirty hands mean dirty dicks! It's unhygienic and all I need is for you clowns to give everybody the mung!"
"He's in good form," observed Chef with a whisper, not daring to add that the younger man reminded Chef of himself, when he was bellowing at the Litany of Saints.
"Oh, he'll be like that all evening," responded the Maestro without inflection. "It does tend to keep everyone on their toes."
Ginger had turned his attention to the small group of footmen braced against the far wall of the kitchen. He brandished his knife threateningly. "And that goes for you clowns! Clean dicks, clean hands! I want all of you to wash your hands before you dare take one tray of food into that dining room!"
Chef noticed that the footmen were wearing their day livery of black tailcoats, red waistcoats and straight ties. He also noticed that there had been two additions to the household staff, two young men whom he had never seen before. One was tall, skinny, and had flaming red hair. The other was shorter, with dark hair and dark, brooding eyes. Neither one seemed all that pleased to be here.
"You're new," Ginger said accusingly at the two men. Both nodded. Ginger looked each man up and down and then took a few steps forward. He put his arm around the redhead's shoulder in what looked like an affectionate, welcoming embrace. It was far from it.
"Tell me, my son, do you have a death wish?" Ginger asked, his voice deceptively calm and quiet.
Rusty glanced apprehensively at Jake. "Um, no, not at all sir," Rusty said carefully, not wanting to set the madman off again. After what had happened in the surgery earlier on, Rusty was certain that the crazy cook was about to ask if his dick was clean!
"Who dressed you?" Ginger asked.
"Why, I dressed myself!" declared Rusty.
Squeezing Rusty's shoulder, Ginger grinned malevolently. "What a pity." He drew back and regarded the young man a moment. "You're new, so you get one kick at the cat."
"I do?" asked Rusty, visibly relieved that the cook had set aside his knife, and wondering what he had done to deserve Ginger's ire.
"One kick," warned Ginger. He turned and regarded the dark, brooding young man. "Lift up the legs of your trousers, please," he ordered.
"Huh?" Jake looked at Rusty, looked at Ginger, whose expression had not changed, and lifted the leg of his trousers, revealing spit shined shoes and black socks.
Looking directly at Rusty, Ginger ordered, "Now you."
Rusty did as he was told.
"Now, would you regard your friend's footwear?"
Again, Rusty did as he was told.
"Do you notice anything different?" asked Ginger ominously.
"Um, he's wearing black socks?"
"Aha!" crowed Ginger, "a most observant young man!" He pointed at Ginger's socks. "Now look at yours, cretin!"
Rusty looked and if it were possible, turned paler than he already was. "White, I'm wearing white socks!" he whimpered.
Chef made to move closer to the small group, the better to protect the new men. The Maestro held him back. "Don't worry, Ginger is only welcoming the new boys. He won't harm a hair on the boy's skinny butt."
From the look of the youthful Rusty, Chef wondered if he had hair on his butt, but simply nodded, waiting.
Ginger crossed his arms over his chest. "In the interest of simplicity, and to prevent me from yelling out `hey you' whenever I need you, what in the hell is your name?"
Rusty now blushed pinkly. "Jones, sir, Sam Jones," he sputtered.
"I suppose they call you `Red'?" asked Ginger, who had endured the appellation for years in school.
"Um, well, no," replied Rusty. "The boys call me Rusty."
"The boys?" asked Ginger archly. "Do you have a harem out there?"
"He's doing that deliberately," whispered Chef to the Maestro. "Ginger is deliberately goading the boy, to see how he reacts under pressure."
"Yes. He does that with all the new servers. Neither he nor I want our people freezing in the middle of serving. And it has happened."
"I know," murmured Chef, who maintained, until today, that he had seen it all.
Rusty bristled at Ginger's words. "Sir, I have my buddies! I don't have a harem!" He gave Ginger a dirty look. "But if I did it would be the best damned harem in the country!"
Ginger's lips twitched. He did love a footman with a sense of humour. He turned to Jake. "And you are?"
"Jake Guildenhall," responded Jake without flinching. He held out his hand. "Go ahead, it's clean," he said slyly. He paused as Ginger's hand reached out. "And so's my dick!" Jake added, deadpan.
When the roar of laughter died away, Ginger shook Jake's hand. "You'll do, I think." He looked at Rusty. "I have a spare pair of black socks - I always carry a few spares. They're yours and please, never wear white in formal dress."
Rusty looked embarrassed. "Jake told me that I should put on black socks, but um, I don't have any."
Ginger nodded his understanding. Ginger was of a generation where white socks were a fashion statement and black socks something the undertaker put on you when you were being laid out. Or something your father wore with Bermuda shorts!
"And now you have some," replied Ginger. Then he said, "What I really want to know is what you are doing here? You're not one of ours, and you obviously have never been in service."
A twinkle appeared in Jake's eyes. "Well, we were eating lunch and the Sergeant-Major came over and told us to report here. He said that Mister Michael' wanted to bring us into the house later on and wanted us to get a feel of what we'd be doing." He frowned. "I have no idea who Mister Michael' is." The twinkle grew larger. "All the Sergeant-Major told us that we were to report to someone called the Maestro. He also said that the Maestro was a mean old son-of-a-bitch so watch our backs!"
The Maestro gasped and Chef snickered.
Ginger, whose ears were very sharp, grinned evilly. "You'll fit in." He turned and said loudly over his shoulder, making sure that the Maestro could hear him, "And just so you know, honey, there's only one `bitch' in this kitchen and that's me!"
Although both Jake and Rusty thought that what followed was for their benefit, actually it was something Ginger did before every dinner party. He did not like surprises, and he felt that he owed it to the people he worked with to let them know exactly what was expected of them. As Chef listened he realized that Ginger was essentially giving his staff a pep talk and heads up on the order of service.
"All right," Ginger began. He pointed at a pile of crisp, white napkins piled onto one of the kitchen tables. "Always carry a napkin, first because the plates are damned hot, and secondly you can wipe up any spills quickly. You'll all be detailed into three-man services, and you know your jobs." He regarded Rusty and Jake and said, "You're here more for security than anything else, but you're dressed in livery. Later on you'll change into your dress livery."
Jake and Rusty nodded. "We have them," said Jake, who never suspected that such magnificent, gold encrusted uniforms existed before he was issued his earlier in the day.
"Good." Ginger could not resist a dig. "And please, Rusty, Jake, black socks, okay?"
Once again the twinkle rose in Jake's eyes. "Clean black socks, clean hands, means . . ."
Giggling, Rusty finished, "Clean dicks!"
Ginger almost succumbed to a massive attack of the giggles, shook himself, and continued. "That goes without saying," he managed. He cleared his throat and continued. "Now, just to get your feet wet, Randy, Jake, you'll do canape service." He looked around and saw what he was looking for. "In your right hand, or left, but preferably your right, you'll carry a plate of sandwiches or hor d'oevres. In the other hand you'll have some small cocktail napkins. All you have to do is offer the food, then the napkins. Most of the guests will know what to do so you won't have any problems."
"When do we do that?" asked Rusty.
"Okay, here's the schedule," replied Ginger as he searched the pockets of his cook's trousers. "Oh, here it is," he said as he pulled out a piece of paper. "First, we serve at the pre-Investiture reception. Rusty and Jake will pass the small plates . . ." he looked at the other footmen gathered around. "Drew, you and Ken will man the hot table. Rolly, you and Jason will pass the drinks. They're all pre-poured and weak, but please, please, keep the hooch away from the youngsters. They have to show up at the Investiture sober!" He turned to another footman. "Kip, you'll be on soft drinks with Roberto."
Kip nodded and Ginger moved on. "After the Investiture tea will be served." He consulted his notes. "There will be three tables set up, with tea urns. The ladies will pour." He saw the quizzical looks on Jake and Rusty's faces and smiled. "Mrs. Arundel, Mrs. Randolph and Mrs. Airlie," he explained. "Men never pour at tea." He returned to Jake and Rusty. "There's no service as such. The food is laid out on a separate table and the guests help themselves." He turned abruptly. "That reminds me." He looked down the kitchen and yelled, "Auguste, liebchen, are you ready for the tea?"
August, a burly, beetle-browed man, yelled back. "Balmoral scones, Scottish shortbread fingers, dark chocolate cake, potted shrimp, bread and butter!"
"Aaannnddd?" prompted Ginger.
"Lobster salad because Major Meinertzhagen is queer for it!" responded Auguste.
Chef, who was listening intently, stifled a snicker. He would have to make a mental note, for future reference, of that particular little sally.
"After the Investiture tea there will be a short gap before dinner is served." Ginger again regarded the footmen. "The dinner will be the final event and it's a killer. Remember, everything is French service. The soup will be the worst part of it." He looked around and found a very pretty plate decorated with pink poppies, green leaves and foliage. "Remember the service. One to pass the soup service, one to hold the tureen, and one to pour. Always hold the plate under the ladle as you pour." He looked at the plate and said, "And not one of these. They're Meissen and irreplaceable. Use a plain, white plate."
Ginger suddenly looked around suspiciously. "We're missing someone!" he accused loudly, and glaring at the Maestro. "We're missing someone!"
The Maestro cringed. When he was cooking, Ginger was focussed completely on his food. He demanded perfection from his sous-chefs, sauciers, the pastry chef, even the boys who scoured the copper cooking pans and pots. He saw nothing but pots of simmering soup, heard nothing but the gentle bubbling of poached sole. Obviously he had not heard the whispered gossip about Quinn Bogart.
"Um, we've lost young Quinn, I'm afraid," said the Maestro carefully.
Ginger glowered, frowned, and then rose to the occasion. "Well, we shall just have to make do!" He rounded on Rusty. "You, you will serve at table!"
"But . . . but . . ." began Rusty, who had never served at anything but passing out the burgers and hotdogs at a family barbecue.
"Silence!" roared Ginger. "You will be with . . ." he again consulted his notes. "Ah, yes, you'll be with Philippe and Sturgis and, damn it!"
"What's wrong now?" asked the Maestro pointedly.
"They're detailed to serve the Grand Master," explained Ginger. He seemed to think a moment. "Sturgis, you've only served at one formal dinner before?"
A very young looking blond nodded his head. "Yeah."
"Well, we can't have two relatively inexperienced men on the same service." Ginger turned. "Jake, you'll have to step into the breach."
"I will?" whispered Jake. At his house back home men did not serve at table.
"You will. Sturgis, you'll switch with Rolly. That will put you on the service with some kid."
Both Chef and the Maestro, who had seen the dinner board, shook their heads in unison. The "kid" was not a "kid", but The Phantom. Chef, who was privy to what would be happening very soon in the drawing room leaned and whispered, "Do you think I should tell him that the kid is about to become a very important person?"
"No," returned the Maestro. "The dippy shit needs a lesson in keeping his comments to himself!"
Chef shrugged and returned to listening to Ginger.
"Now, the menu is more or less straight forward. Except for one course, a single dish will be offered at each course. You don't have to worry about serving the wine. That's the job of the Wine Steward and the under butlers."
Chef nodded. Down the corridor the Wine Steward and his helpers were busily preparing the wine - Chef had seen the wine list and couldn't wait to taste what was being offered - candling the wine and decanting the bottles.
"Okay, the first course is soup, Potage au Cresson, a very light watercress soup. This will be followed by the fish course, Filet de Sole aux Truffes."
The Maestro began muttering what sounded like a prayer to Chef. He asked quietly, "Is something wrong?"
Shaking his head, the Maestro replied, "It's fillet of sole softly poached in champagne, carefully folded to enclose a filling of spinach and mushrooms, and garnished with shrimps and truffles. It's one of Ginger's signature dishes and he has refused to serve it for years."
"It sounds delicious," responded Chef. "Were you praying for the fish, or for Ginger?"
Chuckling, the Maestro said, "The last time we served the dish was a trade delegation dinner. One of the guests - a German - reached for the salt before he had even tasted it!"
Chef was appalled. Like all chefs he believed that every dish that left his kitchen was perfectly seasoned and did not need anything added to it. He also believed that anyone who added salt, or pepper, to perfection was a clod, and not worthy of his time or his attention.
"Ginger had to be physically restrained and took to his bed for a week! Cost me a packet in lost bookings!"
"I would have throttled the kraut!" exclaimed Chef.
"That was what Ginger was trying to do when we pulled him away," responded the Maestro.
Haughtily ignoring he mumbling in the background, Ginger went on. "The main course, or entree, is Filet de Boeuf Chasseur, served with noissette potatoes and carrots. There is a sauce to accompany the fillet of beef. Rusty . . ."
"Yes?" asked a thoroughly frightened Rusty. All the French names, and obvious grandeur, were unsettling him. "Both Mr. Michael and Mrs. Arundel prefer their beef very well done. Their portions will have a sprig of parsley on them to let you know which is theirs."
"Okay," replied Rusty, who did not know what in the hell a piece of parsley was!
"The entree will be followed by Ortolans roti, which is served in little boats made out of lemons. The birds are very tiny, and some of the guests will decline - they'll feel sorry for eating such delicate things. This is fine as what the guests don't eat the staff do." He looked slyly at the Maestro. "And some of us are very partial to ortolans!"
The Maestro pretended to ignore Ginger's cattiness. "They are exquisite. I shall save some for you and prepare a basket for the plane," he told Chef.
"This is the only course where two dishes are offered. If the guest doesn't want the birds, offer him the alternate dish, Sorbet au Cliquot Rose, which is just a fancy name for frozen pink champagne. Then comes the salad, which is just a very simple green salad, ready-dressed with a strawberry balsamic vinaigrette, followed by dessert, which is Creme Brule."
Once again the Maestro whispered to Chef. "Ginger is very disappointed with the dessert."
"Why? It's safe, easy to prepare, and everybody likes it."
"It's the only dish on the menu that Michael changed. He likes it, and wants it. Ginger was hoping for something along the lines of Coupes d'Antigny or Bombe Neron."
Chef smiled. Both dishes were elaborate, delicious affairs, but took a great deal of time and effort. "I am sure the pastry chef appreciates Michael's plebeian tastes," Chef replied blandly.
The Maestro was about to retort that it was a plebeian taste shared by many, including the Queen of England, when the miscreant who had been the author of all the shouting returned from the washroom.
"Aha!" shouted Ginger, "the unclean has returned! Show me your hands."
Rusty began to sidle toward the door. "Where are you going?" asked Jake.
"To wash my hands," muttered Rusty. "I ain't takin' any chances with that fruitcake!"
Jake's smouldering eyes grew bright and a smile played at the corner of his lips. "If you really don't want to take any chances then you better wash your dick while you're at it!"
Lunch was served alfresco, with the young knights and the Cousins enjoying hamburgers and hotdogs, sitting on the grassy lawns or at the tables dotting the terrace. They gossiped and laughed about their adventures in the woods, and kidded the Twins about their singing abilities. When they finished eating, and at the prodding of their Commanding Officer and Andy and Kyle, the knights went up to their rooms and the Cousins filed through the gate in the wall, returning home to shower or bathe and change into their black suits.
Much to everyone's surprise the knights found that the household staff had been busy. The sheets had been changed on the beds, their laundry collected, and white uniforms laundered, starched and ironed to perfection. Those who only had one set of Number 11's were surprised to find an additional set hanging in their closets and Nate Schoenmann, the only civilian, whom Chef had taken to calling "The only cuckoo in the nest", found, in addition to his freshly pressed suit, a full set of morning dress, including striped trousers, carefully laid out for him.
Mr. Leung, the tailor, and his staff, and the Gieves man had been busy.
For all of the boys, the first order of business when they returned to their rooms had been to strip off their reeking combats and shower. As they were all more or less accustomed to showering en masse, most of them did just that. Eion Reilly and Peter Race showered together. It was a long shower, for Eion had decided that he wanted to try something new, something he'd been dreaming about, and hoping for, since he'd first discovered boy to boy sex. First he kissed a somewhat startled Peter, and then he sank to his knees.
"Man, you are gonna love this," Eion growled as he took Peter's rising manhood in his mouth.
Down the corridor, Nicholas and Matt showered, read some of the more salacious passages from the Bible, tried to interpret the passages, re-enacted one of the passages, showered again and lay down for a nap.
Randy and Joey for once behaved themselves and resisted the temptation to molest Phil Thornton, showered, and when he returned from his shower all three cuddled on their bed and fell asleep. Calvin and Simon, impressed at their roommates sudden fit of propriety, showered together, didn't fool around, and went to their bed. They kissed a bit, and then fell asleep in each other's arms.
In their room, The Phantom and Colin stripped down, showered and lay on their bed. As he lay in Colin's arms The Phantom let out a long, low sigh.
"What's wrong?" asked Colin, jerking his head up and looking into his lover's glorious, green eyes.
"Nothing. I'm just very . . . content," replied The Phantom. Then he added with a slight, almost imperceptible frown. "And a little apprehensive."
"Apprehensive? Why?" asked Colin. "You did very well today."
"Much to everyone's surprise," said The Phantom with a giggle. "Didn't think I could do it, did you?" he asked Colin.
"Ned sure didn't!" replied Colin with huge grin. Then he leaned down to give The Phantom a peck on the lips. "I on the other hand, thought you could do it." He gently stroked the soft skin of The Phantom's stomach. "I've learned never to be surprised at what you can do, Phantom, and never to doubt you when you say you'll do something."
The Phantom sniggered. "Still waters run deep?" he asked, gazing into Colin's deep blue eyes.
"Something along that line," replied Colin. "But that doesn't explain why you're apprehensive."
Once again, The Phantom sighed. "I had a talk with Michael."
"I know. I saw you. I also saw that you were crying. You want to talk about it?"
"Colin, so much seems to depend on me and I really don't know if I can be what everybody wants me to be!"
Again Colin gave his young lover a short, sweet kiss. "Michael seems to think so, I know so, and so do you!" he whispered.
The Phantom felt a stirring against his thigh and laughed a low, seductive laugh. "Don't you get frisky, Colin Arnott!" he warned teasingly.
"I thought you liked it when I get frisky," returned Colin.
"I do, but I am trying to be serious," said The Phantom. He reached up to stroke Colin's face. "Michael has plans for me." He looked seriously at Colin. "And you."
"Me?" croaked Colin. "What are you talking about?"
"Michael told me what his plans are for the Order. We both figure large in those plans." He leaned forward and whispered furiously in Colin's ear.
When The Phantom finished, Colin flopped back. "You? Me? Can he do that?"
"He says he can," replied The Phantom. "And you know Michael, if he says he can do it, he can!"
"Holy shit!" breathed Colin. "I'll never be able to explain that to my mother!" He turned and gave The Phantom a stunning, shining smile. "But then, I wonder how I'll be able to explain you to my mother."
"Me? Why would you have to?" asked The Phantom.
"Well, I have to tell her something," replied Colin. "I just don't think it wise to roll up to the house and announce that the handsome young guy with me is the one! The guy I plan on spending the rest of my life with!"
"Now, Colin," began The Phantom placatingly. "Think about what you're saying! Is it really wise to come out so soon? I mean, I want to, eventually, but . . ."
"No buts!" growled Colin. "I figure that after we finish burying Sylvain we'll have some free time. You don't have to be back in Comox until the day after Labour Day, right?"
"Well, yes."
"Good. Because the last I heard Air Canada still flew from Quebec City to Toronto. We'll rent a car and drive up to Collingwood. You'll meet my mother, and my dad, and my brothers and . . ."
"Cooollliiin!" wailed The Phantom.
"Shut up!" snapped Colin. "And get this in that thick skull of yours! Chef said that I had been given a great gift, a gift that I could hold, but never keep. Well I have news for the old boot! I am going to keep the gift, if I have to fight Chef, your damned precious Gunner, my family or anybody else that comes sneakin' down the pike!" He flopped back down on the bed.
The Phantom remained silent for several long minutes. Then a small smile formed on his lips. "Colin" he asked presently.
"Yeah?"
"You really mean what you said?"
"Betcha ass!"
"Colin?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you still feeling a little frisky?"
"No"
"No?" squeaked The Phantom.
Colin lunged suddenly. "No! I'm feeling a lot frisky!"
"God, I've created a monster!" declared Thumper. He was sitting at the window of his room, looking at the flushed, saturnine face of Two Strokes, who was lying on the bed, naked, with a self-satisfied grin on his face.
"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Two Strokes. He reached down and caressed his now soft penis. "You're a bit of a monster yourself!"
"Ha!" sniped Thumper. "Two weeks ago the only sex you had was with your hand! Now look at you, lying there all fat and sassy!"
Two Strokes giggled. "There's only one thing on me that's fat and sassy!" he declared. "And I haven't heard you complaining!"
"I'm not!" returned Thumper.
"Good, now come back to bed!"
"Two Strokes! You can't be ready again!" Thumper pretended to be disgusted. "God, you're insatiable!"
"It's the company I keep," growled Two Strokes. "Now come on!"
Snickering, Thumper stood up and reached around to finger his tenderness. "Ah, Two Strokes . . ." he began to whine.
"Not that!" Two Strokes reached out his hand. "You know what I want," he murmured, his voice low and seductive.
"Oh!" Thumper's face brightened. "Well, in that case . . ." He turned and as he did so he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked through the window. "Hey, who is . . . oh, it's Alistair. I wonder what he's up to."
"I don't care what he's up to, or if he's even up!" replied Two Strokes. It was his turn to whine a little. "Come on, Thumper!"
Alistair had hurried home after lunch, showered, changed into his black suit and then, ignoring Arden's whining questions, hurried through gate, across the lawns and gardens of the big house to the East Village, to the small house where he knew he would find Pete Sheppard. As he approached the house, Alistair felt the palms of his hands sweating. He could also feel the front of his tighties stretching. He was excited, he was in awe, and he was in love! Last night with Pete had been so . . . wonderful! Last night, after he had showered for what Alistair thought was the longest time, Pete had emerged from the bathroom wearing fresh, clean, white boxer shorts and a crisp, new, white T-shirt. He had stopped, silhouetted against the light that flowed from the bathroom, and then held open his arms.
At first they had lain on Pete's bed, just holding each other, looking into each other's eyes, their short, rasping breaths breaking the silence of the darkened room. Once, Pete had reached out to stroke Alistair's golden-skinned face. Once, Pete had leaned forward and kissed Alistair's thin, warm lips. That was the moment when Alistair fell in love.
Alistair had lain in Pete's arms, feeling the man's tumescence against his own, wanting to consummate their new love, but he knew that it was too soon. Pete was too soon away from the venal doctor's bed and Alistair was too much in love to want to even think of destroying the special moment.
They lay there, together, and soon Pete fell asleep with his nose brushing the shallow valley of Alistair's shoulder. His soft breathing increased Alistair's desire, and when Pete's arm held him closer, Alistair felt the throbbing in his groin change and without warning . . .
Alistair shuddered slightly and held Pete close, feeling the warm stickiness that spread across his lower stomach and into his pubic hair. Alistair never moved, never wanted to move, never wanted the warm feelings to leave his body. He was in love . . . in love . . . in love!
Nervously, and looking around self-consciously, Alistair rapped on the door to Pete's quarters. When there was no answer, he rapped again, this time louder. From inside he could hear the padding of bare feet on hardwood flooring and the door opened.
Pete, clutching a towel around his waist, looked surprised. "Alistair," he breathed.
Wringing his hands, Alistair ducked his head. "I . . . I . . . um, I thought I'd come and see how you were doing . . . um, maybe help you get dressed." His dark eyes looked pleadingly at Pete, who could not refuse this glorious, handsome young man entry.
"I was in the shower," Pete explained needlessly as he held the door open wider. "Come on in." As he closed the door behind Alistair, Pete continued. "And yeah, I could use some help."
Alistair smiled. Michael had decreed that the minders would "blend in" during the reception before the upcoming Investiture. He had also decreed formal morning coats with striped trousers. Pete knew how to dress, of course, but he too was remembering last night. "Everything's in the bedroom."
Hesitating, Alistair looked at Pete. "I can go, if you want."
Shaking his head, Pete replied, "Why?"
For a moment Alistair seemed to be tongue-tied. Then he blurted, "I love you!"
Silently, Pete reached out his hands, took Alistair's in his, and led him to the sofa. Here he gently sat Alistair down. His hands never released Alistair's. He breathed one word, "Alistair."
As he looked into Pete's warm, brown eyes, Alistair resisted the urge to kiss the young American. "I love you," he whispered fervently. "I knew it last night, when we were together!" He tried to pull away. "I know you can't feel that way about me, but I do love you, Pete."
"Why can't I feel that way?" asked Pete, his voice low and warm. "Why can't I love you?"
"But Pete," protested Alistair. "I'm . . . I'm Chinese! I've never, I mean . . . well I have fooled around with Cornelius, but that was just fooling around, and you're so wonderful, and worldly, and you think I'm just a dumb kid who wants to get his rocks off!"
Pete began laughing softly. He gazed into Alistair's eyes and then leaned forward. Their lips touched and when they drew apart, Pete asked, "And are you?"
"What?"
"Alistair, are you just a dumb kid who wants to get his rocks off?"
Looking as if he'd been struck, Alistair pulled back sharply. "No!" he all but yelled as he shook his head fiercely. "It's just that . . . how could you love me?"
"Are you finished?" Pete asked pleasantly. "Because if you are, there's something I'd like to tell you."
"There is?" asked Alistair, secretly fearing rejection.
"Alistair, just so you know, last night was something very special to me," Pete said. "You held me when I needed to be held. You kissed me the way I needed to be kissed."
"But . . .?"
Shaking his head, Pete continued. "Shall I tell you what I see?" he asked. He did not allow Alistair the chance to reply and continued, his voice warm, and very low. "I see a gloriously handsome young man. I see someone who makes me feel something I haven't felt in a very long time. I see a young man that I want to love, but not yet!"
Alistair did not hear Pete's caveat. He all but leaped on Pete and kissed him passionately. They struggled a bit and in the process Pete's towel came loose, exposing his soft, pink genitals. Alistair, lost in happiness, began to lick his way down Pete's chest, murmuring little sighs as he traced Pete's treasure trail and then burying his nose in Pete's soft, black, pubic bush. As his lips moved lower he saw for the first time Pete's soft, warm, pink organ. Drawing back a little, Alistair beamed. "You're sealed!" he exclaimed delightedly.
Pete took Alistair's distraction as an opportunity and as gently as he could pushed the young man away. "And so are you," he said quietly.
Sitting up abruptly, Alistair looked daggers at Pete. "And what is that supposed to mean? Does that make me something special, something not available?"
Pete shook his head. "If you will calm down, and listen to me, I will explain."
Frankly pouting, Alistair slumped in the corner of the sofa, his arms crossed over his chest. "Okay."
"Alistair, I said that I could love you," began Pete. He sighed. "As a matter of fact, I am beginning to love you."
"But?" snapped Alistair. "What is it, Pete, my age?"
"You are what, 17?" asked Pete.
"I am 18 years old," responded Alistair. "According to law I am a free agent! I can do what I like, with whom I like!"
Not intimidated by Alistair's tone, Pete continued. "There are also social differences. You are Chinese, I am white. You come from an aristocratic, wealthy family, cultured, educated, with every advantage given to you."
"So? Where is it written that two people from different cultures cannot fall in love?" returned Alistair. "I am just as `white' as you are, in the way I think, and act and talk! I go to church, for Christ's sake, and please do not dismiss me as a love struck schoolboy!"
"I do not," said Pete. "I am trying to make you understand that there are forces that will rise against us."
"Our families?" came Alistair's whispered question.
"Alistair, I barely finished high school and before I joined the Marines I counted nails!" replied Pete without emotion. "My family runs a hardware store in a pissant little town. They are hard shell Southern Baptists, they believe every word of the Bible and they don't look fondly on gays, or anyone who isn't a White Anglo-Saxon Christian. They don't believe in mixing the races. They would never understand my being gay, and never accept my being gay." At this point Pete leaned forward and stared at Alistair. "And neither would your family."
Alistair started. "My family is composed of fools and bigots!" he retorted angrily. "They pretend to be modern, cosmopolitan, men and women. Yet they inflict amahs on us, expect us to ignore our feelings, to pretend to be something we are not! They play piano, give to the symphony and the museum, and they won't let Cousin Joel into the house!"
"Because he is gay," said Pete softly. "My family would do the same, Alistair. I don't want that, and neither do you!"
"I don't care what my family thinks!" snarled Alistair. "They can all go to hell. So long as I'm with you, so long as I know you love me, that's all I need or want!"
Pete shook his head slowly. "Brave words, but you've forgotten one very important fact!"
"What's that?"
Deliberately, Pete reached down and indicated the soft pink glans of his organ. "In my culture circumcision has no significance at all. It is a normal, accepted practice, that no one pays any attention to." He held up his hand and pointed at Alistair. "But in your family's culture it has great significance! You were sealed' with great ceremony, and presented to the man you revere as The Serenity', set apart from other young men by your sealing. You are, whether you like it or not, someone special. Your parents sealed you to Michael Chan's service. You cannot ignore what is to be, you cannot run away from your destiny, and you cannot hide. You are dedicated to his service."
"Which means?" asked Alistair sharply.
"Have you considered what he might have to say about your being here? What he will say when he finds out you spent the night with me?"
"But we didn't do anything!" protested Alistair. "And why would Michael object to us being together? He certainly hasn't done anything to Cousin Joel!"
"Joel is not a prince of his house," Pete pointed out emphatically. "You are. What Michael forgives in Joel, he might not forgive in you!"
"I am willing to risk it," responded Alistair. "I know what could happen, but I love you, I want to be with you, and if Michael doesn't understand, then too bad."
Pete rose slowly, wrapped his towel around his waist, and knotted it firmly. "Come here," he murmured. When Alistair was in his arms, Pete said, "Listen to me, and please, please understand. I cannot and will not risk anything when it comes to Michael Chan. In a way I am as sealed to his service as you are. He brought me into his house, gave me a position of trust and security. I owe him, Alistair, and I will not go against his wishes." He drew back slightly. "If nothing else I owe him my loyalty."
"As do I," admitted Alistair. "Still, perhaps . . ."
"Alistair, I might see a future for us if I thought we could live a normal life together. But we can't and I will not demean you, or the love you have for me. If we started a relationship we'd have to sneak around, always afraid that someone would find out and tell Michael. I won't live my life that way and I won't allow you to live your life that way."
Abruptly, Alistair pulled away. "Do you mean that?" he asked brusquely.
"Every word," replied Pete. "Alistair, if it were possible, I could love you. But right now I am not in love with you. I like you . . . I like you a whole lot, and if we took things slowly, if we were permitted to take things slowly, I would, in time I think, come to love you."
Alistair thought quickly. "Are you then saying," he asked slowly, "that if Michael gave his permission you would court me?"
Pete laughed. "Well, yes, I suppose I am. I want our relationship to develop, Alistair. I'm not interested in a one-night-stand. I want everything to be above board, open and honest. If, as time goes by, and we come to know each other better, we find out that we aren't suited for each other, I want us to part as friends. If, on the other hand, we are suited to be partners, then I want us to be unafraid. Is that too much to ask?"
"No." Alistair looked at Pete out of the corner of his eye. "No sex?"
Pete shook his head. "Not at first. When the time comes, if it comes, I want it to be right for both of us."
"All right," replied Alistair with a brisk nod of his head. He began to move toward the door.
"Where are you going?"
"Pete, last night we slept together. It felt, wonderful, normal. I wish to feel that . . . wonder . . . again. I wish to feel it forever!" He slammed his fist against his thigh. "If the Serenity is as wise as you, and all the others seem to think he is, then he will allow you to `court' me, to ask formally to pay your respects to me."
"Now Alistair . . ."
"NO!" Alistair shouted. "No, Pete. If I am to be a prince of the House of Chan, then I shall be a prince! If Michael will not, or cannot, understand the way I feel, that I need and want you, Pete, as my mate, my partner, my consort, then I will leave the House of Chan. Joel did it, and I will do it!"
"Do not speak to Michael while you are angry!" responded Pete. He looked at Alistair and smiled slightly. "You are going to see him, aren't you?"
"I am."
"Then wait until I get dressed. If you go, you won't go alone."