Downtrodden Abbey: The Interminable Saga of an Insufferable Family (4 page)

“I see,” says the Viscount, realizing now that courting Marry would be a fool’s errand. “In that case, do you happen to know where I might find my man?”

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

It would be foolish to believe that the average reader can grasp the concept of British nobility—that is to say, how titles are conferred and their order (particularly American readers, and especially those homeschooled in the South). Of course, British children “to the manor born” are taught early on that snobbishness, condescension, and arrogance are birthrights, designed for one to feel superior, and to make others feel inadequate and impoverished. But for those of us who are not lords or ladies (and you know who you are), I have gone to great lengths to prepare the following guide.

DUKE

Though this is the highest rank and title, a duke wears a coronet rather than a crown. The decoration on the coronet is two diamond eyes looking down a bulbous pearl nose, on a bed of tea cakes made of emeralds. A duke is usually addressed as “Most Noble,” except in cases when “Quite Noble,” “Rather Noble,” or “Somewhat Noble” are more accurate. His children’s titles are preceded by “Right Honourable”—sons are “lords,” daughters are “ladies,” and rare cases of indeterminate gender are “undecided.” As they all wear ruffled shirts, who can tell? Later bastardised as the nickname for an American cowboy actor, and by the insufferable expression “Put up your dukes,” which makes no sense whatsoever, in that most dukes are extremely well-fed, and far too portly to lift, let alone “put up.”

MARQUESS/MARQUIS

Just below the duke in British peerage ranks the marquis, whose young sons use the title “lord,” but rarely put it back where they found it. Elder sons bear the father’s second title. Daughters are “ladies,” whether or not they comport themselves accordingly. Eventually appropriated by the Yanks for the name of an unsightly model of Mercury automobile.

EARL

The third level of dignity and rank, the earl is titled “Right Honourable” by everyone except his wife, who will be damned before she ascribes either quality to her spouse. Midwestern Americans use “Earl” as a common first name, while a hit song in 1962 entitled “Duke of Earl” served to confuse those who were already perplexed about title hierarchy even further.

VISCOUNT

If one is a viscount, one is probably dealing with some self-esteem issues, as many of your friends are earls, marquises, and dukes. Oh, well. Look at the bright side. At least one is not a …

BARON

The lowest rank in the British peerage. Serious losers.

II

A Real Head Scratcher

It is said that at one time or another Downtrodden Abbey hosted not just noblemen, but high-profile guests from all corners of the world (this was, it should be explained, a time in which the world was believed to actually have corners). Selected notations from the guest register, as entered by the butler, Tyresom, follow:

CHARLES CHAPLIN—AUGUST 12–14, 1912

May be silent in motion pictures, but at dinner hardly shuts up. Pays special attention to young housemaids, and refers to his “cane” frequently, as a nickname for the male organ. Mustache is curiously Germanic.

AMELIA EARHART—OCTOBER 5–6, 1912

Definite lesbian vibe. Blathers incessantly about something called “The Bermuda Triangle,” which sounds suspiciously like a euphemism for a part of the female anatomy. Tends to disappear at times, particularly when it is her turn to buy drinks.

MOHANDAS “MAHATMA” GANDHI—MARCH 8–17, 1913

I don’t care what anyone tells you—this guy can really eat. Keep him away from the dessert cart. Evidently, Mr. Brace isn’t the only one around here with a hollow leg. Gasses on incessantly about the importance of peace, but try getting him to surrender the last “piece” of chocolate cake.

The expression “Look at the size of those jugs!” originally referred to surprisingly large beverage containers.

WINSTON CHURCHILL—MAY 28, 1913

Attacks from both fronts with chronic gastritis and horrendous cigar breath. Cheats at Parcheesi, then—when victorious—gloats by making obnoxious sign with his index and middle fingers.

*   *   *

In Manchestershireburghville, Lord Crawfish’s distant cousin Isabich receives a letter.

“Atchew,” she beckons her only son. “How would like to be rolling in money and living in a lavish estate?”

Atchew, a strapping lad in his early twenties, shrugs. “What’s the catch?”

“You’d have to marry one of the Crawfish girls,” Isabich responds. “And I don’t think it’s the one with the face like a palamino.”

“Well, you read my mind on that score. Uh, can I think about it?”

Preparations for guests at the Abbey involve considerable effort not just from servants but from Countess Flora, who assigns bedrooms and works with the cook, Mrs. Patmimore. To make things just a little bit more pretentious, menus are often written in French.

A year after the sinking of the
Gigantic
took the lives of the expected heirs to Downtrodden Abbey, Isabich and Atchew arrive at the estate and settle in.

Unfamiliar with the customs of the fabulously wealthy, Atchew readies himself for dinner, dressing in white tie. Fortunately, he is stopped by the butler, Tyresom, and informed that “white tie” is not to be taken literally, and that Atchew must wear additional clothing, especially trousers.

As the wine is poured, Isabich is seated next to Vile, the dowager countess of Grandsun.

“Excuse me,” Isabich asks, “Are you alive?”

“How amusing,” the countess counters. “From a woman who is probably thanked in the Acknowledgements section of the Holy Bible.”

“Are you saying I’m advanced in age? I would venture to say that you are so old that when you were in grammar school, there was no History class. Now
that
is old.”

The countess burns. “It is my understanding that you wandered into an antiques shop—
and they kept you
.”

“Really? Oh, do tell me, Countess—how did you get here? I’m guessing it was on a boat with two of every type of animal.”

It should be mentioned that in these heady times, the wealthy do little else than eat. Seven meals a day are consumed: early breakfast, breakfast, teatime, late teatime, supper, early dinner, and late dinner. Most meals contain between twenty-one and twenty-three courses. Twenty-two, to be exact. Watercress is the old arugula. Oysters are often served as starters. Mutton is regularly featured as an entrée. Salmon is another popular choice. As for crabs, many of the residents and staff at Downtrodden Abbey unfortunately suffer from them.

Across the table, Atchew struggles to decide which of the nine forks in his setting he should employ to eat his salad. When he looks up, Lady Marry has entered the dining hall, and approaches the empty seat next to him.

The ability to properly identify cutlery was considered a benchmark of elegance.

“Hubba hubba,” Atchew gasps.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You … look lovely, Lady Marry.”

Tomaine and O’Grotten look on from behind a pillar. “Can you believe that moron?” the latter whispers. “Does he really think he has a chance with Marry?”

“Why would you care?” O’Grotten asks. “Tsk. Such a bitchy little gossip you are, Tomaine. Considered along with the ease with which you carry a show tune and your inarguably smashing fashion sense, I am starting to suspect that you might be a homosexual.”

*   *   *

Back in their modest residence, Atchew asks Isabich to explain the intricacies of what an entail exactly … entails.

“It is all very simple,” his mother responds. “An entail is an estate of inheritance in real property that cannot be sold, devised by will, or otherwise be alienated by the owner, but which passes by operation of law to the owner’s heirs upon his death. The purpose of an entail is to keep the land of a family intact in the main line of succession. The heir to an entailed estate cannot sell the land, nor usually bequeath it to, for example, an illegitimate child.

“It’s also important to note that the explanation of an entail is a common device used in British drama taking place from the seventeenth to the nineteenth centuries, so as to keep the plot moving forwards and devious machinations understandable to the audience, be it reader or theatregoer. Also—”

She notices that her son has not responded in over half an hour.

“Atchew? Are you asleep?”

A few hours later, Vile pays an unscheduled visit to Isabich in her garden, with the intent to offer her an olive branch.

“What is this thing you keep poking me with?” asks Isabich.

“It’s an olive branch. Sorry. My intent was merely to offer it, not poke you with it. Are you familiar with the reference? The poet Virgil used the olive branch as a symbol of peace in
Aeneid
. ‘High on the stern Aeneas his stand, and held a branch of olive in his hand.’”

“So, you knew Virgil, did you?”

“Come on, Isabich. Can we stop with the ‘you’re so old’ jokes? I mean, when you were born, the Dead Sea was just getting sick. Gosh, being nasty is quite addictive. It’s like opium for geriatrics.”

“Tell me about it.”

Vile explains that she feels this is an opportune day to sit outside rather than within the confines of Downtrodden, as rumours have abounded that the house is being fitted for the dreaded electricity. Next thing you know, she surmises, there will be big screens that present video signals, and an international communication matrix with which—for a small fee—individuals will be able to expose their genitalia, reunite with former grade-school paramours, and be offered financial windfalls by Nigerian princes.

“Sit down, Vile,” Isabich says. “You are talking like an utter madwoman.”

Over tea and biscuits, Vile outlines her internal conflict. She finds Atchew to be a philistine, a knuckle-dragger, a caveman, a fop, a boob, and a dunderhead. And these are his positive qualities. The idea of him inheriting Downtrodden Abbey, with his inability to select the proper eating utensils, positively nauseates Vile. As do the very biscuits they are consuming, which taste like they have been designated for Fallow, Lord Crawfish’s prized Chihuahua-Mastiff mix.

“However,” says Vile, “There is the matter of my continuing to live in the style to which I have been accustomed. I cannot imagine my family not having ten times more house than they need, sumptuous meals, and a staff of white slaves we can criticize and berate day and night. It would simply be torture, I tell you.

“So I will reluctantly allow your dim-witted progeny to marry … Marry.”

Back at the Abbey, however, Marry contemplates the idea of tying the knot for money rather than love. The whole business with the forks was certainly an indicator of what might develop out of a marriage to Atchew.

It’s so simple,
she thinks, sitting at her vanity.
There are nine forks. The smallest ones are for shellfish and escargot. The slightly larger one is for the first starter. The next is for the salad. The medium fork is for the second starter. The other medium fork is for the second salad. The large fork is for the main course. Wait—is that eight or nine? Did I miss one? This is the issue with men—they set one’s head to spinning.

Flora enters and, seeing her daughter’s confusion, tries to help.

“Marry.”

“Yes, mother?”

“That’s all. I meant it as a verb this time.”

“But how can I wed this man, mother? We have virtually no history.”

Flora shares her memories. When she married Roderick she was hardly in love. He was prone to missing belt loops and failing to lift his little finger when sipping tea. Not to mention his problem in the boudoir (which was eventually solved with a blue potion provided by Mr. Stiffdick, the town apothecary).

“Okay, first of all, you’re oversharing. And secondly, it’s not Atchew’s manhood I’m questioning—it is his manners. I mean, who eats pudding with a fork? And besides, I’ve got a viscount coming.”

“A discount? Why would you need that, Marry? There is virtually nothing you cannot afford—especially as you are poised to inherit—”