Francis was at that time in the middle of the great hall, where the great ball would have been.
He lay seated on a chair, placed adjacent to one of the tables set up in the room to accommodate the members of the different families.
There were many tables, all polished in the same way and made of fine chestnut wood.
They were all the same, similar in width, size and height, with the only difference that each of them had a precious gold plate engraved with the surname of the respective families.
Francis sat next to the table marked with his father's surname.
As an illegitimate son he could not have had a place, not alongside the nobles at least, but since he had been recognised as a Hoover by his father as his only heir, he too had taken a more prestigious role.
He was his father's only son, he didn't know why.
Lord Edward Hoover had a wife, who even entering into an older age continued to have the possibility to conceive other children.
Francis had never had a great relationship with his father's wife, but he was aware that she was the one who convinced her husband to recognise and take with him his illegitimate child only to snatch him away from his mother.
Of course knowing of a bastard would not have brought a good reputation to his father's noble family, so he tried to pass it off as a son born within marriage whenever he could.
Francis knew how much his father cared about their family's name and he knew well that the anger over his sexuality was partly due to the fact that he most likely would not have procreated.
Being the only male to be born in an entire generation, all hopes and expectations fell on him.
His uncle, the army commander had no son, but a daughter named Christine, who was now twenty-two. Christine Hoover was a delicate-looking young woman, Francis had to admit it even if not attracted by her.
His cousin possessed long straight caramel brown-coloured hair and possessed two large grey eyes. The young man remembered her well, remembered how they had spent part of their childhood together like brother and sister.
Christine was since five years married and had already given birth to a baby girl, whom she had named Theodora. The lieutenant hadn't seen his cousin for at least three years and inwardly hoped she was doing okay.
The last time they met was before Francis enlisted in the British army and it was a very particular encounter. In fact his father, in order to receive a grandson, had improperly tried to make the two having an intimate relationship.
Obviously, nothing had happened as the young man was not attracted by her, but even from that moment, like all the moments shared in their childhood, Francis had forgiven her.
Some nobles had already begun to arrive at the castle, but for some unknown reason none of them had already arrived in the great hall, where precious goblets and tasty red wine had been prepared.
He was there alone, looking around in the room, not yet illuminated by the clear candlelights from the crystals of the luxurious chandelier.
On the opposite wall of the room there was a long precious table in every way much longer and majestic than the other tables.
Francis knew very well that that precious table was exclusively dedicated to the royal family and while showing a lot of curiosity in the ancestral structure he knew that he was not allowed to touch it.
He sat quietly and sometimes tapped the smooth surface of the table with his fingers.
The lieutenant was worried partly he feared his father's visit and partly he was worried for Gilbert and all his companions, who at that moment had an uncertain future.
The massive, large door opened behind the young man.
Who could it be? Why would they come looking for him?
Francis did not turn, he remained motionless, stopping his every slightest movement, almost afraid to turn around to see who might be there.
-Francis...- he heard his name called -you are here-.
He knew with certainty who the person was, the voice calling him from there, but on the other hand he had no desire to answer.
He knew that he wanted everything at that moment except to speak to that man.
-You haven't changed at all- commented the voice from behind him slowly taking on a more hoarse and melancholy tone. The man passed behind the young man's back, taking his son's soft, wavy hair in one of his cold hands and slowly letting it go.
-I'm glad you came father- Francis tried to lie trying to show a little respect to his father, but ended up miserably lying.
-You still feel hatred towards me, my son, but I assure you that there is no longer any reason ...- the old man tried to calm him but his words reflected disillusionment and resentment.
-Three years have passed, father ...- commented the young man smiling hysterically -three years have passed and you haven't changed at all-.
Edward Hoover pushed away a chair and quietly and elegantly took a seat at the table.
Although three years had passed since their last meeting and it seemed that the relationship between them had improved, Francis did not believe it at all.
That man had judged him all his life, had made him cry and feel like a bad person, had pointed a gun at his head and threatened to kill him. Edward did not deserve forgiveness.
- I was only seventeen when you deliberately put my life at risk - the young man commented looking down - you threatened to kill me like a dog and for that I should forgive you? -.
-This is only part of the past, life must go on ... - the father admitted nimbly taking the carafe of red wine and pouring an average amount into the fine glass - would you like some? -.
Francis shook his head, briefly looking up at his parent.
The young man was able to glimpse his father's pale face, which in his age began to be covered with wrinkles, he saw his eyes, small and severe, the colour of the purest tree wood.
His father was the marquis governing on the twenty Orkney Islands in the North Sea.
It was there that he had met Connor McDill, Francis' first and young love.
He still remembered their first meeting, on the high cliffs of Birsay, during a cold winter day, where the sky covered by a dark grey colour made the water on their skin even colder. When he met Connor, Francis was only fifteen, while the other had just turned eighteen.
He remembered very well his straight blond hair and his small but expressive dew-coloured eyes, his gentle smile.
It had been love at first sight for both of them, and so after a brief period of close friendship, the two began dating in a more intimate and less formal way.
Connor lived on the coast in a small fishing village with his mother and eight older brothers.
The love for each other that connected them was much purer and stronger than any other affection they could feel, but Francis' father could not understand it.
Edward Hoover gracefully pushed the half-filled goblet of delicious red wine under his son's face.
-I had not asked for wine- Francis grumbled closing his arms tight to his face.
- I know you want some son... - his father kept repeating, almost trying in some way to convince him -you will never accept that everything I have done has been for your personal good, will you?-.
-For my personal good?! - Francis asked almost struck by that arrogant and selfish statement -I can't believe you continue to think you have acted in the right way-.
The father slowly took a sip of his wine, letting it taste in his mouth and finally swallowing it. His gaze was turned elsewhere.
-This red wine is really delicious ... why don't you try it, my son? -
-I thought you didn't care about me! I thought that I didn't deserve your attention, that I wasn't your level! This is what you have make me believe all my life! -. Francis did not want to look at that man.
His big brown eyes were filled with salty tears, slowly starting to roll down his freckled cheeks, down to his chin.
-Why do you keep not accepting me for what I am? - the young man's lips had begun to tremble energetically.
Not even that heartfelt reaction was able to move the hardness of the father's heart.
-Francis, you are a man, I did not raise you to be as weak and fragile as a girl ... so save your tears ... -. The lieutenant vented his emotions briefly intensely.
-I am not a girl, father...I am a man, who loves a person of my same gender who really matters to me!-. He quickly ran the palms of his hands under his dark eyes.
Francis hated that man, he hated his parent with all his might.
-How long will this farce last, father? How long will I have to endure this pressure and will have to pretend? - Francis asked sadly starting to fill a second glass of the juicy and delicious red wine.
-It will last until you accept that you are not what you think you are ... your future is with a bride and children, who will bear our name-.
The father began to drink wine with more frequency observing how deep and dark circles began to form on his son's freckled cheeks.
-You shouldn't drink so much yet...after all you are twenty years old and this is already your third glass ... - the man commented, moving the precious glass away from his son with the palm of his hand.
-I simply can't believe that our family name is more important to you than my happiness- the young man commented, trying in vain to get his cup again.
- Your happiness?! - Edward laughed arrogantly - I know what true happiness is and I know well that what you are saying does not make any sense, my son - the father finished shortly after the sip of the wine that remained in the glass began to take on a burgundy red colour.
Once he put down his chalice, Edward Hoover grabbed his son's face with force, holding two of his fingers pressed against the freckled cheeks of the young man.
Francis felt pain, but he could not express it, nor protest, as all power over him belonged to his father, as it had always been.
The eyes of one mixed with the gaze full of pain of the other.
The father's chapped lips approached one of the young man's ears.
-The great ball will take place in a few hours… you won't dance with anyone, you won't meet anyone-.
After speaking those aggressive words, the man decided to let go of his son's face, who in any case had the red marks of his strong hold impressed on his face.
-I just want to be proud tonight, I don't ask much ... -.
The man made his way leaving the huge great hall.
From the point that Francis was no longer able to observe the figure of his father leaving the room, he again grabbed his goblet and the carafe with still some rest of the red and tasty wine.
All that hurt him immensely: it hurt not being able to be himself, not being able to be happy as he personally had decided.
Francis refilled his goblet, that was his fourth glass.