Downtrodden Abbey: The Interminable Saga of an Insufferable Family (14 page)

Atchew and Slovenia begin planning their wedding, which immediately presents a conflict between them, as she prefers a Victrola jockey, while he pleads for live music. Having selected a date, Lady Marry’s and Calamine’s nuptials get delayed. Which might not be a bad thing.

THE EDWARDIAN WEDDING

In the Edwardian Age, there was no more reported or anticipated event than a society wedding.

The process was slightly involved. Licenses were procured from the archbishop of Canterbury, whose office was open on Mondays from 9:00 a.m. to 10:30 a.m., and Wednesdays from 2 p.m. to 4:00 p.m. Unless the clerk was ill (she was prone to debilitating headaches), in which case the office was open on Saturdays from 11:00 a.m. to 1:30 p.m.

Once the license was obtained, the names of the wedding participants were required to be published for three successive weeks prior to the ceremony in the parish where the groom took residence, and five weeks in the district in which the bride lived.

Alternately, a marriage by license could be arranged. Applications for this type of license could be procured at the Vicar-General’s office (for summer weddings), the Doctor’s Commons (for winter weddings), or local apothecaries (for autumn weddings). The application then had to be completed, notarized, and posted to the Office of Civil Affairs, along with all appropriate fees.

The gown and trousseau worn by the bride had to meet certain specifications. For weekday weddings, creamy satin or almond was the preferred colour, whilst for weekend affairs, the bride was asked to wear ivory, vanilla, or beige. Veils were to be made of lace or tulle. Trains could be no more than ninety inches in length.

A typical gown was festooned with flounces of point d’Angelterre, with the court train attached at the shoulders and dropping to exactly three feet, two inches from the ground. The trim featured a border of daisies wrought with sequins and rubies, unless the bride was fair-skinned, in which case the flowers would be red carnations, wrought with emeralds and pearls. If the groom was over six inches taller than the bride, his hat could be not more than fourteen inches in height.

Perhaps due to the specifications of these requirements, double suicides of prospective brides and grooms were quite common.

*   *   *

Vile once again puts her nose where it does not belong. She notices that Marry breaks down crying every time the marriage of Slovenia and Atchew is mentioned, and corners her in the parlour.

“Don’t tell me you’re still in love with that bozo,” says Vile, with as much sensitivity as she can muster.

“Look, I know he’s a stooge, grandmother. But the heart wants what it wants.”

Vile turns her attention to Atchew, in hopes that she can get him to change his mind. She tells him that Slovenia is nothing but a manipulative harlot who will only cause him emotional pain. That her thin, bony frame will quite possibly break if engaged in carnal activity. That she is unable to have children, strangely malodorous, and has been known to torture housecats. And that rumours abound that Slovenia might in fact be the daughter of the evil Norse god Loki.

“Oh, Vile,” counters Atchew. “She’s really not that thin. It really depends on what she’s wearing.”

*   *   *

Calamine has his concerns that Atchew and Marry still have strong feelings for one another, so he does what any honourable man would: he decides to have her tailed. He asks Nana to follow Marry’s every move over a two-week period in order to determine her intentions.

“But, Mr. Calamine,” Nana protests. “I’ll be terminated. I have too many responsibilities here at Downtrodden.”

“Silly girl. I can set you up for life. You’ll have more toilet tissue at your disposal than you’ll know what to do with.”

Nana rats out Calamine to Tyresom, who is appalled that he even considered working for a man of such dubious character. Tyresom tells Lady Marry that he will not be accompanying her and Calamine to Hoare House.

Lady Marry is all, like, how dare you insult my future husband? And Tyresom is all, like, dude—what up with the attitude? I just thought you’d want to know. So Lady Marry is all, like, you’re a really lousy butler anyway, everyone knows that. And Tyresom is all, like, you are so totally dead to me. So Lady Marry is all, like, fine, whatever. (
Author’s note: My thirteen-year-old niece wrote the previous paragraph. A little rough around the edges, but I think she’s got some talent, don’t you?)

Brace confides to Nana that he prepared a dish containing rat poison and served it to Viral shortly before her death. He says he would tell the police, but he is afraid they might draw the wrong conclusions.

“But isn’t that what you’re saying—that you killed her?”

The veins in Brace’s forehead bulge. “Nana, where would you ever get that idea? Do we live in so timid an age that trying new recipes is frowned upon? Why does everyone suspect me of wrongdoing? In fact, why does everyone in this whole bloody place suspect everyone else? Don’t people realize that without some degree of compassion, we are doomed to a world of mistrust and backstabbing?”

Nana collects her thoughts before answering Brace’s series of questions. “From what you said. Perhaps. Because of your expression. Wealthy people are bored and have nothing else to do. No.”

Brace scowls. “Do you mean to tell me that you have never heard a rhetorical question before?”

“No, actually, I haven’t—”

“—Nana, for God’s sake. You need to just learn to
listen
.”

“Let’s get married, Mr. Brace.”

“This is what I’m talking about! Didn’t you hear a word I said? I’m about to be arrested, arraigned, tried, convicted, indicted, and incarcerated. Perhaps hanged! And not just for bad cooking—for murder. Do you really want to be wedded to someone who’s been accused of murdering his first wife?
And
is a poor cook?”

Nana is silent.

“Well, do you?”

She grabs a writing tablet and scribbles:
Now I’m confused. Are these rhetorical questions?

*   *   *

Handsom starts a group called Occupy Buckingham Palace, and encourages Lady Supple to run away with him and fight financial inequity. He feels that she can make no greater statement than to leave the comforts of Downtrodden Abbey for a life of greasy fish and chips, protests, dirty compatriots, rioting, and hastily created songs with grade-school lyrics and unlistenable melodies. Also, she has to sleep with an Irishman (
ugh
).

Supple must admit that Handsom makes the life he imagines sound awfully romantic. But she wonders if the destitute driver covets a partnership not due to her sharing his devotion to social change, but for her curvy waistline, ice-blue eyes, and full, sensual lips. She shares these feelings with him.

“Don’t be silly, Supple. I know that underneath that smooth, silky skin and those raven tresses is a deeply committed fighter for economic parity. You cannot possibly feel content with the idea that some few have so much, while so many have so little.”

“This is just a passing trend, Handsom,” Lady Supple says. “I have no doubt that in a few short years the world’s wealth will be spread. Hunger will be eradicated. And the only time we will hear about the ‘one per cent’ will be when individuals are purchasing low-fat milk.”

Tomaine, meanwhile, continues to steal vinegar, which he sells to London’s burgeoning underground world of artisanal chefs. Infusing the liquid with lavender, garlic, and the essence of orange blossoms, he leaves the Abbey after hours and trades his condiments illicitly on London’s backroads, with merchants of ill repute. Within weeks, he becomes one of England’s most notorious vinegar brokers, and there is hardly a salad or appetizer that has not been somehow touched by Tomaine’s criminal hand.

The next night at dinner, Lady Supple is nowhere to be found. The drawing room is searched, and then the library.

“I thought I saw her with a rope, in the ballroom,” says Enid. One dinner guest named Professor Plum suggests that she might have been struck with a spanner in the kitchen. Another, Colonel Mustard, firmly believes that a dagger in the lounge was Lady Supple’s undoing. Miss Scarlett, another visitor, believes that a revolver she saw in the study was involved, while Mrs. Peacock is convinced that a lead pipe in the conservatory led to her murder.

“I think we might consider some other possibilities,” says Lady Marry. “What if she ran away with that bleeding-heart driver, Handsom?”

“Why would they run when they can drive?” asks Enid, whose opinion, as usual, is ignored.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Lord Crawfish snarls. “If Supple has taken off with that left-leaning jalopy jockey, she can forget about getting one pound of an inheritance from me.
Esto es un situación muy mal
.”

“Why, Roderick,” Lady Flora says. “You’re speaking Spanish.”

Mrs. Used, the housekeeper, enters with a solemn expression. “I’m afraid I have a disheartening announcement to make. The Spanish flu has arrived in England. We’ll all be speaking
Español
soon.

“I recommend that to avoid getting sick, we all eat as much of Mrs. Patmimore’s chicken soup as we can.”

The diners at the table eye one another disgustedly.

“Let me get this straight,” Flora says. “You’re suggesting that we ingest Mrs. Patmimore’s cooking as a way to
prevent
illness?”

XII

Good Lord!

Three months have passed. The Spanish Flu has hit Countess Flora particularly hard, and she has taken to bed, where—because sleep is so difficult to come by—she plays the castanets and reads books about bullfighting incessantly.

Flora begins to worry for her life, and shares this concern with her husband.

“May I ask you a question, Roderick?”

“You just did, dear,” Lord Crawfish responds.

“Seriously. I’ll even try not to use the Spanish accent.”

“Shoot.”

Flora’s eyes well up.

“If I perish, do you think you might remarry?”

Lord Crawfish considers this.

“Why, I might. I mean, I can only assume that you would want the best for me, Flora.”

“Well … I would, but—would you, for example, let her wear my jewelry and furs?”

Lord Crawfish shrugs. “I suppose. I mean, if they were just sitting at your vanity and in your closet … would that be such a crime?”

“And would you allow her access to my gardening implements?”

“I don’t see what the harm in that would be. With all due respect, they wouldn’t do you much good in hel—in, uh, heaven.” He smiles and puts his hand on hers.

“But, Roderick dear, would you … let her use my golf clubs?”

“Oh, absolutely not, don’t you worry,” he says. “I can assure you, with all certainty, that she is left-handed.”

*   *   *

When Lord Crawfish hears of Lady Supple’s intent to marry Handsom, he tracks the lowly driver down at a seedy pub.

“What would it take for you to never see my daughter again?” he asks.

“Buy me a drink,” Handsom says.

Lord Crawfish is astounded. “That’s all you need to call off your marriage to Supple? One drink?”

“Oh, Lord no, Lord,” Handsom replies. “I have trouble hearing from that side. I thought you said, ‘What do you want to drink along with that water, man?’”

“Look, Supple is the most wonderful woman I have ever known,” he continues. “There probably isn’t enough money in the Bank of England, Fort Knox, and Tomaine’s pockets put together to keep us apart. Nonetheless, I would suggest you hire a lawyer, form a limited partnership, and start raising funds.”

Feeling the anxiety of multiple weddings, an ailing wife, and a possible future Irish son-in-law engaging in extortion, Lord Crawfish starts spending more time in the darkened kitchen pantry, searching out his new obsession, Jen. Before long he has participated in a clandestine kiss he will not soon forget.

“Well,
that
was awkward,” says a snippy, sarcastic and familiar voice, following the kiss. “not necessarily
bad,
but definitely awkward.”

“Tomaine!” Lord Crawfish says, flicking on the light. “What in the name of his majesty the king are you doing here in the darkened kitchen pantry?”

“Great wealth somehow masks the equine smell of an old man’s breath.”–Keats

“I can tell you what I am
not
doing,” Tomaine says, his lip quivering. “I am absolutely not stealing vinegar and selling it on the black market. Of that I am certain.”