Downtrodden Abbey: The Interminable Saga of an Insufferable Family (3 page)

Marry, meanwhile, must feign sorrow over the loss of her intended, who in truth had an unfortunate twitch and the breath of an ailing bison. She puts her head in her hands and sobs.

“Marry, you’re not exactly posing a threat to the Barrymores with that performance,” Enid scoffs. “I’ve seen better acting in grade-school pageants.”

“Snap!” Supple’s corset pops open, inexplicably.

Lord Crawfish’s solicitor visits, tells him that the entail is unbreakable, and—adding insult to injury—it being the weekend, he charges the earl double for his time. The lawyer also spends most of their meeting bragging about his new carriage, and his young mistress, whom he met while she was helping to deliver his first child. Upon learning of this, Flora surmises that the attorney is going through “a midwife crisis.”

*   *   *

Downstairs, “Potatoes” O’Grotten, Lady Crawfish’s maid, mutters. She is an expert mutterer, having been trained at an early age. Her mother muttered, and her mother’s mother muttered. O’Grotten’s audience is her usual confidant, the first footmasseur Tomaine. Tomaine has been working diligently on perfecting his bitterness and resentment; it is frequently noted around the abbey that he can smoke without even lighting a cigarette. When he is not smoking, Tomaine mutters, and O’Grotten takes over the smoking.

Poorly endowed men were known to boast about the size of their carriage wheels.

Tomaine’s mood is not lifted in the slightest by the arrival of a motorcar containing John Brace, who is to be employed as the earl’s personal valet (parking and otherwise).

Lord Crawfish watches from upstairs as Brace gets out of the car and starts the fifty-metre walk towards the front entrance. Brace’s first step goes reasonably well, but it is rather rough sailing from that point. Offered assistance by one of the footmasseurs, he smiles, assuring them that he will reach the house before sundown.

Sadly, it is just after eight in the morning when Brace says this.

When Brace finally does get himself into the hallowed halls of Downtrodden Abbey, dinner has been served, the kitchen has been cleaned, and the staff—particularly O’Grotten and Tomaine—are most eager to make his acquaintance.

“Welcome to the Abbey,” O’Grotten mutters, blowing a healthy cloud of smoke into his doughy face.

“Aren’t you a breath of fresh air?” Brace asks, not at all rhetorically.

“How was your, er,
trip
?” asks Tomaine. “It seems to have started last … um,
fall
. Guess you just have to
take everything in stride
.” He elbows O’Grotten in the ribs, a habit she detests.

(It is worth noting that Tomaine—how best to say this?—has a deep love of theatre, particularly of the musical variety. Some of his gesticulations and mannerisms might occasionally strike one as extravagant, showy, or overly flamboyant. Tomaine is also known to wear ladies’ clothing and makeup. But his father was never really there for him, his mother ran a backroom billiard hall fronted by a convent, and his older brothers were fond of quizzing the young Tomaine on the rules of cricket, and—following his incorrect answers—would beat him mercilessly. After a one-man show in which Tomaine played Sarah Bernhardt got drubbed by West End critics, he allegedly turned to opium, then engaged in a tryst with both Currier and Ives that ended in nothing but hurt feelings.)

“Well, I would advise you to brace yourself, Brace,” mutters O’Grotten. “This is no job for a … crip—uh…”

“Pardon me, Madam?”

“A Crimean!” Tomaine exclaims. “I’m picking up a little, something in your patois … not to mention those deep-set eyes, and that swarthy complexion.…”

“I’m Liverpool born and bred. Watch who you call a Crimean, son.”

Around the corner, the teenaged housemaid Nana surreptitiously peeks at Brace. She has spent countless shillings on some of the local mating services (“Edwardian Hook Up,” “Gents Plus Damsels,” “Ripping Bodices”), only to be regularly disappointed. These fellows are all the same, she has discovered. It seems that surprisingly few gentlemen covet a young lady who spends an inordinate amount of time in the company of soiled bedclothes, despite the necessity of such contact in her chosen profession.

The phrase “Losing one’s leg” was sometimes taken literally by the unfortunate but optimistic souls who searched for missing limbs.

Also quite troubling regarding the mating services is that every man in reality is three stones heavier and fifteen years older than his charcoal sketch. Having only four hours of discretionary time per week also makes Nana’s social life rather challenging. She has considered changing her profile, but the mail delivery is dreadfully slow.

In short, the greatest fear for this young maid is—you guessed it—becoming an old maid.

In John Brace, however, Nana immediately sees the possibilities. He seems to be right up her street—overweight, elderly, acne-scarred, and emotionally damaged. Even the two hours it takes Brace to walks upstairs does not deter her. After all, “putting one foot in front of the other” is just a metaphor, she thinks, nothing to interpret literally. Nana is smitten.

“I’ll bet he’s not ‘limp’ where it matters,” she coos softly. “That bloke can butter my scones any time.”

“I heard that,” smirks Tomaine from behind her.

“That was meant to be a silent coo.”

“Well, it came out as a soft one. So I’d work on my cooing, if I were you. In any event, whatever would you want with a pudgy, long-in-the-tooth gimp unless you have some, like, serious daddy issues?”

Nana sighs. Some people just have no concept of true love.

*   *   *

Lord Crawfish, in his quarters, is pleased to receive his old mate Brace. The timing could not be better, as the inconvenient business of putting on his own pajamas, coats, and trousers has of late been distressing the earl.

As he watches Brace’s gait, however, the question of the new valet’s future instantly comes into bold relief. Physical movement from the waist down seems, for Brace, to require an intricate meshing of mental cues and Newtonian physics.

“Brace,” Lord Crawfish asks, “Can I ask you something?”

“Certainly, my Lord,” Brace answers, as he readies his employer’s pants for the insertion of the aristocratic limbs.

“What in the name of Kaiser Fodder has happened to you?”

“Lost my right leg, I have.”

“Have you looked everywhere?”

Brace chuckles. “Clearly one thing that has
not
been lost is your wicked sense of humour, my lord. In fact, it seems even sharper. Have you, by chance, been spending time with individuals of the Jewish persuasion?”

“Oh, heavens, no. We at the Abbey do not consort with Semites.”

Brace sighs with approval.

*   *   *

The following day brings a visit from the Viscount of Crowsfeces, with the express purposes of catching Lady Marry’s eye, or even more preferably, her royal bosom. Or, in the perfect world, both bosoms, actually. For it was as her husband that he would become the next Earl of Grandsun. The bosoms would really just be a bonus.

(It should be explained that in this society, marriages are often arranged by parents and attorneys, in an effort to combine the financial assets of both families. The lawyers often end up more wealthy than their clients, a tradition that continues to this day.)

The Viscount requests Tomaine as his footmasseur; he is all too willing—as he is with most positions—to assume this one. Prior to starting his duties, though, he strategically places a skateboard on the floor of the vestibule. After breakfast, this sends Brace—and a tray of tea service—toppling to the ground.

For the servants, schlepping heavy tea service up and down steep staircases was an absolute pain the ass.

“I meant to do that!” Brace smiles, felled by lack of balance but propelled by pride, as the shocked staff and the horrified Viscount look on.

“Brace, this is no line of work for a gimp. Regretfully, I have no choice but to dismiss you,” says Lord Crawfish. “I’ll give you two weeks. Which should give you just enough time to navigate the front steps and permanently exit the grounds of Downtrodden Abbey.”

Later, Nana finds Brace outside, his bags packed, weeping near the rose bushes.

“Mr. Brace, you left something inside,” she says.

“Mind cranking up the volume a notch?” Brace asks, pointing to his left ear. “As if I don’t have enough problems, I had a recent bout with the pox of the chicken, which resulted in some hearing loss.”

The mere mention of another of Brace’s limitless maladies arouses Nana’s naughty bits. “Well,
I
certainly want to hear—all about your allergies, infections, diseases, illnesses, and the general decrepitude that comes with advanced age. It all gets my blood flowing.”

A doctor’s main responsibility to the infirm was to attach them to rusted, filthy, unsafe contraptions.

“Really? I’m nothing if not envious. Blood circulation is another problem for me.”

Nana’s bodice is fit to bursting. “Iron deficiency? You really know what to say to a lass, mister.”

Brace is gobsmacked by this level of female attention. However, one question remains unanswered.

“To what were you referring when you said I left something back in the Abbey?” he asks.

“You silly old man,” she coos—this time, loud enough for the velveteen valet to hear. “It’s your heart.”

“Speaking of my heart,” Brace says. “That’s not great, either. I got infarctions up the ying-yang.”

*   *   *

After breaking bread (and wind), Viscount Crowsfeces breaks protocol, by persuading Lady Marry to show him the servant’s sleeping area, where he takes a special interest in Tomaine’s quarters.

“Any particular reason you are sniffing around his undergarments?” she asks.

“I can tell you one thing,” Crowsfeces responds. “It is not because we shared a summer dalliance on the shores of Cornwall, or because I miss his lively dancing and sweet scent so dearly, or because there is anything about me that would cause you to doubt my ability to both bed you like a bull and make you a fine husband.”

Lady Marry explains her father’s decision not to challenge the entail.