Lady Wimpleseed-Prissypott 8: Trouble Brewing

In which our heroine arrives home and Parliament does some debating.

Previously two British government officials discuss their marriage possibilities.

On Lady Wimpleseed-Prissypott’s way home to England, there was a twenty-one gun salute for the RMS Queen Victoria Empress of India when the ship docked at the Puerto de Cadiz. The Port did not get many first-class liners in those days so it rolled out the Red Carpet for any and all that anchored in her port.

As the port’s canon wham-blam-slammed their kabooms into the air, the blasts shook the ship so hard that Lord Prissypott’s body slipped overboard and off into the water without a wherewithal or a fare-thee-well. It was a day later before it was discovered that dear old Dunnie would not be available for the funeral.

“Woe is me,” poor Lady Marye moaned ever so sadly. “Woe is me. All British Society will think I am a very poor wife. I can’t even get my husband’s body home for a decent funeral.

The captain, Captain Mills Wycliffe III, whom everyone called Thirds, always wore a spick-and-span captain’s attire. He took one long gaze at her ladyship’s breasts and knew he had to help the poor things … I mean, poor thing. He didn’t have it in his heart to see those poor things drooping from a sad heart. No, sirree. Being the gallant captain he was, he knew he had to help.


“Yes?” The poor thing’s baby blues looked up into his dark greens. “Yes, my dear captain.”

“Madam, I possibly may have a solution.”

“Yes, dear captain, my captain?” Her eyes continued to gaze, her bosoms heaving with her every breath.

Her ladyship moved him in places he had not been moved in for quite some time. “Yes, I think I have a solution. We happen to have an extra dead body on hand. One of the sailors died last evening. He mixed up some spirits to create a certain cocktail we onboard call the Davy Jones’ Locker. Well, the recipe happened to be a bit off. He poured a glass of the stuff down his gullet, and let’s just say that sailor was given a first-class ticket to see Davy Jones.”

“What do you mean, captain my captain,” her breasts moving a bit faster in the hope of a solution.

The captain offered, “We bury our sailors out at sea. We put them in a casket and drop it into the ocean during an all-hands. Since it is a closed casket, we could leave his body out of the casket. Make-up and dress said sailor as Lord Dunnville Percival Wimpleseed-Prissypott. We have a very good make-up artiste on board. He’s with the ‘Pirates of Penzance’ performers. And voilà, you have your husband back. No one shall ever know the difference. You shall be saved from all embarrassment.”

“You’d do that for little old moi?”

“Most assuredly,” the captain let it be known. “Noblesse oblige and all, you know.”

Thirds leaned down and kissed her. She returned his kiss. Then a seed of doubt coursed through her passionate, virginal young body. She pulled herself out of his arms.

“No, I can’t,” she said. “It’s…too too soon.” What she really meant, “I am no real woman. Look at how Dunnie responded to me when he saw me in my altogethers. I can’t take doing that to another man. It would be too too much to bear.”

“But I will take the body.” she continued. Lady Wimpleseed-Prissypott kissed her brave captain on the cheek, then turned and ran back to her cabin, sobbing. She would always be a virgin.


Thus, it was that there was a service for the old aristocrat when the ship docked in London.

“Our good friend has left us,” Sir Myles di Fussye-Pants said in his eulogy. “But he will not be forgotten. This brave warrior who served Wellington at the Waterloo, who led the Charge of the Light Brigade, who lost his favorite horse, Rum Biscuit, in the Sepoy Rebellion. This brave warrior shall be missed.” Sir Myles removed his monocle and wiped a tear from his one good eye.

Of course, Two-Ems and Mother were there to comfort Marye. Then Lord Dunnville Percival Wimpleseed-Prissypott was interred into the family’s mausoleum at Haggismarshe Chapel.


In Commons and Lords, a debate was being pursued. It was going on and on and on, and on some more.

“Can we allow an American to take her seat in Lords?” Lord Tucksmeyer wanted to know.

“Here, here,” other lords joined Tucksmeyer’s protest.

“But she has land and is a titled lady.” Sir Myles stood up for Lady P. P.

“Not if we remove her peerage,” Baron Duffield spoke up.

“We can’t take her title,” Sir Myles interjected.

“And why can’t we?” Tucksmeyer wanted to know.

Next week: Ghosts come a-haunting

3 thoughts on “Lady Wimpleseed-Prissypott 8: Trouble Brewing

  1. For some reason, Don, the following bit won my “Laugh-Aloud Humorous Writing” award this morning, “Captain Mills Wycliffe III, whom everyone called Thirds.” And what a set up for the next installment. Knowing how to keep your serial readers reading is a trademark of you and Dickens.

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