Excerpt: Our Houses

It wasn’t that he didn’t fit in. He fitted in well enough; he did what was expected of him. He rode and shot and hunted with his brothers. He fought with them too, of course – that was what brothers were for. He went to his lessons, and excelled in them on the occasions – not too frequent – when he chose to actually put his full mind to them. He attended the religious services and ceremonies that were a routine part of life, and if he was thinking in the back of his mind that he didn’t believe a word of it, he gave no clue that that was the case.

He was respectful to his father, although not as close to him as Henry and George and Margot were. That wasn’t his fault. It was just the way things were. He loved his grandmother, who favoured him above his brothers, and he adored his little sister, although he teased her mercilessly.

So it wasn’t that he didn’t fit in. He did. He was even happy to do so much of the time. But at the back of his mind, nagging at him, always there, was the thought that this wasn’t all there was, that there had to be more, that this wasn’t right.