Kristine Hughes's Blog, page 112

The Secrets of Bloxley Bottom, Episode 6: A Shocking Display

 Lionel, Baron Bloxley tapped his forefinger on the map of Kent he’d been studying. He knew of several well-traveled routes that were in need of significant expansion or resurfacing after roadbed improvements and even re-grading for some. He was eager to hear what the Duke had to say about forming a turnpike committee. The vicar favored it, but he was not a man of a practical bent.
If the fellow had any sense at all, he would pay more attention to the needs of his parish than to Isaac Newton, a tenuous relation of his, upon whom he was writing a paper. The baron uttered a silent oath. While the vicar’s nose was in some musty book, he allowed a gaggle of old women to rule the village. Lionel could not help but to smile. The premier meddler was his own mother, the revered Dowager Baroness, who knew precisely how to make everyone dance to her tune.
In that regard, Lionel had to consider himself a fortunate man. His wife Elizabeth was apparently content to allow the Dowager to hold sway over the rest of the congregation, not to say village.
Lionel’s attention had wandered. He re-read the note from Ashton, his best tenant. The man ran the Home Farm with the skill of a one bred to the job, as indeed he had been.
He studied it for a moment and felt his concern lighten. This was more like it. The orchards, both cherry and apple, had been blooming better than they had in years and Ashton had set another hive of bees. There would be bumper crops.
"Arp!"
Lionel glanced out the window in time to see Spot dashing across the lawn in hot pursuit of the Lord knew what. Deuced odd looking animal.
Lionel pulled his mind back to the matters at hand. The Duke was due any minute.

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Major Monty Twydall rode home from the Dower House with the satisfaction of the Duke’s assurance that he would stop by to see the pearls next week. Monty needed the sale. Several of his investments were not doing well. As idle as he professed to be, Monty kept a sharp eye upon the dismal financial news in London newspapers. As if the news weren't dire in itself, Monty had made a few unfortunate wagers since the turn of the year. A most regrettable backing of a bare knuckle boxer. A few unwise bets at the cock fights he’d organized had soaked up his share of the profits. If Monty had taken the time to fill out a balance sheet, the last five months would have shown little on the income side and heavy expenses on the other. It could only be hoped that things would soon look up. In the meantime, he needed to make a large sale in order to tide him over this rough patch. Or convince Tournell to turn out more of his secret pictures, which always brought in a pretty penny.

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In the well-lit conservatory at Monty’s Saxon Lodge, the artist Tournell unpacked his box of carefully protected canvasses, already primed. Tournell replaced in the false bottom of the carrying case the five little examples of his breast paintings, the ones that brought him so much business, but were becoming something of a nuisance. In certain circles, these little portraits had come to be known as le peche, or the peaches.

Several years ago, when Major Twydall had wanted a miniature of Adora, his then-mistress, he whispered that her face and bad teeth should be turned away, prompting Tournell to jokingly paint only her breasts, which even he thought were exceedingly lovely. The little picture of Adora’s breasts became a great attraction to all the members of the Naxians, Monty’s group of hedonistic friends. Before he knew it, Tournell had received a dozen commissions to paint more of the little ivory miniatures, small paintings easily tucked into a pocket, all of breasts. He’d worked feverishly, being greatly in need of the money and hoping to finish before more appropriate commissions came his way.

Gradually, the commissions for more conventional portraits began to arrive, several from men whose mistress’s mammary glands had been his subject matter. Like Lord Bloxley, a man who had seen and admired Tournell's formal portrait of Mrs. Green, but who also owned a small leather case containing a tiny depiction of the breasts of Sarah, a lightskirt he no longer even visited and who had moved on to another patron. That had been a shock, Tournell thought, when he had painted Sarah for the second time; it had taken him until a half hour into the session before her laughter reminded him of her former pose.

In fact she had suggested to him the names of a few women who’d like to have themselves portrayed only between their shoulders and their waists, women who loved to display themselves but who did not care to draw attention to their flaws.

Sometimes Tournell felt he was a prisoner of his own, secretive success. He had plenty of money and a growing reputation, yet most of his best paintings could not be exhibited in public. There were members of the Royal Academy who did life size renditions of nearly nude nymphs in mythological scenes -- but they’d be scandalized if they saw the breast miniatures. Or so they would pretend. And if ladies like the Baroness Bloxley or the Dowager saw them…well, his goose would be cooked. To a crisp.

Breasts or respectable portraiture? An empty belly or steady commissions? Respect for his craft or artistic obscurity? His le peche paintings had brought him this lucrative commission from Lord Bloxley. The painting of his daughters could make his name. But it was enevitable that should he come to the attention of the London art world through this and future portraits, it would not be long before he was exposed as the "painter of breasts." Did he want fame and fortune to finally open their arms to him when it would also mean his exposure as the painter of peches? Alors, Tournell was tortured by these questions daily. Always these questions and never any satisfactory answers.









When he arrived home, Monty was pleased to find Tournell setting up his studio in the former conservatory of Saxon Lodge, a room Monty found superfluous. Having the artist working at the Lodge could be lucrative for both of them. The whole thing had been Monty’s idea at first. Pierre Tournell had embraced the idea eagerly enough. Of course he had; the paintings had kept him in money. What Monty needed at present was a set of good sales to the Naxians of those breast miniatures.
Monty approached Tournell. "I see you're hard at it. Good man. Listen, Tournell, can you paint a few more le pesche for me?”

Tournell sighed. “I have no models. Bloxley Bottom is not a hot bed of courtesans willing to display their wares.”

“Surely there are some young women with pretty cherries ripe for the picking”

“Alors! You would have me accost them in the road?”

“How about the girls at the inn?”

“Mrs. Winston, ah, tres jolie – but she keeps a Bible at her desk. I think if her serving wench told her I wanted her to . . . “

“Come now, man, you can’t be as direct as all that. Gracious, where’s your French flair, your savoir faire?”

“Twydall, you do the seducing, I’ll paint the pictures.”

Monty chuckled. “We’ll take dinner at the Crowing Cock, Tournell, and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

Tournell agreed, giving a silent sniff at his host’s presumption. Show him, show Tournell who had convinced some of the Naxian’s highest flyers to bare their breasts to a roomful of strangers while he painted them? Ha! But of course Monty had no idea he’d charged admission to his painting sessions from time to time.

With a quick wave, Monty left. “See you at the inn at five.”

“Oui. Au revoir.” Tournell stared up a the slant of the sun and re-positioned his easel.

He wanted, on the one hand, to have his portraits admired, his work to be sought after. But portraits were not only difficult, they took a great deal of tact and subtlety. The sitter needed to be flattered yet the portrayal must be realistic…and he found painting clothing tricky. All the frothy lace women wore today, and poufs of silk and satin. Tournell studied Van Dyke and Gainsborough, had even been acquainted with Tom Lawrence. Now there was someone who gave life to fabrics. Though Lawrence had a studio full of assistants …while he, Tournell worked alone. It took money to set oneself up in an atelier. Maybe he could do paintings of historical subjects, or old myths and legends – these might sell. A gathering of nymphs at Diana’s bathing pool. Attendants at Aphrodite’s toilette…ah yes, he could do such huge canvases and this studio space at Monty’s was just the place.

So Monty was right. He needed models. And not just women. He’d require a few males as well, lithe and strong with well defined musculature. They might be easier to convince to pose. What man didn’t want to show off his body?
��������An hour after his arrival in the library at Bloxley Hall, the Duke looked at the clock on Lionel’s bookshelf. It was time he headed back to Walmer. As he recalled, there would be guests at dinner tonight. “I think we have the essential agreement here,” he said.Lionel nodded. “Starting with the committee to widen the main road, I am sure we will build support for more improvements. Much as I would like to start all of them at once, your advice about moving at a judicious pace is right on point, Duke.”The Duke raised one eyebrow. “You’ll bring along the doubters soon enough.”“I hope so.” Lionel leaned back in his chair, the business of the day concluded. “I have decided to have my daughters’ portraits painted.”“So I have been told.”Lionel gave a bark of laughter. “My mother, I suppose, was full of the news.”“Ah, yes. Lady Louisa is one of my oldest friends, you know. She is a one-woman fount of intelligence. She has a better network of informants than I devised at any time during the wars. Indeed a formidable woman.”“And I suppose she told you she does not particularly approve of this painter, a Frenchman?”It was the Duke’s turn to nod in agreement.Lionel went on. “He is a truly talented fellow, and he needs a bit of help getting his work into the right hands.”“Hoping to have your daughters’ portraits in the Academy’s summer exhibition next year?”“It has crossed my mind. No names, however. Having the girls identified, I am sure, would offend my mother’s sense of propriety.”“No doubt.”“Have you seen Tournell’s work, Duke?”“Not that I'm aware of.”“No one has shown you one of their le pesches?” A smile was beginning to build on the baron’s lips.“Their what?”
Lionel went to the bookcase and thumbed through a volume, removing a small picture, no more than two inches square. He gazed at it fondly. “It was Major Twydall who started it. Le pesche, the peaches in Italian, you know. They are pictures of breasts, sort of like those lover’s eyes that crop up from time to time.”He handed the picture to the Duke whose jaw actually dropped in surprise.Lionel continued to explain. “It’s that group of men Monty has assembled, the Naxians they call themselves. Rather juvenile, I think, but all in good fun. It’s become quite the fashion among them to have their mistresses painted.”“Like this?” The Duke’s voice was rather strained as he gazed at the view of two perfect breasts and nothing else.“Sometimes on ivory. The painter has a deft touch.”“And this is the man you want to paint your daughters?”“Oh, le pesche are just a sideline. He is skilled at portraiture.”“Apparently so,” said the Duke as he eyed the miniature.

The Tour of Dr. Syntax in Search of the Picturesque, Part 9

Dr. Syntax, Derby Porcelain ManufactoryEnglish 1750-1848, soft-paste porcelainwith polychrome enamel decoration 
Since it has been a while since we last encountered Dr. Syntax, let’s take look at where he stands. He is traveling around England on his mare Grizzle to sketch and write about the picturesque – an artistic concept, indeed a sort of fad in the first two decades of the 19th century.  This long poem was written by William Comb, illustrated by Thomas Rowlandson, and published by Rudolf Ackermann. It is a satire – or burlesque – on the writings of that seer of the “picturesque,”  the Reverend William Gilpin, whose writings were widely persuasive to many such as landscape architect Humpry Repton and even novelist Jane Austen. But like almost all artistic endeavors, when exaggerated to a great extent, the picturesque was certainly ripe for satire, with its disdain of a calm and serene landscape in favor of twisted trees, wild weather, and ruined buildings. Being a curate and teacher in the church school, Dr. Syntax’s clerical career has not progressed to the degree he and his wife think he deserves. With this trip, he is attempting to make his fortune and reputation (as did Rev. Gilpin) with a book of his observations.  He has now reached Keswick in the Lake District, and has made friends with Squire Worthy and his family. This squire will figure prominently in the Doctor’s life in the future – but so far, little does he know…
As we meet him once again, Dr. Syntax is having breakfast with Squire Worthy , who is speaking: Your free-born conduct I commend, And shall rejoice to call you friend: Oh ! how it would my spirits cheer If you were but the Rector here! Our Parson, I'm concern'd to say. Had rather drink and game — than pray: He makes no bones to curse and swear. In any rout to take a share, And what's still worse, he'll springe a hare. I wish his neck he would but break, Or tumble drunk into the Lake! For, know, the living's mine to give, And you should soon the cure receive: The benefice, I'm sure, is clear At least three hundred pounds a year."  "I thank you. Sir, with all my heart," Said Syntax, "but we now must part" … Dr. Syntax, making another of his many errors, rides off until evening…
  Dr. Syntax Robbed of his Property 
But as he reach'd the destin'd inn. The landlord, with officious grin. At once declar'd he had no bed Where Syntax could repose his head; …At least, where such a rev'rend guest Would think it fit to take his rest: A main of cocks had fought that day, And all the gentry chose to stay. …
Dr. Syntax is offered a room by one of the guests and innocently agrees….Dr. Syntax speaks:
“In short, I only want to sleep Where neither rogue nor knave can creep. I travel not with change of coats. But in these bags are all my notes, Which, should I lose, would prove my ruin, And be forever my undoing." Thus as he spoke, a lively blade. With dangling queue and smart cockade. Replied at once, "I have a room; The friend I look'd for is not come; And of two beds where we may rest. You, my good Sir, shall have the best; So you may sleep without alarm; No living wight shall do you harm…”
Ah, beware Doctor – but so far on this trip when he has been frequently accosted, he has learned nothing of human behavior!  He agrees to share the room with the Captain, and after dinner:
The Doctor and the Captain sat. Till tir'd of each other's chat. They both agreed it would be best To seek the balmy sweets of rest.  Syntax soon clos'd his weary eye, Nor thought of any danger nigh; While, like the ever-watchful snake. His sharp companion lay awake. Impatient to assail his prey When, soon as it was dawn of day. He gently seiz'd the fancied store; But, as he pass'd the creaking door. Syntax awoke, and saw the thief; When, loudly bawling for relief. He forward rush'd in naked state, And caught the culprit at the gate: Against that gate his head he beat. Then kick'd him headlong to the street. The ostler from his bed arose, In time to hear and see the blows…
Luckily our hero is able to recover his papers. Syntax and the ostler (a stableman from the inn) let the culprit run away – then return to their beds. Excerpts from Canto 16 But, while he still enjoy'd his dream, His story was the gen'ral theme Of ev'ry tongue, and made a din Through all the purlieus of the inn. The ostler told it to the maid. And she the whole, and more, betray'd; Nay, in her idle, eager prate. Mistook the window for the gate: For, though she lay all snug and quiet. And slept, unconscious of the riot, She swore that, all within her view. The Parson from the window threw A full-grown man into the street. …The Barber caught the story next, Who stuck no closer to the text; But left a face half-shav'd, and ran To tell it to the Clergyman. …“ At the Blue Bell there's been such doing — The house, I'm certain, it must ruin; Nay, as I live, I'll tell no further, — A bishop has committed murther!” …
More exaggerations are spread…
The Blacksmith, while a trav'ller stay'd That a new horse-shoe might be made, Inform'd him that a rev'rend Clerk Last night was strangled in the dark, No one knew how — 'twas at the Belly The murd'rer not a soul could tell:  The Justice though would make a rout, And try to find the fellow out.— Thus Rumour spread the simple case, In ev'ry form throughout the place.
The Doctor now unclos'd his eyes. And thought that it was time to rise: So up he got, and down he went. To scold the Landlord fully bent;
The landlord makes profuse apologies… and finishes: “…I understand the rogue you bang'd. And in good time. Sir, he'll be hang'd: I hope that all your notes you've found, — I'm told they're worth a thousand pound." "Prove that," says Syntax, "my dear honey, And I will give you half the money. Think not, my friend, I'm such a fool. That I have been so late at school. To put my bank-notes in a bag That hangs across my Grizzle nag; No, they were notes to make a book; The thief my meaning, Mend, mistook: For know, the man would not have found Them worth — to him — a single pound: Though much I hope that they will be The source of many a pound to me."
Thus Syntax cheer'd the Landlord's heart, Till the time wam'd him to depart; When soon, along the beaten road. Poor Grizzle bore her rev'rend load. The Doctor's pleasant thoughts beguile The journey onward many a mile; For many a mile he had not seen But one unvarying, level green; Nor had the way one object brought, That wak'd a picturesquish thought. …      Dr.  Syntax is tricked into a wager – though he claims he never gambles.  A local yeoman bets Syntax that he cannot get a pound for his mare, the poor and boney Grizzle who has lost most of her ears and tail.  But one of the local fellows comes to the rescue:  "A parson, Sir," says one, "distressed,
Would sell that poor, that wretched beast;
And asks, I hear, a pound or two:
I think he'll ne'er get that from you."
"If that's the case," the Yeoman said, —
"I'll ease his heart, and buy the jade.
I'll bid two pounds, my friend, that's plain,
And give him back his beast again."
The Farmer own'd the wager lost.
And op'd his bag to pay the cost;
"No Sir," says Syntax, "'tis to you
To pay where'er you think it due…” Thus the wager comes to naught and all are satisfied.Excerpts from Canto 17Dr. Syntax is invited to a village feast where he engages in the general festivities and tells stories, including a long lecture on the evils of gambling.  Dr. Syntax joins in the music-making by playing the fiddle.  Dr. Syntax ... Rural Sports Chorus of Peasants. "Strike, strike the lyre! awake the sounding shell
How happy we who in these valleys dwell!
How blest we live beneath his gentle sway.
Whom mighty realms and distant seas obey!
Make him, propitious Heaven! your choicest care!
O make him happy as his people are!"
'Twas thus they fiddled, danc'd, and sung;
With harmless glee the village rung:
At length, dull midnight bid them close
A day of joy, with calm repose. To be continued… 
  

A Couple In England - Day Three - Part Five

"What do I have to change for?" Hubby asked when we were up in our room.
"Because Winter Wonderland is outdoors. It's in Hyde Park, behind Apsley House. We have to bundle up."
"Oh, Jeez, it's freezing out! And more crowds," Hubby said as he looked longingly at the darts match (still) playing on the telly.
"At least it's not raining."
"Yeah. We're getting a five minute break on the rain."
So once again we bundled up - coats, scarves and gloves - and made our way to Piccadilly. Walking briskly towards Apsley House, we soon encountered a crowd on the sidewalk.
"What's this now?" Hubby asked. "What are they all lining up for?"
"The Hard Rock Cafe. There's always a line. Do you want to go in?" I asked, knowing how big Hubby is into rock and roll. "They have a Vault, with all kinds of rock memorabilia inside."
"Are you crazy? I wouldn't wait on that line, in the cold, to get inside if you told me Pink Floyd was in there. And that would be something, since half of them are dead."


So we continued on our way until we reached Apsley House, which always looks magnificent when lit at night. And on past it to Hyde Park gate . . . . . .




And the entrance to Winter Wonderland.
"What are we stopping for?" Hubby asked. I didn't answer. I couldn't. I was the one who'd explained to Hubby that the entrance to Winter Wonderland was right behind Apsely House. I knew it was right behind Apsley House, but I hadn't realized that it was right behind Apsley House. As in within spitting distance. A child could have thrown a baseball from Apsley House to the entrance. Hell, even I could have thrown a baseball from Apsley House to the entrance. Surely the first Duke must be turning in his grave. And I daresay the present Duke can't have been too happy, either.


We were soon forced to move forward towards the entrance by the sheer numbers of the crowd pressing ahead. Before us lay a wall of people, a cacophony of noise and the glare of thousands of neon lights.
"Into the valley of death rode the six hundred."
"What? I can't hear you!"
"Hold my hand," I yelled. "I don't want us to be separated." Egad, I'd never find Hubby again in this crowd, and even if I did, he'd be spitting mad.


Although we had just come through the entrance, everyone already inside seemed to be coming at us. Like lemmings, we had to jostle our way in the opposite direction through a wall of humanity. Peripherally, I could make out booths on either side of the crowd, but dashed if I could make out what any of them were selling. If we went on at this pace, we'd never make it to the Big Wheel by 7 p.m., for which time we had tickets. Right, time to take matters into my own two feet. I gripped Hubby's hand tighter still and forged ahead . . . twelve steps to the left, nine ahead. Eight steps to the right, 17 ahead. Thus, we twisted, turned and wended our way towrads the Big Wheel, which we could see in the distance.






Finally, we made our way, still together, to the Wheel and joined the queue. There were many gondolas on the wheel and so it was soon our turn to ride. Seated inside, we found buttons one could push in order to listen to either a narrative of the upcoming view or Christmas carols. We chose the narrative and soon we were off. Up and up, higher and higher we climbed. Then we stopped so that the next people in line could board. There we hung, in mid air, as it were.

"What's the matter?" Hubby asked.

"I didn't realize we'd be this high up."

"We're hardly off the ground yet."

Apsley House looked like a Leggo toy below us. Staring at it, I thought of Wellington and tried to summon up some courage.

"Maybe we should change seats and sit on the other side so we can get a better view of the fair."

"No!"

"Alright, alright. I just asked."



Oddly enough, the higher we climbed, and the less I could see the ground way down below us, the more I began to relax. In the distance, one could see the twinkling lights of Mayfair and Knightsbridge. It was a glorious view, a smooth ride and we both thoroughly enjoyed it. Before long, it was time to disboard.



"That was great!"
"I'm glad you liked it. It was something different."
"Did you enjoy it?"Hubby asked.
"Yes, I did. Though I could use a cigarette."
We found an out of the way, miraculously empty area and lit up.
"Now what?"
"Zippo's Circus. I saw it on our way over here. It's over in that direction," I said, pointing.


As we walked off towards the circus tent, it became obvious that, although we could clearly see it, there was no direct route one might take in order to reach the tent. We found it tantalizingly near, but confoundingly difficult to reach as it seemed blocked on all sides by other attractions.



First, we found our way blocked by the Alpen Hotel, a sort of haunted house ride by all appearances.

Then by a German Christmas village, where the crowds continued to thwart our every step forward. Finally, I found a ticket booth and asked the attendant how in the world one was actually supposed reach Zippo's Circus.
"Oh, well, the best way to go is right up this lane here till you get to your first right turning. Then you'll take that straight until you see the Bavarian Village. You have to go right through it and out the back. When you get out into the gardens behind, make a right and follow that lane right around to the right and then you'll see it."
"Well?" Hubby asked when I returned to his side.
"It's right down here!" I said brightly. It was the first right turn she'd said, wasn't it?

 
We made it to the Bavarian Village, which was chockablock with people, and finally out the back, up the lane and to Zippo's Cirque Berserk.

.   Here's a publicity still from Zippos, which will you give you some idea the flavour of the night.      Zippo's is made up of a small, but amazingly talented, troupe of performers. All of the acts were tied together by a sort of Tim Burton/Grimm's Fairy Tale-esque narrative. The forces of evil, nightmares and I don't know what else all played a part. The woman who did the narrative had a heavy eastern European accent, so most of what she said was lost, but no matter, the show itself more than made up for it.  
 There was an awe inspiring aerialist, a couple who walked and rode bicycles on a tight rope and a group of tumblers and acrobats called the Zulu Warrior Troupe. You can watch a previous performance of theirs here, which will give you a sample of their talents.  "Good?" "Great! I had no idea it would be this great. It's all fabulous." The highlight of the show was the  Motorcycle Globe of Death, which stars Brazil’s Lucius Troupe. First, a single motorcyclist enters the globe and rides around the interior at breakneck speeds. Then another cyclist enters and the two of them drive like demons inside the globe. Then, a woman entered the globe and they sped around her dancing form. Then, she left and a third cyclist entered the globe . . . . .  "No freaking way," said Hubby, who actually rides motorcycles. "That's nuts." Way. Round and round they went and I have to say that it stopped being fun for me. No kidding. My heart was in my throat, my rounded eyes were glued to the globe and I really just wanted them to stop before they killed themselves. I couldn't see this ending well. The air became thick with exhaust fumes, their engines raced and revved as they continued to accelerate, but otherwise the entire tent was silent, all of us watching with jaws hanging open.    

 Words really cannot do justice to the performance, so I've included a YouTube clip of the act -  you can watch it here. And here's a longer version. I will tell you that everyone survived the performance, even the audience members.  

After the show, Hubby and I found a nearby, and blessedly empty, sausage stall with a beer stand not five feet away from it. There is a God! We chowed down, drank beer and had a really good time.  "So, what's on the agenda for tomorrow?" Hubby eventually asked.  "Apsley House!" I waited for a joyous response from Hubby. It never came. "Followed by your three hour rock and roll tour." "It's not my rock and roll tour." "Well, it certainly isn't mine. I booked it for you. Then we have the theatre tomorrow night."  Eventually, we began to make our way out of the fair.  "Which way do we go?" "Dashed if I know. I'm all turned around. I have no idea where in the Park we are any longer." We walked aimlessly for a bit and then I saw a security guard up ahead. "Can you tell me where the nearest exit is?" I asked. He raised his right arm to shoulder height and pointed in response. I followed his finger and there was a deserted lane leading down to what appeared to be a well travelled thoroughfare.  "Thanks." We exited the Park and stood on the sidewalk. "Where are we?" "Give me a minute." "Are we lost?" No! You can't get lost coming out of Hyde Park. I just don't know which gate this is." I looked to my right . . . . Knightsbridge. I think. I looked across the road. Hhhhmmmm . . . . I do believe that if we were to cross right here and continue on we'd soon be at the Grenadier Pub. Just to make sure, I looked to the left and confirmed that I'd gotten my bearings right.  "This way." I said to Hubby as I began to walk. "Do you know where we are now?" "Yes. And you know where we are, too." "I do?" "Yup. St. George's Hospital is just up here on the right." "Should we get a cab? Look, there's a free cab!" "We don't need a cab! Come on, a few more steps and you'll see where we are." And there, like a beacon in the night, glowed Apsley House.   
  
Day Four Coming Soon!

The Secrets of Bloxley Bottom, Episode 5: The Duke Consents

Lady Louisa usually welcomed Monty to her drawing room with enthusiasm. But today, when she had so much to discuss with the Duke of Wellington, she would have preferred to send Monty away. His visit would no doubt outlast that of the Duke. How very annoying. No pussy-footing. She’d get him straight to the point.

Lady Louisa gestured to Monty before turning to the Duke.  “Have a seat, Monty.  Duke, Mr. Twydall has a new shipment of items from the continent.”

Monty’s wide grin turned into a little cough. “Why yes, Lady Louisa. But perhaps the Duke is not interested in such trifles.” Monty cast a furrowed brow in Louisa's direction, wondering at her bluntness. Not to say lack of tact.

“Hmmmph,” the Duke said. “Better talk of trifles these days than hear more about the nonsense coming from Westminster.”

“How true,” Monty said. He would never discuss politics with the Duke. “But you are a real connoisseur, and most of what I have are little more than bibelots.”

“I am sometimes on the lookout for things that might interest my friend Mrs. Charles Arbuthnot. She has exquisite taste.”

“Is she interested in fans? I have one said to have belonged to Madame du Barry. As well as a pearl necklace that was Madame Grassini’s, or so they say.”

Monty kept his gaze fixed on the Duke’s face, but the old fellow's famous sang-froid had not dimmed upon hearing the name of this former mistress.




In the Dower House kitchen Billy Green arrived, after following Monty on foot.

“Now wot have you et today, boy?” Mrs. Cubbins put down her spoon, slapped a plate and a hunk of cheese on the table. She sliced a thick piece of crusty bread and set it on the plate beside a tub of butter. “Fresh churned this morning.”

“Sure is good, ma’am.” Billy spoke through a mouthful of bread.

“Yer can take some ‘ome. I made a few extra loaves this mornin’ fer the egg man, but he hain’t come today.”

It was a perfect day for Billy. A shilling in his pocket and a bundle full of bread and cheese.

***

In the Drawing Room, Lady Louisa had succeeded in sending Monty away with Anne, on the pretext of his helping her to fetch the tea tray. At first Monty had balked at the suggestion that he carry the tea tray. Wasn't that what Hartley was for? It had taken a ferocious look from Lady Louisa before the penny had dropped and he'd realized that the fetching of tea was simply an excuse to be rid of them.

When the door closed behind them, Louisa all but pounced upon the Duke. “Arthur, we will not have much time to discuss this.”

“I must be leaving quite soon.”

“Please, not until I explain.”

“Why do I feel this is not something I want to hear?”

“I told you already -- it concerns Captain Bradley-Smythe and Prudence.”

The Duke sighed. “Let’s be done with it, then.”

“You were saying a few weeks ago what promise the Captain had shown and that you felt he could certainly advance in his military career, most especially if he were to find himself a suitable wife. You did say you preferred your officers to be settled in their personal lives, did you not?”

“Perhaps I did. It’s something I believe, certainly, but if I had mentioned such a thing, I assure you, Louisa, it was mentioned in passing and not intended to prompt you to find him a wife!”

“But it would be the most perfect arrangement, Arthur. I dare say my very first arrangement in regards to Prudence sixteen years ago at Waterloo has worked out mighty well. You can’t dispute that.”

The Duke narrowed his eyes, “You mean my plan for Prudence, surely.”

Louisa sucked in her breath, “Well!”

The Duke and Louisa each sat rigidly with gazes locked, neither one prepared to give an inch on the question. The Duke, used to dealing with people who attempted to push him down various paths he had no intention of traveling, would have sat stone faced thusly for however long the matter required. However, after the space of two minutes and 23 seconds precisely, Louisa suddenly sat back and smiled at him, a sly look in her hazel eyes.

“Why don’t we agree to refer to past matters as having been a plan of our mutual devising and leave it at that?”

“As you wish.” The Duke allowed, relaxing the set of his shoulders. “In any case, Louisa, how could you possibly have shuffled your well used deck of matchmaking cards and come up with the pair of Prudence and Bradley-Smythe? You’ve never met Bradley-Smythe, for a start. He could be a one-eyed hunchback for all you know.”

“Impossible. You, Arthur, only allow pretty fellows into your inner circle. Good looks, after all, do wonders for a uniform.”

“Louisa! That is not  -. ”

“Now, when can you bring him to me so that I might take his measure?”

“Dashed if I know. Bradley-Smythe’s not a member of my inner circle. He’s been acting as a sort of aide to Fitzroy-Somerset as far his parliamentary work is concerned. You know Somerset’s got his hand in many pies.”

“Yes, however Lord Fitzroy-Somerset is off for two weeks in Scotland soon and I dare say that if you asked to have the Captain come to you at Walmer while Somerset was away, he would be more than happy to oblige.”

“Fitzroy’s going to Scotland?”

Louisa sighed, “Yes. His sister-in-law, the Duchess of Beaufort, wrote to me and happened to mention it. A line about his trip, nothing more.”

“Louisa, do you keep up a correspondence with everyone in the world? You know absolutely everything about everyone, blast it. “

“Not everyone, Arthur, only those people who matter and in whom I take an interest. Now, when can we arrange for the Captain to visit?”

"I cannot tell you this instant, Louisa. I am certain there are a few things on my calendar in the coming weeks that may keep me otherwise occupied."

"What sort of things?" Louisa asked impatiently.

"Trifling things. The king, parliament, the war office, the Duchess of Kent, Egypt. Nothing of any weight in the face of your personal desires, I dare say."

Louisa had the grace to nod her assent to the importance of these matters. The Duke sighed, "I shall check my diary soonest and send you a note as to when a visit from Captain Bradley-Smythe may be convenient."

"Very well. And not a word to Anne about it as yet. I want to get a look at the Captain first in order make certain that he'd be suitable for Prudence."

"Suitable? Suitable, indeed. Prudence would be a fortunate girl to land the likes of Bradley-Smythe as a husband."

Louisa bristled, "May I remind you, Arthur, that Prudence possesses many sterling qualities in herself, and she enjoys something most young ladies cannot claim, that being our patronage. You and I have set the course for her life and we must do everything in our power to see that she is set up fine. As fine as we can manage between ourselves!"

"Waterloo has got alot to answer for, by God! If I had realized then the scope of your propensity for scheming and interfering in other people's lives, I would never have gone into partnership with you in our plans for Prudence at the time! Why I allow myself to be so easily persuaded by you I shall never know."

"You do not always allow yourself to be persuaded by me, Arthur. As you very well know."

"I know no such thing! Name me a single instance of my not having bowed to your powers of persuasion. A single instance!"

Louisa picked up her teacup and took a long pull. She swallowed and smiled prettily at the Duke before answering, "The Duchess of Richmond's ball."

Selfridge's on PBS Masterpiece

So now that they've killed off our favorite characters on Downton Abbey, where does Masterpiece go from here?  Well, to London's Oxford Street and the Chicago  merchant whose true life story is almost as melodramatic as the plot of Downton.

For more information and the trailer of the upcoming PBS presentation of Mr. Selfridge, click here.


Harry Gordon Selfridge 1856-1947  
Born in Ripon, Wisconsin, before the American Civil War,  Harry Selfridge lived to see the end of World War II.  And along the way, he greatly contributed to the development of modern merchandising.

He started in Chicago with Marshal Field's, the legendary department store where the customer was always right.  He masterminded advertising and promotional feats unmatched by anyone else, including the use of the phrase, "Only ?? shopping days until Christmas."

He became very wealthy and eventually founded his famous store on Oxford Street London, which opened in 1909.  He concocted numerous special sales, personal appearances by celebrities and other gimmicks now familiar to all shoppers in the world.  After his wife died in the flu epidemic of 1918, he really moved into London high life, taking over the great mansion Lansdowne House near Berkeley Square and throwing parties attended by everyone who was anyone.


 
Today the store continues to flourish in its original location, a real London landmark.

We look forward to the dramatized story of Mr. Selfridge, coming soon to a PBS station near you.

A Couple In England - Day Three - Part Four

As we made our way back to the Green Park Hilton for afternoon tea, I allowed Hubby to linger under the misconception that he would soon be eating a sandwich. In Hubby's world, a sandwich is also variously known as a sub, a hoagie or even a grinder. Whatever you call it, Hubby believes that a sandwich should be a great, honking Dagwood doorstop of a meal. Boy, was he in for a rude awakening.
When we got to the hotel, we were shown into the Berry Bar and Lounge by a uniformed waiter and seated at a cozy banquette.
"Thank God we're out of those crowds," sighed Hubby. "You can't walk two feet in London without finding yourself in the middle of a crowd. Crossing the street is like taking your life in your hands. I hate crowds."



Our waiter returned and handed us each a flute of champagne.
"What's this?" asked Hubby.
"Champagne."
"I thought we were having tea."
"It's a champagne afternoon tea."
"What? They can't make up their minds? When do they bring the menues? I'm starving."
"There aren't any menues. Afternoon tea is afternoon tea."
The waiter returned with a box of tea samples, presented it to us and then left us to make our choices.
"What's that?"
"Tea. We have to choose which tea we want. See the labels here? Darjeeling, Earl Grey, Gunpowder, Lapsang Souchong . . . . . . "
"Do they have Lipton's?"

 
Sigh. "Afternoon tea is a ritual. Sampling and selecting the teas is a part of it. And there's a Wellington connection to it, too."
"Of course there is!"
"Way back when, in olden times, dinner used to be served late. Like around eight or nine o'clock. So there was a woman, the Duchess of Bedford, who used to get hungry between lunch and dinner and so came up with the idea of taking afternoon tea at around four o'clock. It was like a small meal, with tea, sandwiches and cakes. It's generally believed that she came up with the idea while staying with the Duke of Rutland at Belvoir Castle. Other people came to find out about this and they, like you, thought it was a great idea and soon all of the aristocracy came to make afternoon tea a part of their day."



"My kind of dame."
"I don't think so. She wasn't very nice." Our waiter returned at this point to inquire as to our tea preferences.
"Earl Grey, please, for both of us." I would have preferred Lapsang Souchong, but went with Earl Grey simply because it was easier.
"What's Earl Grey? I just want tea. Plain tea."
Sigh. "Earl Grey is the same as Lipton's. Getting back to the Duchess of Bedford . . . . " Here we go again. Why go back to the Duchess of Bedford at all? Compulsive, that's what I am. "She was a great friend of, and Lady in Waiting to, Queen Victoria."
"Uh huh." Once again, our waiter returned, this time with our loose tea. He placed this in our individual tea pots, added boiling water and set our timers for the brewing time.

"What's that?"
"A tea pot. It's got a diffuser in it. The tea has to steep until it's ready. See the timer? We have to wait for the tea to brew properly. So, there was another lady in waiting, Lady Flora Hastings, who the Duchess of Bedford started a rumor about. It seems that Flora was getting a little heavy around the mid-section and the Duchess and Baroness Lehzen told the Queen that it was because Flora was pregnant."
"Yeah? So?"
Sigh. "Flora wasn't married. We're talking about the Victorian era. It was a big scandal. They hinted that Sir John Conroy was the father."
"Uh huh."
"In reality, poor Flora had cancer. It was a tumor that was changing her shape, not a baby. She died soon after the whole scandal broke. Don't do that!" 
Hubby, anxious to get the show on the road, had begun to depress the plunger on the tea pot - up and down, up and down, up and down - thus releasing the loose tea leaves from the diffuser and sending them throughout his tea pot.
"Relax. It's fine. I'll drink it."
Sigh. The waiter brought us our tiered tray complete with scones, sandwiches and cakes. Just as the Duchess of Bedford would have ordered.


"What's that?"
"It's a scone," I replied, slathering it with jam and clotted cream. I handed it to Hubby on a plate and he took a bite. "Like it?"
"Not really. There's not much to it. What's this pink stuff in the glass at the top?"
"I don't know. Try it." Whatever it was, he liked it and we plodded through the rest of the meal.
"Ready? We have to go up to the room and change."
"Change for what?" Hubby asked, picking a tea leaf out of his teeth.
"Winter Wonderland."
"What? What the Hell is Winter Wonderland? You're killing me. Can't we just go to bed and watch the rest of the darts match?"
"I've told you about it. It's a big fair, rides and food and stuff. We've got tickets for the Giant Wheel and the circus."
"The circus?"
"Yes! It's more of an adult circus. You're going to love it," I said. "Come on, we'll go upstairs and have a rum and coke and then we'll change."
"What about the Duke of Wellington?"
"What?"
"You said the Duke had something to do with afternoon tea."
"Oh, right. He was great friends with the Duke of Rutland."
"Who?"
"The Duke of Rutland. He owned Belvoir Castle. Where the Duchess of Bedford invented afternoon tea. And where Wellington often visited. In fact, if I did some research, I might be able to discover whether Artie and the Duchess were ever at Belvoir at the same time. I'm sure they must have been. Though I don't see how I could prove that it was the same stay during which she came up with the tea idea."
"That's it? That's the connection? They were both friends with the Duke of whatever?"
"Rutland, the Duke of Rutland. Yes, that's the connection. If you look hard enough, you can always find some kind of Wellington connection, no matter what the topic is."
"You're the only one in the entire world who would look that hard. And the only person who'd think I'd be thrilled at the idea of going to the circus!"
Sigh.
Part Five Coming Soon!

The Court Journal: Gazette of the Fashionable World

Saturday, March 2, 1833


COURT AND FASHIONABLE LIFE — The Duke and Duchess of Gloucester will entertain a distinguished party at Gloucester House on Monday next.— The Marquis and Marchioness of Salisbury have issued cards for a party on the 9th inst.— Sir Michael and Lady Shaw Stewart have issued cards for a grand dinner party on Saturday the 9th inst., at their residence on Carlton-terrace.— Sir Robert Peel will give his next Banquet this evening, in Privy Gardens, to Prince Talleyrand and the Duchess de Dino, Count Pozzo di Borgo, and other distinguished fashionables.— The Hon. Henry Edward Fox, son of Lord Holland, has arrived at Rome from England. Mr Fox is likely to make some stay abroad, having been appointed Secretary of Legation at the Court of Turin.— Prince Talleyrand was prevented, by a sprained ancle, from attending the Drawing-room on Monday.— Lord Frederick Fitzclarence has resigned the Lieutenancy of the Tower, and Sir John Wood has been appointed in his room.— Count Matuschevitz is about to break up his establishments in Curzon street and at Melton, having been appointed to the diplomacy at Dresden. His Excellency is expected to take his departure for St Petersburg in the course of the month, after a sojourn in this country of three years, during which period he has held the diplomatic rank of Russian Minister Extraordinary.      — The Duchess of Kent and the Princess Victoria honoured Covent Garden theatre with their presence on Wednesday evening, to witness the performance of the new dramatic Oratorio of The Israelite in Egypt, or The Passage of the Red Sea. — The Duke of Cumberland and the Princess Sophia visited their Majesties on Thursday.— The Duchess of Kent and the Princess Victoria walked and drove in Hyde Park on Thursday morning.— Prince George of Cambridge viewed Mr Burford's Panoramas of Milan and Stilling on Tuesday.— The Marquis of Douro has returned to Apsley House from Dover.— The Dowager Marchioness of Salisbury gives her second grand assembly on the 7th inst.— The Earl of Tankerville will entertain a select circle at dinner on Sunday in Grosvenor square.— The Speaker of the House of Commons will give his third Parliamentary dinner to-day to a party of ultra-Reform Members, comprising Messrs Hume, O'Connell, Major Beauclerk, &c.— The Gazette of Tuesday announces that the King has been pleased to confer the honour of Knighthood upon the following Gentlemen, viz. Lieutenant-General Frederick Augustus Weatherall, of Castlebar, Great Ealing, Middlesex, Military Knight Grand Cross of the Royal Hanoverian Guelphic Order; Lieutenant-General David Latimer Tinling Widdrington, Military Knight Commander of the Royal Hanoverian Guelphic Order; Colonel John Boscawcn Savage, of the Royal Marines, Companion of the Most Honourable Military Order of the Bath, and Military Knight Commander of the Royal Hanoverian Guelphic Order; and Henry Ellis, Esq. Principal Librarian of the British Museum, Companion of the Royal Hanoverian Guelphic Order.— The same Gazette announces the appointment of Lieutenant-General John Sullivan Wood, to the office of Lieutenant of his Majesty's Tower of London, vice Colonel Lord Frederick Fitzclarencc.— On Saturday the Duke and Duchess of Sutherland gave a grand dinner at their residence in the Green Park.— The Earl of Aberdeen gave a sumptuous dinner on Saturday last at Argyll House to the Duke of Wellington, Sir Robert and Lady Peel, the Earl and Countess of Sandwich, Lord and Lady Stuart de Rothsay, Baron de Neumann, Baron and Baroness Zuylen, the Earl of Rosslyn, Sir Richard Vyvyan, Bart., Mr Sidney Herbert, Count Pozzo di Borgo, and Sir Robert Wilson.— The Duke of Bedford has arrived in Belgrave square from Woburn Abbey.— On the preceding day the Noble Earl entertained the Marquis and Marchioness of Salisbury, Lord and Lady Grantham and Miss Robinson, Lord and Lady Lyndhurst, Lord Villiers, Lord and Lady Stonnont, Lord Castlereagh, Mr William Bankes, Lord Redesdale, Lord Grimston, and Mr Harris.— On the same day Admiral Sir Charles Ogle gave an elegant dinner to a party of Naval Officers, &c. at his house in Eaton square.— The Right Hon. E. G. Stanley gave a second grand dinner on Carlton terrace on Saturday; and, in the evening, Mrs Stanley had a card party.      — A grand entertainment was given on Friday evening, the 22d, at Ashburnham House, to meet his Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland. The whole of the household wore their State liveries, and the tables exhibited a rich display of gold and silver services. Amongst the company present to meet his Royal Highness there .were Count Pozzo di Borgo, Earl and Countess of Jersey, Earl and Countess Stanhope, Earl and Countess Cowper, Earl and Countess of Aberdeen, Lord and Lady Stuart de Rothsay, Lord and Lady Ashley, Sir Robert and Lady Peel, Sir Henry Halford, &c.— The Duchess de Dino, at the French embassy in Hanover square, on Friday evening, the 22ud, entertained about 150 distinguished fashionables, among whom were the Dukes of Cumberland, Gloucester, and Argyll; Count Pozzo di Borgo, the Marchioness of Stafford, Earl and Countess of Tankerville, Earl and Countess Grey and "Lady Georginna, Marquis and Marchioness of Lansdownc, Viscount Melbourne, Earl and Countess of Jersey, Lord and Lady Cowley, the Foreign Ministers and their Ladies, &c.— Earl Grey gave a grand dinner on Sunday evening to the Foreign Ambassadors and their Ladies and a distinguished party.— The Earl of Sefton gave a grand dinner on Sunday, at his house in Arlington street, to the Duke of Argyll, the Earl and Countess of Tankerville, Lord Auckland, Lord Ossulston, Lady Cowley, Lord Alleyn, Mr Augustus Craven, Mr Lester, C. P. Grenfell, Esq. &c.— Lord Frederick Fitzclarence and Lord Ranelagh have visited Mr Burford, at his paintingroom, to view the forthcoming panorama of the siege of Antwerp.— Lady Farquhar entertained a party in King street, St James's, on Wednesday evening.— The Duchess de Dino entertained a large party of fashionables last evening in Hanover square.— Sir Charles and Lady Bagot entertained Count Pozzo di Borgo, Lord and Lady Cowley, Lord and Lady Burghersh, and a select party, at dinner, at their residence in Berkeley square on Tuesday. In the evening her Ladyship had a tea party, which was attended by the Duchess of Sutherland, Marquis and Marchioness of Stafford, Marquis of Douro, Countess of Glengall, and Lady E. Butler, Sir George and Miss Seymour, Sir Charles and Lady De Vaux, Lady and Miss Shelley, &c.— We have this week the mournful task of recording the death of Lord John Townshend, which took place on Monday morning, at his marine residence on the King's road, Brighton. His Lordship was the second son of George, first Marquis Townshend, and King George II was his sponsor. In early life he was attached to the political creed of the late Mr Fox, and, by the combination of talent, wit, and elegant literature he displayed, became remarkable among that Statesman's associates.  His-Lordship was honoured with the personal friendship of the late King and his present Majesty; and in the latter years of his life, which were spent in the bosom of his family, he paid long and frequent visits to Brighton, dividing his residence between that place and his estate of Balls Park, Hertfordshire, to which county his remains will be conveyed for interment.     — The sprained ancle of Prince Talleyrand (above) has confined him to his room during the week, and been attended with some injury to his general health. The Duchess de Dino is his constant attendant. The following are tile particulars of the accident. The venerable diplomatist had been dining with a distinguished party at Earl Stanhope's, in Albemarle street, and he was descending the stairs to enter his carriage, holding the banisters for support, when his foot slipped, but he did not, at the moment, feel the slightest sensation of pain, and he proceeded in his carriage to the Travellers' Club, in Pall-mall, where it was discovered that the limb was considerably swollen, and his ancle sprained, in consequence of which he was obliged to be carried to his carriage. We learn that his Excellency is recovering from the effects of the accident.— We beg to correct two mistakes in our late account of the tableaux at Wolterton. We should have named Mr Dewes instead of Mr Dawes, and Mr instead of Mrs O'Brien.— Lord Kinnaird is still confined to his seat at Melton with indisposition, arising from the accident which recently befel him while hunting. His Lordship, we hear, will be unable to take the field again this season.— We understand that the Duke of Bedford has reduced many of his town rentals 25 to 30 per cent., an example worthy of imitation by other great landlords in the Metropolis. In an official report to one of the departments of Government during the last month, it is stated that the value of property in every part of London, except what are called fashionable situations, has fallen at least one-fourth, and in many instances one-third.

The Secrets of Bloxley Bottom Episode 4: Lady Louisa Has a Plan

  Our image of Lady Louisa*


Lady Louisa, Dowager Baroness Bloxley, sat bathed in the warm glow of satisfaction as she awaited the impending presence of the Duke in her drawing room. Lady Louisa relished his visits. She and the Duke enjoyed a long acquaintance of almost thirty years and Lady Louisa looked upon the Duke as though he were an only slightly younger brother, viewing his accomplishments with fierce sisterly pride. No one could deny that the man was a brilliant general and his politics pleased her greatly. That he could have made a wiser decision when it came to choosing his bride was neither here nor there, as Kitty, the Duchess of Wellington herself, had been neither here nor there, but forever in the background when present at all. The personification of a wall flower . . . . At least Kitty had made no demands upon the Duke, unlike that ungrateful group of fractious infants known collectively as The Royal Family. Thank goodness Prinny, the fat, mean- spirited, old spendthrift, was gone. He’d never had an ounce of sense in his bewigged head. He’d demanded the Duke’s help in every manner of affair, with the result being that the Duke had constantly been kept on the trot travelling between London and Windsor and Brighton and back again. One hundred years of Germanic lunacy had all but crippled the English monarchy and now the rabble meant to take over the House of Commons. It was disgraceful. 
"Louisa.” 
Startled out of her reverie, Lady Louisa looked up to see the Duke standing in the doorway. “Arthur!” 
The Duke bent over Lady Louisa and touched his lips to her powdered cheek. Taking a seat on the sofa across from her, he looked at Lady Louisa with great affection. Today her greying, fair hair was covered in a sort of black lace mantilla, no doubt yet another throwback to the days of her youth. To the Duke’s own youth, if truth be told. He hadn’t seen a headdress the likes of this since leaving the Peninsula. Had they ever been popular in England? Louisa’s eccentric manner of dress kept people guessing – some were convinced that she wore outmoded outfits because she was too stingy to buy a new wardrobe. Though why she should be thought mean in her dress when she could not be faulted for being mean in other areas of her life was difficult to work out. Others believed that she was slightly mad. The Duke knew that Louisa clung to the raiment of bygone days out of nothing more than pure vanity. What other lady, upon entering late middle age, could boast of being able still to fit into the same dresses she had worn as a young lady? Not many. 
As she watched him help himself to a tumbler of water from the decanter that was always placed on the side table prior to any of his visits, Louisa said, “I’m glad you’ve come at last. I’ve something I want to discuss with you.”
“Come at last? I was here just last week, my dear. Surely you cannot want to see me more often than that.”
“Be that as it may, Arthur, pay attention now, as I’ve a scheme to discuss with you. And take that look off your face, do. You resemble a pained child.”
“It can’t be helped. I feel like a pained child whenever you mention one of your schemes.”
“You will approve of this one, Arthur.”
“Forgive me if I have reservations.”
“Arthur, I cannot imagine what it is you believe I’m about to propose, but I assure you that it will delight you. It concerns Captain Bradley-Smythe and Prudence.”
“Bradley-Smythe and . . . Prudence?”
“Yes. But I do not want to bring it up in front of Anne, not just yet. “ 
The Duke wrinkled his brow. “But she –"
“It’s a perfect plan, Arthur.” 
“You may depend upon the fact that there is no such thing as a perfect plan. A perfect plan does not exist. Not on the battlefield and even less so in life.”
************
In the stillroom at the back of the Dower House, Miss Anne Humphrey felt her heart flutter when Betsy came to the door to summon her. Anne was almost finished steeping the rose petals. No matter, she thought, it won’t hurt them to sit another half hour while we talk with the Duke. No matter what she was about when the Duke called, her deep respect and affection for the man required that she drop whatever it was and see him at the earliest possible moment.
As she dried her hands, Anne looked at the clutter on the shelf, trying to find something she might give to him. Before his wife died last year, she always sent a small bottle of the rosewater or a jar of lemon crème to that fine lady, the Duchess Kitty. But it was more difficult to find something for a great man like the Duke, though she knew he had achy joints, as did everyone else of his age. He was just too busy to let such trifles bother him. A little jar of beeswax balm would have to do, and she placed it deep in the pocket of her dark gown. After hanging up her apron and smoothing back her hair, she drew a deep breath.
These meetings between herself and the Duke were always welcome, however painful, recalling as they did the melancholy events of so many years before. The loss of her dear Edward, the awful news carried to her while she tended the wounded at Lady Bloxley’s house in Brussels, the Duke’s infinite kindness to her afterwards. Instead of dressing for her wedding ceremony the next day as intended, Anne had spent the morning searching that dreadful battleground. She pressed her lips firmly together and tried to erase the scene from her mind.
********************
The conversation in the drawing room ceased as Anne entered carrying a single teacup upon a matching saucer. Anne excused her interruption, placed the teacup on the table beside Lady Louisa and took her place on a chair near the sofa where the Duke now sat beside Lady Louisa. He rose when she greeted him and gave her a little bow.
“You are looking well, Miss Humphrey.”
“As are you, my Lord Duke,” Anne replied. The Duke pointedly looked at the newly arrived teacup and winked at Anne. She blushed to the roots of her hair.
“My granddaughters are to be painted this summer, on the eve of Daphne’s presentation to the Queen. Do you know the painter Tournell?” Lady Louisa asked the Duke, changing the subject from that which she meant to broach prior to Anne's arrival.
The Duke looked back at Lady Louisa. “I believe I have heard the name, but I do not recall in what regard.”
“In my view, it was demmed rude of Sir Thomas Lawrence to die so young; he should have had twenty more years of work if he had taken care of his health.”
Anne smiled to herself at Lady Louisa’s remark, but had no desire to provoke her employer by pointing out the poor man’s lack of choice in his mode or time of death.
“Demmed artists.” The Duke’s brow furrowed slightly. The Duke, who was continually being badgered to sit for his portrait, had little patience left for painters.  
The Dowager paid no attention to his frown. “I don’t know why Lionel had to choose some Frenchman to paint the portrait. Certainly we have some English fellows ready to pick up Lawrence’s brushes.” Louisa picked up the teacup and took a swallow of the brandy it held.
The Duke nodded. “I can attest to the truth of that. But Lord Bloxley must have had his reasons.”
Lady Louisa could hardly sit still. If only she could think of an errand on which to send Anne, she might resume convincing the Duke to join in her plans for Prudence. They needed to have it decided, in detail, before they presented it to Anne. After all, it was completely in Anne’s interest, as well.
But when Hartley the butler came into the room, it was not to call Anne away. Instead, he announced another arrival. “Mr. Montague Twydall, my lady.”


*Photograph taken in Yale University's Center for British Art; Mrs. (Mary) Lushington, painted by John Hamilton Morimer, 1774

A Couple In England - Day Three - Part Three

After leaving Horse Guards, I aimed the Hubby and myself back towards Trafalgar Square.
"Didn't we just come this way?"
"We did. Now we're going the other side of it."
"Where are we going?" Hubby asked.
"Cecil Court."
"What's that?"
"It's where my antiques dealer is. Remember we went there the last time we were in London?"
"Oh, jeez, the place where you guys talk for hours about the Duke of Wellington?"
"Not hours, surely."
"And where you buy more Wellington stuff? Are you going to buy more Wellington stuff this time? When are you going to stop buying Wellington stuff?"
"When they pry my cold, dead fingers away from my credit card."
"Honest to God, Hon, it's like we live in a museum as it is."
I didn't have a comeback for that. What could I have said? We don't live in a museum? We do. And, honest to God, there's barely any wall space left.
"Look, I promise not to buy any more Wellington stuff unless it's really outstanding. Okay?"
I took us down St. Martin's Lane and from there it was just a short walk to the turning for Cecil Court, a pedestrian thoroughfare lined with book, print and antique shops.


 Now, if I had any sense in my head, or if I were the crafty sort, I wouldn't share the name of my favourite antique dealer with you, let alone his exact location, but I trust that you and I are such good mates by now that, should you visit the shop, you'll content yourself with buying things associated with William IV or Lord Nelson, or even Queen Victoria, and leave all the Wellington bits and bobs for me.  






The shop is just the right size for browsing and it's absolutely crammed, floor to ceiling, with items from the Georgian period to the early 1900's. I can, and have, spent hours in the shop. Mark is very personable and always pours me a drink before encouraging me to light up. We sip, smoke and have an old fashioned chin wag as the time flies by. We discuss Florida, Wellington items that we both missed out on, Wellington items that one or the other of us haven't missed out on, dogs, restaurants, etc., etc.
On this particular day, Mark wasn't there himself, but my good mate and Mark's partner Dave was. That's Dave in the picture below, in the white shirt.



"The Wellington Woman!" Dave greeted me. "How's your daughter? Is she with you?"  Dave's Boston Terrier came out from behind the counter to greet me and we spent a few minutes catching up on the past two years. It was about this time that the Hubby sidled towards the door and quietly let himself out. Then, as always, Dave threw out some Wellington trivia in his ongoing attempts to stump me.
"Publish and be damned."
I rolled my eyes at him. "Really? That's the best you have? Harriet Wilson, that slut."
"By God, I think my leg's gone," he said.
I sighed. "Henry Paget, after being shot in the leg at Waterloo. We just saw Paget's leg at Horse Guards, as a matter of fact."
"No! It was the Marquess of Angelsey," Dave cried with delight.
"No. It wasn't either. It was just plain, old Henry Paget. He wasn't created Marquess of Angelsey until a few days afterward. The same Henry Paget who had, years earlier, run off with the wife of Wellington's brother." Why did this story sound so familiar?
"I didn't know that. Really?"
"Why would I lie?"
Dave stared off into space for a few moments, his mind working. Finally, he said, "Sparrow hawks, ma'am." 
"To Queen Victoria. Great Exhibition. 1851."
"I give up," Dave conceded. "Honestly, I can't believe how much you know about the Duke of Wellington. You should do something with that knowledge. You could make money at it."
"Like what?" Why did this suggestion sound so familiar?
"Like give talks. People would pay money to listen to you."
"Alas, not enough people to make a living at it. I can't see a Wellington lecture filling Albert Hall, can you? And there'd be even less people in America who would be interested in the Duke of Wellington, or who'd even know who he was."
"You're probably right. Pity, though."
We were both silent for a time, contemplating the prospects of a traveling Wellington show. Finally, I said, "So, what have you got for me?"
"Ah, not much, I'm afraid. Wellington items are a bit thin on the ground just now."
"Well, it would be hard to beat that figurine I bought from you last time, in any case."
"Yeah, that's right. Staffordshire, wasn't it? That was a beauty." Again, we were both silent, this time contemplating my acquisition of the figurine below.



"Didn't you also buy a pot lid?"
"I did. The Duke riding at Stratfield Saye." You can see me holding it, in the very same shop two years ago, below.



"I just remembered, I've got one very similar to it, but at Walmer Castle." Dave found the lid and handed it to me. "Very like the one you bought, with the Duke riding his horse in the foreground."



"He was Lord of the Cinque Ports, which is why he spent time at Walmer Castle," Dave said.
"Hhhmmm. It was his favorite residence. He lived there with Charles Arbuthnot. They'd walk the battlements together. In fact, Wellington died there."
"Yeah, that's right. He did."
"Sold. What else have you got?" Okay. The Walmer pot lid wasn't what I'd term outstanding, but it certainly was beautiful. And besides, it rounds out the collection.
"I've got a brass profile of the Duke. Here it is."
"Have one."
"There are a couple of bronze commemorative medallions," Dave offered.
I peered into the case. "Too like the ones I already have."
"I'm afraid that's all I have."
This was deflating news. I had hoped to find something magnificent whilst in London, on a par with the figurine. It was a bit like charging off to Waterloo only the find that the battle had taken place the day before. "I'll browse for a bit." There was an Artie-fact in the shop - I could feel it.. I took my time and peered at cigarette cases and vinagarettes, figurines and a William IV coronation jug. Mourning rings, snuff boxes and a spy glass. Scanning to the right, my eye fell upon a small, coloured portrait.
"I found the Duke of Wellington," I told Dave.
"Huh? Where?" I pointed. "So it is!"
I will leave the portrait and it's history for another post. Suffice it to say that I bought it and Dave was able to carefully wrap both pieces so that I could pack them in my suitcase and later carry them on the plane with me. I walked out of the shop and found Hubby lurking in Cecil Court.
"Want to see what I got?"
He looked at the smallish bag in my hand. "No. I'll wait till we get home. At least it's not another full length portrait. I'm hungry."
"Let's go back to the hotel and have Afternoon Tea," I suggested.
"Tea? Who drinks tea? And I said I was hungry."
I sighed. "Afternoon tea is a meal. It comes with food."
"Steak food?"
"No! Tea food. Sandwiches."
"Oh, a sandwich. That sounds good. I could go for a sub. Yeah, a nice, big hero sandwich would really hit the spot!"

Part Four Coming Soon!

Beau Brummell's London Townhouse For Sale

After reading my "Couple In England" post on my outing in Mayfair and my stroll to Beau Brummell's London townhouse in Chesterfield Street, author Rosemary Stevens just informed me that it has been on the market for nearly a year, with an asking price of nearly nine million pounds. Which firmly places it out of my price range, alas. Rosemary suggested that we all pool our money in order to buy it. A grand idea, but not practical when you figure out that we'd need at least five hundred some odd people to go in on it aside from ourselves. Not only would the crowd of us not fit in the house, but if we time shared the place, we'd each only get a half day each year. Sigh. Here's the listing. Read it and weep. I know I did.