Uncle Dorian? I hardly know anything about him. He and Mother weren’t close. He and his sisters were brought up separately. After my grandparents got divorced, Grandmama took the three girls with her, and left Uncle Dorian with his father. I don’t know why they split them up that way. After the divorce, they had to sell Castle Gloria and all their other properties. Money was fairly tight; when Grandfather had to pay out Grandmama’s share and provide for his daughters, there just wasn’t enough to go around. So he sold the Castle, and moved to Cornwall with Uncle Dorian. 

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My grandfather died when he was quite young, less than ten years after the divorce. I’m not sure what he died of – cancer, or something, I suppose. He wouldn’t have been sixty when he died. And so Uncle Dorian became the Earl of Gloria. I think he was still at university, or maybe he’d just graduated. I’m not too clear on all the timelines. My parents didn’t talk about it much; I guess that’s how family history gets lost. It doesn’t take long: one generation stops talking about what happened and the next generation never gets the chance to know.

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When Grandfather died, he had hardly any money to speak of, so Uncle Dorian wouldn’t have inherited much. Somehow, though, Uncle Dorian managed to make a lot of money rather fast after he became the Earl of Gloria, and he bought back the Castle. I’ve never really understood how, but that’s what happened. One minute he was a University student with no money of his own and a father who was almost penniless; the next, he was living the high life in a castle, buying up art works and travelling the world. I’ve never been able to work it out.

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Uncle Dorian travelled a lot when he was young. I overheard my parents complaining about it when I was a child. They didn’t like it. They said he was wasting the family fortune even more than Grandfather did. That puzzled me. My cousin Martin told me once that Uncle Dorian’s accountant would hardly let him spend anything. I only saw the accountant once. He was a little thin man who wore an old-fashioned brown suit with patches and frayed cuffs. Funny: Uncle Dorian lived in luxury but his accountant couldn’t afford a new suit. Perhaps the man was just eccentric.

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From what I can gather, Uncle Dorian was quite a party animal. My aunts say he led a scandalous life. He was gay, you know. That’s one of the things that caused tension between Uncle Dorian and his sisters. They all married and had children, but of course he never did. They thought he was throwing away the family heritage. Grandmama never forgave him for not marrying and producing an heir. It didn’t matter in the end, because Aunt Margaret’s eldest son Tom was declared the legal heir, and the title was passed on even though Uncle Dorian died childless.

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My mother and aunts were very scathing about Uncle Dorian’s household arrangements. They used to put on sour faces and roll their eyes when they discussed this. I wasn’t supposed to hear any of it, of course, but kids listen in. Their theory was that the household staff was Uncle Dorian’s harem. That puzzled me: in the movies, harems were made up of women. The penny dropped when I was a bit older. I don’t know if it was true … but the men on his staff were very good-looking. Except Mr Bonham. He just looked like a nice bloke.

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Uncle Dorian was a great art collector – his collection was the envy of everyone. After he died, we came to make an inventory of his collection. We found rooms in the Castle where it was obvious that artworks were missing. Fade-marks on the walls – great bare expanses of wall, while other rooms were crowded with paintings – empty spaces where statues and sculptures had been. It was as if more than half of his art collection had been spirited away. Yet, according to the records, everything he’d inherited, and everything he’d purchased was still there. I just couldn’t figure it out.

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I went to his funeral. The church was crowded. Uncle Dorian wasn’t religious – I think he was an atheist, really – but he did love ceremony, and he adored beautiful music. Whoever had organised the service engaged the most magnificent choir, and a small chamber ensemble, and someone played the pipe organ. The resident organist from Köln Cathedral was brought over from Germany especially for the occasion. He was said to be the finest in Europe. Uncle Dorian seemed to spend a lot of time in Germany. I don’t know what the attraction was. Opera theatres and art galleries, I suppose.

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I really didn’t know who all the people were at the service. Hardly any women other than the family. All his staff came. The accountant cried. Wailed, really. Mr Bonham did his best to keep him quiet, but the man sounded inconsolable. Most of Uncle Dorian’s international friends who came were German. I spoke to them afterwards. They were very vague about how they knew him. “Professional connection,” they said. Perhaps it was something to do with art appraisal. I think he might have done some advisory work with galleries and private collectors. After all, he was very well informed.

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The ceremony was Anglican, of course – very High Church. Incense, vestments, all the trimmings. The coffin was lowered into the grave; everyone filed past, dropping rose petals onto it. Uncle Dorian loved roses. One of the Germans was walking ahead of me – a man, but dressed in women’s clothing. One of Uncle Dorian’s unconventional friends. He was carrying a small wooden box full of earth, which he sprinkled on top of the rose petals. “From the Major’s grave,” he said. “They’re together now.” I should have asked who the Major was. I didn’t know Uncle Dorian had any military friends.

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This all happened a few years ago now. Uncle Dorian’s been dead for … well, I forget. Tom and his wife have modernised the Castle, had the gardens landscaped. They have a cook and a gardener – Tom says big staffs are an expensive anachronism. None of Uncle Dorian’s staff stayed on after he died. Poor old chaps, I suppose they’re all living in poverty somewhere, if they’re still alive. Tom sold off most of the art collection to pay for the renovations. Kept the furniture, though, and the ancestral portraits. They open the east wing for paying visitors on Sundays.

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*Written as a technical exercise - every paragraph is 100 words in length*