Lord Marchington's Staff.
If truth be told I was dreading my return to Marchington Hall, my brother Charles the Fifth Baron Marchington was barely cold in his grave before I found myself dragged from service overseas to oversee his estate, though in truth it was no longer his but mine.
He left his dear wife Marjorie, as frigid an ice maiden as ever walked England's hallowed turf, and her mother Deloretha, the perfect model for any artist wishing to depict a witch as ever walked abroad, and with an evil manner to match, and in addition there was a crumbling mansion, dilapidated estates, depleted coffers and by some miracle Charles' tiny daughter, oh and gambling debts, in the form of mortgages mainly, and yet by leaving no male heir the whole depressing disastrous edifice descended upon my shoulders.
And the responsibility weighed heavily upon my shoulders, I had been abroad in the Army for years and had no clear notion of how one keeps discipline among servants when they may simply walk away and leave one's employ, one might have the slovenly soldier thrashed for idling but an employee? No I dreaded the whole enterprise more than I dreaded anything even canon fire, for one might see the puff of the canon and seek to dodge the balls.
You see soldiering is my life, the Cavalry, the flash of the blade, the thrill of the charge, thundering forth with the flailing hooves and straining sinews of the horse, snorting and bellowing as he charges the line, sabre against musket ball, sinew against flesh, grape shot against muscle, charging on as ones fellows lie writhing in death, that's what I gave up for Marchington Hall and the family name.
It was worse far worse than I imagined, the family's closed carriage which collected me off the mail coach was filthy and ill maintained, the driver spent the journey chattering to his guard who sat beside him whereas he should have been keeping a lookout behind for vagabonds, the horses were filthy, the brasses tarnished, the leather cracked and unkempt, even the seats were full of dirt.
The household were assembled for my inspection at the front porch, Mr Belcher the Butler, aptly named I surmised as a bellyfull of porter produced a loud belch with every sentence, Frobisher the under butler, resplendent in a uniform notable by such cleanliness that one could discern that it was bottle green in hue and not mildew on black like Belcher's.
The Footman was a mere boy and not even liveried, he might have been a farm hand, Binks, by name though Belcher called him Matthew, and there were chambermaids, Sally, May and Patience, carefully selected for their supreme ugliness I assumed, though the severe cut of their hair and fat corpulent bellies did much to enhance the effect, and Mrs Maguire the housekeeper, straitlaced and upright with a liking for whisky I deduced from her breath when I inspected her as I always inspected my troops, and of course there was Milly the scullery maid and Bessie the under cook not to mention the platoon of idlers who inhabited the stables posing as ostlers and stable hands while playing pranks and idling their days away.
I made a perfunctory inspection only as Lady Marjorie and that old witch of a mother looked on and Belcher introduced each one before I stepped inside the house, "My dear Marjorie," I said "I am so sorry."
"Ha glad I should think," the old witch cackled, "I have my eye on you!"
"Yes," Marjorie interjected immediately without any pleasantries, "Mama says you should return my dowry."
"Oh does she?" I enquired, "Interesting, have you arranged Luncheon?"
"We didn't know when to expect you," Marjorie trilled as she led me through to the sitting room beside the drawing room.
"I said noon, it is now twenty six minutes after noon," I explained patiently, "Luncheon time."
Her mother spoke up. "It's cook's fault," the old witch lied. "We told her."
"Then have her whipped," I replied.
"Well we told Bessie to tell cook," said Marjorie uncertainly, "Or was it Milly?"
"Then have all three whipped," I suggested.
"John!" the old witch snapped, "This is England, we are not savages, these are our servants and we do not whip our servants!"
"That madam is what is wrong with this household, with this estate, no discipline!" I exclaimed, "Discipline, clean uniforms, clean bayonets, clean shaven smart soldiers, that, madam is how one wins battles!"
"This is not a battle!" Marjorie interjected.
"That is where you are wrong," I snapped, "There is a war here between masters and servants and the servants are winning and I do believe it is time for us to take a firm stand, now who shall it be?"
"What?" Marjorie asked.
"Whom shall take the whipping?" I asked.
"Imbecile you cannot whip the servants," the mother snapped.
"Very well, then assemble the staff before the main staircase and I shall address them." I insisted.
"I shall not," the mother declared, so I reached for the bell pull and tugged, predictably it broke, but not before a bell clanged half heartedly in the servant's pantry.
"You rang sir?" Belcher enquired.
"I wish to address the household," I announced, "Please assemble them before the main staircase."
"But it is staff Lunchtime Mr John," he said tiresomely.
"I am Lord Marchington now, and don't you forget it!" I snapped.
"Fall them in and that's an order," I snapped.
"Very military Captain!" Marjorie sniggered.
"Major, ah in fact I am a Lieutenant Colonel now I am on the reserve," I explained.
"Are we supposed to be impressed?" the old witch asked.
"Assemble the staff!" I demanded, "Luncheon be damned!" and I stormed out of the room and lunged up the stairs to what had been my room in father's time.
It was a wasteland of dust and neglect and did my humour no favour, and I watched from the window for a moment as the household sluggardly wandered into the house once more.
I gave them a few moments before I went to the head of the stairs, they barely noticed me until I bellowed, "Squad, Attention!" That got their attention.
"You are the most slovenly rabble it has been my misfortune to command," I explained, "And it will not do, will not do," I continued, "And I shall go away and come back tomorrow when I expect a complete transformation, Dismiss!"
I went down and pushed through the assembled crowd and mounted the carriage, its says much for the staff's idleness that my luggage was still aboard the carriage and the team of horses still harnessed to it whilst the coachman consumed a huge meat pie and tankard of something brown and probably alcoholic.
To his credit the coachman came rapidly enough when I bellowed "Coachman," at the top of my lungs, but I was aboard before he could open the door for me, "To Trentham Town and don't spare the horses," I ordered.
I dined alone at the Dog and Duck, and lodged at the Crown, eschewing the chance to spend the night with one "Shantell," she of reddened cheeks and ample bosom and haunches and a bloated swollen belly and in so doing saved myself several shillings and probably a bout of the sailors disease into the bargain.
The morning came, none too soon if I am honest and then after a very acceptable break-fast I strolled uselessly about the town until predictably enough the carriage arrived twenty minutes after the time we agreed, the coachman claiming there to have been a surfeit of slow farm carts along the way.
The predictably dirty carriage clattered along disreputably enough keeping me tolerably dry if not clean and soon enough we arrived at the house.
This time footman and under butler attended upon us as soon as we swept down the drive and halted before the front steps, and between them they set the carriage steps down and collected my bags, this at least was an improvement, but otherwise if there was an improvement in any other area then I failed to detect it, though at least the staff were lined up neatly enough on the steps.
I proceeded to inspect them one by one, Mr Belcher the Butler unwashed, badly shaven,dressed in a filthy shirt under a filthy jacket, Frobisher the under butler, in his shirt sleeves, from portering, his shoes in need of a shine, his threadbare shirt and trousers tolerably clean as was
Matthew Binks the footman a mere boy, the chamber maids, Sally and Patience, had bathed I discerned, but Milly the scullery maid and Bessie the under cook were as dishevelled and sweaty as before as was cook, and worst of all her hands were filthy.
Mrs Maguire the housekeeper, was as straitlaced and upright as ever though slightly drunk with her liking for whisky, and looking on were Marjorie and her mother.
I made a list. "Sack or Lash?" I asked Belcher.
"What do you mean sir?" he asked.
"Whip or dismiss you are a disgrace sir!" I snapped.
"Then I shall take my leave," he said.
"Then go!" said I "Frobisher, you are butler now, any questions?"
"No sir." he said and quickly corrected himself, "No my lord."
"Can you handle a cat?" I asked, he looked puzzled, "A cat of nine tails, a whip man!" I asked.
"I suppose so sir, I never tried," he said.
"Good man," I said, an turning I added, "Belcher don't stand there open mouthed, you'll catch a moth, be gone man."
"You need a better suit if you're to be under butler Binks," I informed the younger man, "And you must use more soap and less scent, I told the chamber maids, who smiled awkwardly.
"Sack or Lash?" I asked the cook.
"You wouldn't dare!" she scowled insolently.
"You, Bessie, lash or sack?" I repeated before the under cook.
"Keep your trap shut," Cook snorted.
"Lash or sack?" I asked Milly the scullery maid.
"What have I done to deserve this sir?" she asked.
"What you have not done is to bathe child," I said.
"But the lads should certainly defile me if I didn't stink sir!" she said honestly.
"Just two lashes then, gentle ones," I offered, "This time."
"On my hand sir?" she asked.
"No on your bare bottom," I assured her.
"Ohhhh sir!" she tittered.
