In which our heroine says her I doeses
Previously Mary-Mary Smith agreed to marry Lord Dunnie and become a lady. Mother di Fussye-Pants gets her a title. And now on with the show.
Mary-Mary Smith, or Marye Caterina Olgastoya, Viscountess dat Renalla-Macedoni as she was now known, arrived in England on Monday. On Thursday, she was to marry a titled, land-rich, money-poor, one hundred and nine-year-old, prune face of an English lord. To say that Lord Dunnville, or “Dunnie” as he was called by his nearest and dearest as the reader has learned, was a wrinkled old prune of a face could be construed as a compliment for the antiquely wrinkled old gentleman.
The wedding was The Event of the Season. The Abbey—Westminster Abbey, that is—was rented for the occasion and Everybody-Who-Was-Anybody attended. Anybody-Who-Was-A-Somebody was there. Nobody-Who-Was-A-Nobody was there as well. Sir Quentin Nobody, the Lord Mayor of London, that is. Only the Queen and Her Majesty’s Prime Minister’s Personal Secretary absented themselves. But one or two less or more was no matter to the future Lady of Haggismarshe. As one American tourist said to her husband afterwards, “I’m telling you, Henry, the house was packed.” It was the bit of spot-on that London Society needed to conclude a successful Season.
Only Moms complained. Mary-Mary’s parents were put behind the P. M., and his party and they couldn’t see as well as they would’ve liked. The P. M.’s very bald head kept bobbing around, blocking the view.
Prime Minister Argyle Mactavish’s Personal Secretary, known as the P. S., not the B. S. as some claimed, he was away on business, in very delicate negotiations with the Duchy of Pimpletonia. England desperately needed to access the Duchy’s vast deposits of politicians for a secret project the British government had recently instituted. If it worked, there would never be an energy crisis in Merry Olde England again. All that hot air and all, you know. And Her Duchiness had been a very modicum of Pimpletonia touchiness about the whole affair. P. M. had his P. S. rsvp that the P. S. was to represent P. M. as the P. S. often did when P. M. was unavailable. After all, the P. M. did not want to miss The Event of the Season.
Her Majesty was still in mourning. She had been mourning the death of her beloved Albert for decades. In her stead, Prince of Wales and his Princess attended to show their support for Uncle Wimpie, as Wales liked to call the grand old bridegroom. They put in their brief appearance as the nuptials were about to be nuptialized by the newly appointed Archbishop of Canterbury, Sir Lord Englewood Buckett.
Other than Her Majesty and the P. S., only Wales’ mistress, Carpilla Baggs, was absented from the ceremonies. Wales called her affectionately his carpe diem; the press disaffectionately referred to her as Carpet Bagger. However, the Prince would see his much-loved C. B. shortly after the marriage ceremony. That is, if he could lose the Princess at Buckingham and hail a cab.
The crowd of commoners gathering around the Abbey was enormous. It was large. Bigger than big. Besides that, there were a lot of people there. They stood outside to observe the aristocracy doing their aristocratic thing. It was a rare occasion for commoners to glimpse or even see a real live lord or lady out in the world. It wasn’t done in Society. This was one such occasion indeed and most Londoners were reticent not to be there. It was like a holiday. They brought their picnic baskets. They brought their beer to do a right good sendoff.
It was raining. So it was out with the brollies. Very English, you know. No red, blue or purple umbrellas. Only black brollies. They were not about to give up a glance of the new bride. It wasn’t often that they had a chance of seeing an ancient lord wedding a foreign princess and they were not about to miss this one for the world.
At the sound of Big Ben big-benning one in the pms in the afternoon, Lord Bishop Buckett, the Arch of Canterbury, looked down upon his audience. An audience of lords and knights, ladies and dames, earls and earlesses, baronets and barons up to the tuckus, the best dressed gang in the whole of the realm of England. He smiled his most benevolent of smiles, then delivered a sermon to beat all sermons, a list of the doeses and don’tses that a marriage of the nobility should follow. His melodious voice filled the Abbey with such melodiousness many felt it was one of his finest, one that he could proudly add to a long list of his fine sermons better known as the “Buckett List.”
Then the nuptuals were completed. The lord and his lady were now wedded with a suddenness that surprised her ladyship with its suddenness.
As the rain, stopped the Bride and Groom stepped out of Westminster to the sound of the Abbey bells, while confetti confettied down upon them.
As the couple entered their carriage, a dark-haired woman watched from the distance. Elegantly dressed in black, she frowned. After all, her plan to marry the aristocratic old coot of a bridegroom had failed. She had arrived too too late to make the connections for an introduction. Since Plan A had failed, it was on to Plan B. If Plan B failed, it would be on to Plan C. And if Plan C failed, she would continue through the alphabet till voila, Success.
Next Week: Cheer up and have a spot of tea
It is delightful that you are having a go at the British this time around, Don. You have just the right amount of uppityness in your tone and stiffness in your upper lip. Now an elegant lady in black has entered the plot. Can’t wait to have the plans unveiled.
Thanks for the encouragement. Not that I ever needed encouragement to get myself knee deep in trouble.. 🙂
I think someone isnt’ going to like Plan B…or C.