This short story is part of my 2010 NaNoWriMo universe. This is being posted because of the lovely prompting by Snoink and GryphonFledgling. All comments and such are welcome.
This story is rated 16+ because of minor mature content and acts of violence.
The Character of Men, or Shore Leave in London
—a Hearts of Oak short story—
Alan Garrett had spent a week since Friday last at the home of one Sir Morton Ainsley, Major in the 52nd Regiment of Foot. It had been a glorious week for Alan, Ainsley had this unwitting ability to refuse to let Alan wallow in self-grief—Alan had spent more time joyously abed that he had since a child, and he was sure enjoying every moment of it. And, Ainsley seemed captivated by the younger Alan, and Alan lapped up the Captain’s accolades and flattery; it besotted and bolstered him.
Alan yawned and stretched. He turned onto his side; Ainsley was dressed already, his bright red army jacket and tan breeches pressed and impeccably clean. Alan frowned at the older man. “You are dressed.”
Morton turned a leering eye upon Alan. “And, you are not.”
Alan grinned and brushed a stray strand of ginger hair out of his face. “A much better state of being, I assure you.”
Morton raised an eyebrow and reached out to trail his fingers along the side of Alan’s face. Alan purred and leaned into the caress. “Normally, I would agree with you, but today I will not be swayed by the likes of you, wanton harlot. We are going out.”
Alan raised himself on his hands and knees—his face marked with a perfect pout.
“Oh, no.” Morton shook his head and turned away, reaching into his wardrobe. “Here,” he turned back with a dark blue coat, “put this on. It matches your eyes best.”
“Do we really have to go out?” Alan begged. He could think of a thousand better things they could do in bed.
“Unfortunately, yes. Alas, I have to at least make an appearance, for they may fear I am dead if I do not.” Morton placed more clothing next to the jacket on the bed. He leaned forward and drew Alan into a sensuous kiss. Alan was left dazed and unable to distract Morton out of his clothes as he had planned to.
Morton turned away from Alan. “Get dressed,” he called out to Alan before disappearing out of his bedchamber. Alan pouted yet proceeded to get dressed.
Alan felt adrift; like a ship without its rudder. He blinked and surveyed the scene that had emerged before him just inside the townhouse door. Men, most of them in regimental red, in small groups, lounged together around the room, most of them in chairs or on settees. Alan spotted a few men who were dressed in civilian clothing and a few dots of navy blue, but the room appeared to be a sea of red. A manservant flitted around the room with a tray of filled glasses—champagne Alan guessed at the pale, bubbly, golden liquid.
Alan right hand twitched nervously, and he inadvertently straightened his jacket. He felt Morton’s hand on his shoulder, prodding him forward. Alan stiffly edged forward. Morton leaned forward, his mouth so close it was tickling his neck and the back of his ear. “Come now, Alan, you must learn to enjoy yourself in society. Just think of this as practice.” Alan nodded mutely; petulantly he wanted to retort that he knew perfectly well how to enjoy himself. But the sense of estrangement was palpable. Never mind about what he had thought before, never mind a ship without its rudder; not only had the ship lost its rudder, now it was taking on water and fast. “Oh, look, its Quintin!” Morton exclaimed, and Alan eyes darted to where Morton was gesturing. A young man, older than Alan, wearing red regimentals, was crossing the room towards them. His blonde hair was cut short in the style du mode, and his mustache was trimmed. His smiling face was very handsome.
“Morton,” the man answered affably before embracing him. Then he turned his brilliant green eyes on Alan. “Well,” he grinned fixated on Alan. “Who is thing lovely thing?”
Alan felt himself melt. “Midshipman Alan Garrett,” Alan felt himself smile.
“Oh, and he speaks so prettily, too.” The man laughed, and Alan felt himself blush in response. He felt other parts of himself respond too.
“Alan, this is Quintin Thebius Worth, Captain of my Light Company,” Morton made the introductions, and Alan took the proffered hand and shook it.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Captain Worth,” Alan responded.
Worth chuckled and leaned in close to Alan. “The pleasure is all mine.”
Alan suddenly found himself holding another glass of champagne. It was his third, or fourth, or sixth, maybe even his seventh, he wasn’t quite sure. He felt surprisingly giddy and proud; proud he had gone almost one full day without brooding over Robert Lockitt. He stood away from most of the party goers, watching Ainsley entertain a young ensign.
“Are you hiding, my dear Mr. Garrett?”
Alan turned to look at Worth, who had suddenly appeared. The man was positively mercurial. Alan looked back towards Ainsley.
“No…not exactly,” he replied before taking a sip of champagne.
“Oh, pet…” Worth brushed his knuckles against Alan’s heated face. “Ainsley does this, you know,” he remarked gesturing towards Morton and the young ensign. “Takes in a young, pretty thing, but it never lasts.” Worth was close now; Alan could feel skin tingle with proximity. “And, when he’s done, he moves onto the next.” Through Alan’s happy existence wormed a maudlin feeling, but as soon as it had appeared, it fled forgotten.
“You could get him back you know. It would be my utmost pleasure to help you with that,” Worth whispered into Alan’s ear. Alan shivered. He looked down into his glass. It was empty. Alan stared at it. How…when…how was it empty? What did it matter anyway? He exchanged his empty glass for a full one, and smiled at Worth. The man was very handsome, Alan wondered…
“Alan, you will be alright right here for a while?” Ainsley had wandered over, his arm guiding the young ensign he had been in conference with. The young ensign’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes wide. “I am going to find some place quiet to talk to young Howells here about the regiment. It is just too much noise around these parts. Quintin will keep you company, right Quintin?”
Quintin slipped his arm around Alan. Alan felt the arousal of the touch coil in his body, adding to warmth he was already encompassed within because of the alcohol. “Of course, I will keep him company, Morton,” Worth replied.
Ainsley came close to Alan and leaned down to kiss Alan on the lips. His mouth moved away just slightly. “It is time you got to know other people, my dear. Have some fun with Quintin. I won’t mind. Go on, Alan, look around and enjoy yourself.”
Alan felt giddy. “You wouldn’t mind then? I could choose anyone?”
“Choose whom ever you fancy. That is how these things go, share and share a like. That is of course what I brought you here for,” Ainsley added flippantly.
For a small moment, Ainsley’s words did not register and Alan waited for the man to explain himself. But he did not. He just patted Alan on the cheek. “Oh, you are so sweet when you are drunk, Alan. I will leave you in Quintin’s capable hands; I am sure you can keep him amused.”
Ainsley disappeared, the young ensign following him like a doe-eyed puppy.
Quintin Worth was standing in front of him where Ainsley had been. He was smirking jovially. “Now, Alan, do not look so sad; it spoils your looks. You still have me.” Worth tightened his grip, and Alan felt a thrill spark through his body.
“Here,” Quintin released Alan, “Let me get us some more champagne.”
Alan silently watched him go, arousal burgeoning within him. The captain was handsome and strong. He supposed his moustache would tickle. Alan felt a grin spread across his face. Yes, he would enjoy himself.
“Alan Garrett? Is that you?”
Alan stared at the fancy-dressed, slender young man who called at him from across the room.
“St. Rose?” he asked as the man came closer. Ned Crittenden St. Rose was barely recognizable. But Alan supposed that had as much to do with the fact they had not seen each other in over a year, and less to do with the man’s attire. His black hair was loose and curled, longer than it had been. St. Rose was dressed in finery: his dark green jacket trimmed in lace and his dark breeches tight. His face was painted on; his lips and cheeks stained with rouge. The whole effect made him quite fetching.
Alan giggled. “Ello, Ned. You look very pretty tonight.”
“And, you Alan, you look very drunk,” St. Rose replied. “What are you doing here?”
Alan tried his best to focus on the words. “Enjoying myself, of course.”
“Did you come alone?” St. Rose asked. Alan thought the frown marring the young man’s face was quite silly.
“Sir Morrrton Ainnnsley. I am staying with him presently.” Alan slurred Morton’s name proudly.
St. Rose muttered something Alan couldn’t quite understand and worried his bottom lip between his teeth. “I know of Ainsley. Not personally, though…” St. Rose did not sound impressed at all. “Where is the man?”
Alan shrugged. “Not here.”
St. Rose reached out his hand then and captured Alan’s right arm. “I don’t think it is wise for you to be here, Alan. You are fair game, and there are many here who would take advantage of that prospect.” St. Rose leaned in closer. “Come with me. I’ll look after you.”
Alan splutted overcome with giddy laughter; he supposed in some corner of his mind that he should be surprised at this enlightenment of St. Rose’s character. “Oh, Ned! This is unexpected. I hadn’t thought…”
St. Rose cut him off abruptly. “I am here, are I not?” He huffed. “And, it was not an invitation. I am here with Thomas Radcliffe. But as your friend, I feel it my duty to look out for you. Ainsley has clearly left you for some other sport.”
“No he has not,” Alan petulantly decried. “He is off doing regimental business with the new ensign. And, he did not leave me alone.”
St. Rose raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow.
Alan smiled as Quintin chose that moment to return with their drinks. Alan happily took his in hand and sipped the bubbly liquid. “Who is this, my dear Alan?” Quintin asked rapaciously eyeing St. Rose.
“Llleffftennnant Ned Kittenden St. Rose of His Majesty’s Navy,” Alan announced.
Quintin laughed and reached out to pet St. Rose. “Kitten, is it?”
“Crittenden St. Rose, and kindly keep your hands to yourself, sir,” St. Rose hissed.
Quintin laughed again. “You are Radcliffe’s latest.” He spied St. Rose with slow and proper assessment. “My, my… you are everything I have heard about, Kitten. I bet you like to bite and scratch, too.”
St. Rose bristled and looked at Alan. “Come, Alan, let me take you home, or to a room for the night at least.” He reached to take Alan with him.
Alan shook him off and faltered, unsteady on his feet. Quintin who was closer caught and righted him. The brief touch of the man’s body next to his enlivened Alan.
“I do not need your help, Ned. Quintin will look after me. It was nice to see you again, though.” Alan allowed Quintin to wrap his arm around his waist; it felt very nice.
“Well, then, it was good to see you again, Alan.”
“Come now, Alan,” Quintin replied playfully into Alan’s ear, “I have some friends who are dying to meet you.” Alan let himself be led away from a frowning St. Rose and towards one of the doors. The hand that was not guiding him slipped down his back and was fondling his arse.
“Hmmm… I like that.” Alan murmured and then giggled at his own declaration. He could not figure out where he meant whether he liked the thought of meeting Quintin’s friends or the touch.
Alan was led through the front room into a parlour of sorts. It was bright-decorated in light blue and gold. A small chandelier sparkled at the top. A group of eight or so men in the red jackets of Quintin’s own regiment were lounging around the room, drinking champagne and smoking cigars.
Alan smiled when Quintin introduced him to the others. One of the officer’s moved from the settee, he had been occupying to make room as Quintin forced Alan onto it. Suddenly Quintin’s hands were upon him, and Alan surrendered to the white, hot feeling completely, letting the other man guide the festivities. He returned Quintin’s fervor and kisses as best he could. He wondered for a moment where the other officers had gone or even if they had left the room. And, then realized that he did not care.
Alan gasped. His whole body felt alight. He opened his eyes; several faces were peering down at him. Something was wrong. When he tried to raise himself from the settee, Quintin was there distracting him again, touching him and kissing him. Alan closed his eyes and giggled. His clothing was loosened and a strange sensual lassitude was engulfing him. He tried to open his eyes, but when he attempt to he could not focus—the world was a bright spinning dream of a thing. The last thing Alan remembered was Quintin’s voice. It sounded so very far away and muffled. Alan struggled in the last moments to understand what exactly the man was saying.
“Would someone be so kind as to help me get his breeches off?”
He opened dry mouth and licked his parched lips. His head throbbed profusely, and he was sure if he moved, he would wretch. He opened his eyes, and instantly regretted that action. He screwed his eyes shut and groaned. Every part of his body protested movement.
When the nauseous episode retreated, Alan tried opening his eyes again. He raised the blanket that had been placed over him to reveal his current situation: in a stranger’s bed, alone, with no clothes; again. Alan sighed. On further assessment he realized he only felt a little sore, but no more than usual. Alan forced his weakling brain to remember the night before. All he could remember was going to the party with Morton—everything else seemed to have deserted him.
Finally, he raised himself to look passed the edge of the bed. There, in a chair at the far end of the room, was a curled, sleeping figure wrapped in a dark blue robe. The man’s feet were sticking out from the end of it so that Alan could see his pale toes.
“Ned?” Alan called.
Instantly, the figure twitched and awoke. Ned St. Rose appeared annoyed at having been awakened. Alan fought laughter than bubbled within his chest at the sight. Alan frowned though when Ned turned to face him; a rather large purple bruise was spreading across cheek and up towards his left eye, and when he raised his hand to scratch his face, Alan could see the scratches and darkening on his knuckles.
“Good morning, Alan.” St. Rose yawned. “How are you feeling?”
“A little sore. Uh… what happened last night? Did we?”
St. Rose shook his head. “No, we were not together last night. You do not remember, do you?”
“No.”
St. Rose seemed to consider Alan’s answer for a moment. “Well, I fear Mr. Worth and his friends decidedly took some liberties with you.” St. Rose stared at Alan communicating exactly what his words could not convey.
“You’re wrong,” Alan mouthed. “It was not anything like that. I would…I knew what I was doing.” Alan frantically racked his brain to remember anything of the previous night.
St. Rose snorted. “I doubt you were in any condition to give them your consent.”
“I would have said no if…”
“If?” St. Rose countered. “If what?”
Alan could not seem to find and answer so he pouted.
“Well, it is now over and done with.” St. Rose frowned and then rose from his chair. “At least, you are back to yourself?”
“When was not I myself?” Alan asked.
“All night, you were crying out as if in some delirium.”
“Is that why you slept in the chair?”
St. Rose nodded.
“Thank you.”
St. Rose smiled, and Alan felt himself drawn in to it.
“I’ll draw a bath for you, if you like.”
“Yes.” Alan looked around the room, it was very nice.
“Whose house is this?”
St. Rose chuckled. “Mine. Although I am rarely to be found within. I thought it best to bring you here last night. I was not exactly anyone’s favored guest after breaking up Worth and his friend’s little orgy. I was not about to send you back with Ainsley and someone had to see after you.”
“Morton? Does Morton know I am here?”
St. Rose scowled and sighed. “Who? Ainsley? Most probably. I am sure he will have heard what has transpired.”
“Oh, lord.” Alan fell back against the bed. Tears pricked sharply at the back of his eyes, but he refused to give in to their persistence.
“Yes, well…” St. Rose responded. “I shall go draw you a bath.”
Alan sighed as he lowered himself into the steaming bath water. He leaned back and rested his head against the edge of the tub. He was glad to be alone. Suddenly, a memory of the night before assaulted him, sensuous touches and whispering, he could not quite make sense of it, but it made him sick. The raucousness had returned. He picked up the cake of soap and dutifully scrubbed his skin, ignoring the bruises that had formed on his pale, freckled skin. Some corner of his mind assured him that he deserved this. That he had deserved to be used by Quintin Worth, by Robert Lockitt—to be used and discarded.
Alan ducked his head under the water and stayed there for a few moments, letting the water abscond with his tears. When he raised his head, he could hear raucous voice in the hall beyond.
“Do you realize what I had to do? And, for the whore of the 52nd Foot, Ned.” It was a voice Alan did not recognize.
“All you had to do was unruffle some feathers, Thomas. It seemed a small price to pay after all you do realize what they were going to do with him?” St. Rose responded. He sounded rather annoyed and resigned in the same moment.
The other man made a sharp noise of displeasure. “I feel… rather I know it would be best if we did not see each other in the near future. It would do us both some good, Ned, if you were to attain a transfer to another ship.”
“I see.”
The hallway was quiet again, and after some time, St. Rose appeared with a towel and some clothes in hand.
“I think these shall fit you fine. I fear your clothes from last night are a mess.”
Alan blinked up at St. Rose. “Who was that?”
“Oh, that…that was my Captain.”
Alan starred into the water and sniffed. “I am sorry.”
“Sorry for what? Don’t be.”
Alan jerked upwards to look at St. Rose in the face. “But, because of me, you’ve lost your berth aboard your ship.”
“Oh, do not worry, it was bound to happen soon enough,” St. Rose responded, seemingly rather content with the whole situation.
St. Rose smiled, and Alan perceived his world tilting. He felt himself smiling back. “There is bound to be another ship that will take me,” St. Rose added.
“Thank you, again, Ned. I feel so undone about all of this.”
St. Rose hummed. “You are welcome. I shall leave you to it then.”
St. Rose’s house was eerily quiet; there were no sounds of life to be heard as Alan passed through the walls. For someone who was born into a family of nine, the silence was downright creepy. Alan finally found St. Rose. He was in the kitchen, sitting in front of the fire, a book in his hand.
“Could I interest you in a meal? There are no servants here at the moment, but I am not so terrible a cook. I haven’t poisoned anybody yet.”
Alan was ushered into a seat, and knowing full well that you should never pass up a meal, he indulged in St. Rose’s hospitality. After serving Alan some delicious of the stew variety, St. Rose returned to his book. Alan enjoyed their compatible silence. Just as he was stuffing the last bit of stew into his mouth, there came a knock on the door.
St. Rose smiled at Alan. “I will get that.”
When St. Rose returned, he had a frown on his face. Alan was slightly confused until he announced the visitor.
Morton Ainsley sauntered into the kitchen and cast a smile at Alan.
Alan felt hollow and did not return the gesture.
“Are you ready to come home?”
“Home?” Alan was confused. Home had always meant his parent’s home in [Walsford].
“Yes, home. My home. I am truly sorry about the misunderstanding between you and Quintin, but I have spoken to him, and we will have none of that now.” Ainsley shook his head. “You really are such an innocent at times.”
“I…I don’t blame you.”
“Good, then. Let’s leave this dreadful place, shall we.”
For what felt like some time, Alan did not know what to say. Then, a clear as day, he knew the answer. “No. I am sorry, Morton. I… I appreciate what you have done for me, but I cannot go home with you.”
Morton narrowed his eyes at Alan. “I suppose this is all St. Rose’s doing. Really, Alan, I do wonder at your choice in friends. You know he completely gone and spoiled Quintin’s good looks. I know you met St. Rose at sea, but do you know exactly what he has been up to since he has been on land. He is a schemer, Alan, an arse-licker who has served under more Admirals in the last month than the oldest tar in the navy…”
Alan was stunned at this outburst and supposed he was doing a fine impression of a fish, his mouth opening and closing so.
Morton Ainsley glared at Alan before he looked away. "He's after promotion, that one. And, he will do anything to get it. He'll make captain before he is twenty-one mark my words, but the only action he will ever see is in the bedroom on his hands and knees." He turned back to Alan, his face red with rage. "They call him The Quarterdeck and do you know why? It's because there is always an Officer atop him!"
"He... he's been very kind to me." Alan whispered.
“Fine! Think what you will.” Ainsley huffed in exasperation. “So, are you ready to come home?”
“No. Morton, I am sorry, but I cannot.”
“Well! I wash my hands of you. It was interesting for a while my dear, but I will not lose any sleep over you. You were always a little too prudish for my tastes.”
Morton Ainsley disappeared and left Alan weary and exhausted. Not long after Ainsley had left did St. Rose return.
“I am glad, Alan, to see that you at least showed some sense and sent Ainsley packing,” St. Rose told him. “You were far too kind I am afraid to say. Surely, I would not have been so courteous about it all. You really should have told him what a bastard he really is.”
Alan stared at St. Rose, shocked. “You were listening!”
St. Rose had at least the decency to appear sheepish. “Well, I feared that despite this being my kitchen that Ainsley would have taken to persuading you to return with him more forcefully.”
Alan blushed.
“But, it seems you do have some sense, and so my fear was for naught,” St. Rose sighed.
Suddenly Alan had a thought.
“What if I talked to my captain about seeing if you can berth on our ship?”
“Alan, you really do not…”
“It is of no consequence.” A smile started to emerge on Alan’s face. “My older brother Alfred and he served together on the Bellona and then the Indefatigable. I am sure Captain Gray would not mind to squeeze another able-bodied officer into the mess.”
“I suppose, if you are so sure, I will not say no.” St. Rose appeared still to be unconvinced, but Alan would not be swayed. Tomorrow, he would write his to his Captain.
As Alan was drifting off to sleep in St. Rose’s large, rather comfortable bed, he had the strangest thought that he was worth being loved.
Sorry for the delay!
Little things!
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