Lady Wimpleseed-Prissypott # 39: A Jolly Right Good Well-Earned Happily Ever After

Previously our heroine took matters into her own hands, or should I say her fists. 

When Quills saw our heroine’s bosoms coming out of the carriage, he knew he was in love. “I say,” he said.

When our heroine, her ladyship Lady Marye Caterina Wimpleseed Prissypott, caught a sight of Quills’ deep blue eyes, she knew she was in love. He was the One. The Mr. Right she had been looking for. “Well, well, well,” she said.

Escorted by the future Sir Pip, a chip off the old Flip of Flip, Fop & Flimby, Solicitors at Law, the three of them returned to Merry Olde England by way of Paris. The Eiffel Tower and the Seine were lovely that time of year in that particular year. “Jolly good,” they said. “It’s all so whimsical.”

In the meantime, Pip’s father, the Flip of the chip off the old block, had been redeemed from the poorhouse. He was knighted for having such a good son. After he returned to England, he was made the new Chief of the Defense Staff.

James Bond 007 was thrown into the Tower of London, only to be released by the good office of Her Majesty QE2 some sixty years later. The queen was honoring the request of her very brave servant, his great grandson after the defeat of Oddjob and Goldfinger, Moonraker and Dr. No. By that time the grandfather had prostate and couldn’t piss worth a damn.

As far as the Wah Wah League was concerned, The Mighty Paddington The Iranian Cubist Assassin was killed by the Royal Marines for trying to escape. Father Jerome and Mother Superior Sarah were thrown deep under a Spanish prison. Doctor Qwackers was de-doctored for his quackery and sent off to the Australian Outback where he had a run-in with Crocodile Dundee.

Only Mata Hari somehow escaped. Guess she shook her hips and some low-ranking soldier let her slip through his hands. After all, what manly man could resist those hips. Of course, she would turn up some years later in France, spying for the Kaiser. The Times went under new management, put in its place for all the two-timing two-timingness.

Argyle Mactavish won his election with an overwhelming majority. The House of Lords came under Sir Myles di Fussye-Pants’ leadership and dumped any legislation that denied Lady P. P. her rightful title and lands. The ghosts marched back to their homes and took well-deserved rests. All the marching and gathering and convocating had tired them out.

On the day of the arrival of her ladyship and Quills in London, the Prime Minister was sitting for his Prime Minister portrait. But he got up and watched the ticker tape parade of Quills and her ladyship through London to Buckingham Palace.

“Welcome to Bucky, my humble abode,” Queen Victoria said as she happily met her two favorites at the door. “Let me show you to the Lincoln Bedroom where you will be staying while here.”

“Oh, we have a Lincoln Bedroom in the White House too,” Lady P. P. said, after she stopped her curtseying.

“Yes, I know,” the queen said. “But this isn’t that Lincoln. This is Sir Abraham Lincoln. Freed the slaves, you know.”

“Don’t contradict a queen,” Lady P. P. said under her breath. “Don’t contradict a queen.” She continued on the Grand Tour through Bucky.

It was spring and London Society was out and about and ready to begin its season. Usually the season ended with the best of the galas. This year was to be different. The Queen, Her Majesty herself, was throwing out the first ball. It was to be a gala in honor of the engagement of Lady Marye Caterina Wimpleseed-Prissypott of Haggismarshe and Quills Loopsey.

It was to be the evening after she awarded Quills the Barony of Duffield. The old Baron Duffield was sent packing off to India and one of the Hill Stations with the low rank of private in Her Majesty’s Services. Also she awarded Lady P. P. the Award of the Grand Poohbah, the highest honor in the land. There were moans and groans among some of the society folk. They were not happy that a commoner, Two Ems, Mrs. Sir Myles di Fussye-Pants, had been made the new Lady-in-Waiting to the Queen. “How dare her. To promote an American to such an illustrious position,” they gossiped.

The Queen’s retort, “I’m the Queen and Empress of India, right?” Everybody agreed. “Then I can promote whoever I want. Or is that whomever? Oh, whatever. Am I right or nay?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” they said, but still they gossiped.

The public of course was ga-ga at all the gowns and black ties and that sort of thing. Society’s best was at the Her Majesty’s gala. The lords and ladies, the great and the important, the bigwigs and the littlewigs from all over arrived in their carriages and their carriagettes.

Queen Victoria, Her Imperial Majesty, Empress of India, Ireland, Australia, Canada, Egypt and Lots-of-Other-Places, was the last to arrive. The Old Lady marched in to the tune of “Pomp and Circumstance” with all the pomp and circumstance in her dignified personage she could muster.  She was all smiles, bowing her head to this and that person as she passed them kneeling before her majestic personage. Then she took her place on the throne at the front of the Great Ballroom on the Thames.

Quills and her ladyship, Lady Marye Caterina Wimpleseed Prissypott, began the ball with the first dance, boogeying to the “Tallyho Waltz.” Of course, it was a kind of foxtrot. Over in the corner completely ashamed of themselves was Quills’ father, Sir Hackle Loopsey, and his oldest son, Chessie doing what Chessie always did. Being a perfect foppish fop with his head up his rump, and such a big rump it was. Beside them was Flimby, Sir Loopsey’s terrier dog, and he was a real pisser. He had already managed to piss on the ballroom curtains not once, not twice, but three times.

John Smith, our heroine’s Daddykins, was enjoying this magical night immensely. He had his “sweet little Mawy Contwawy” back and she had found true love. What more could a daddykins want. Margaret “Moms” Smith was complaining about this or that or the other. She was never satisfied. But everybody ignored her.

Sir Myles and Two Ems were enjoying the repartee of Sir Alec Alec of Delphelic, an archaeologist, entertaining his listeners, “Mummies and all, you know. And daddies too, tallyho.” And off he went, tallyho-ing with Sarah Bernhardt of French fame. As they tallyhoed around the room, one lady said to another, “I say, isn’t she too well-endowed?”

Another said back at the first, “And she isn’t endowed enough.”

“Oh, you’re too too peek-a-boo,” still another lady commented.

“And you’re not peek-a-boo enough,” another came back with another comment.

“You’re so Britney Spears,” one fashionista said.

“I say, you’ve done yourself so Madonnaesque,” a high-born lady said back at her.
And away they went, dancing the tallyho across the floor. The women jumped on the back of their male partners and yelled, “Tallyho.” Their menfolk galloped back and forth across the ball room.

By the end of the night, all attendees had a jolly good time. They had nipped their share of the punch, partaken in caviar and all such gourmet stuffs that happen to be served at these kinds of high class affairs.

Several days later, Quills and Marye Caterina became a Mr. and Mrs. in a simple ceremony at the queen’s own chapel. Only a few friends were in attendance. The parents of both, the queen, Sir Myles and Two Ems and, of course, Argyle Mactavish.

After the “I doeses”, the happy couple were off to Haggismarshe Manor House to greet servants and ghosts and ask for their blessing. Of course, ghosts and servants gave it to Lord Baron Quilip “Quills” David Armistead Loopsey of Duffield and Lady Baroness Marye Caterina Wimpleseed Prissypott Loopsey of Duffield and Haggismarshe.

And the happy couple lived happily ever after into their old age. They had four children, ten grandchildren and any number of great grandchildren before they were off to join the long-gone Smiths, Loopseys, Wimpleseeds and Prissypotts in that large banquet hall where the aristocracy is known to banquet.

Sometime later, the Coast Guard Cutter U.S.S. Lizzie Borden found the dead body of Lord Dunville Percival Wimpleseed Prissypott of Haggismarshe floating off the coast of South Carolina. How that body arrived off the coast of South Carolina is a whole other tale left for another time.


The writer sat back, lit himself a cigar and grinned. He had come to the end of his tome, The Absolutely Unbelievable Endearing Adventures of Lady Marye Wimpleseed-Prissypott. Somehow, he worked through all the jokes, and all the times when he didn’t want to write the damned thing. It was done, and he was a happy man. He saved his work and closed the file.

He went to the kitchen, took a grand puff on his cigar and a drink of the pinot he poured. Soon the glass was empty. He poured a second glass and walked back to his computer with a big smile on his face. 51,717 words. He was indeed proud of himself.

Lady Whats-her-name had adventures up the wazoo and who knew? Maybe the next novel might bring more adventures. He had only one more thing to do. Upload his words to his online drive. Before he did, there was just one itsy-bitsy change he wanted to make. Change THE END to FINALE. He sat down at the computer, opened the file that contained his grand saga and looked at the page. He was stunned.

The words, all 51,717 of them, had been erased. Where was his work, his month of staying up late and typing out nonsense into the word processor? Hours of trying to think up crap for a useless extravaganza of an exercise.

He stared at the monitor. Suddenly a big mouth appeared on his screen. It said in the crudest possible way, “I’m hungry and I want more words. More words, if you please.”


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

Lady Wimpleseed-Prissypott 2: “When a girl has money, she has money.”  

In which Two-Ems is disappointed. We meet our heroine and the dilemma she finds herself in.

Previously the reader is introduced to Lord Dunnie, a member of the  British aristocracy with one foot in the cemetery and one in the grave. He is dead broke. Sir Myles di Fussye-Pants suggests an American heiress is the solution to his dilemma. Lord Dunnie agrees.  

When Sir Myles arrived home that foggy day in Londontown, he introduced his darling dear to his matchmaking scheme. However Mrs. Sir was not in the least enthusiastic. She wasn’t sure she could get any American heiress to go along with the proposition.

“That old wrinkled old thang,” she said. “He’s beginning to putter on one putter. He’s such a prune Danish and I am sure his putter is a prune as well. After all, we Americans like our prunes primed and ready to putter like yours, my dear Mylesie. By the way, we haven’t puttered all week. I need some puttering or it’s off to Daddy.”

With a right good jolly tallyho, he followed his wife into their boudoir. After three or four y’alls and an equal amount of war whoops, Sir in his altogether altogethers brought up the subject again. “Yes,” he said lying next to his beloved Two-Ms in their room-sized bed, “Dunnie is from good Viking stock. Viking and American stock, what an amazing copulation that would be.”

“But … “Her pouty lips pouted their pouty-est.

“It is a done deal, this deal with Dunnie. Society must have what society must have and we must all do our part in the game. Otherwise there will be no tally to tally-ho. The hounds won’t run and the fox will make an escape. So pleeze, my sweet, no pouty-wouties pleeze

“Yes, Mylesie,” she said, knowing when the battle was lost to his stiff upper lip. “Give a little, get a lot” was her motto, and she knew this was one of those times when it wouldn’t do to lay down the gauntlet.

“We’ll commission a Commission for The Match that we shall match matchlessly, you see. You do see, don’t you. We’ll ask Mother to do the commissioning. She’s right good for a nuptial or two. After all, she did well by us.”

“So who shall the unlucky girl be? I mean, lucky. Who shall we commission for Lord Dunnie?”

“I had in mind someone your own sweet self suggested. The daughter of a certain John Smith, the owner of Pocahantas Shipping. In American financial circles, he is very very, if you know what I mean.”

“But, Mylesie, I didn’t mean to connect her with an old fuddy, duddley like Wimsey Prissysottsey. I meant her for one of your young layabout studdleys. I promised her Moms.  We’re cousins, you know, and the Old Prune will be such a disappointment. She wanted a regular Beau Brummell for her sweet young thang.”

“It’s Wimpleseed-Prissypott, dears. He’s the one.”

“Well, if you insist,” she said, then rolled over and gave him her sexiest kiss. She knew it was settled, and she wasn’t completely unhappy. Now she would have a friend to shop with, to spend their fathers’ fortunes with, to attend the balls with, to show off the best of the colonies, to make all those spoiled British society ladies jealous.

Thus it was agreed, and thus it was an American heiress who was agreed upon. She would be the spot of tea to pour new life into that old Wimpie. She was the very very that Dunnie needed. And the money wouldn’t be bad either.


When the subject was broached to her of the arranged arrangement, the future Lady Marye Caterina Wimpleseed-Prissypott thought the arrangement was another of her mother’s derangements. She wanted none of it. At that time, her ladyship was a plain-jane Mary-Mary Smith from Brooklyn Heights. She hated the very idea of marrying a title to provide respectability for her filthy nouveau-riche family from the Southside of Nowheresville. She wanted what everybody wants when they are young and looking at life in all its potentials and their hormones are hormoning all over the place and they’ve got a bankload of cash to do anything that pops into their pretty little heads. True love. And the true love Mary-Mary wanted was her boyfriend from Brooklyn.

She had every intention of marrying that boyfriend of six months, Dilly O’Jones. She called him “My Sweet Dills,” when she was in the throes of passion. She was always in the throes of passion when he was within a block of her nubile and ready body. She loved to run her slim fingers through his ultra-greased, dark, Italian hair, hair he had inherited from his mamma’s side of the family. She held onto his tresses for her dear dear life on the back of his motorbyke when they cruised the streets of Manhattan. Though there was a lot of foreplay between this Romeo and Juliet, they had never consummated the relationship. She remained untouched, as pure as the driven snow.

She was still a virgin, but there were times she longed to surrender the state of her virginia to this dilly of a boyfriend. He was such a handsome lad that all the females he passed swooned and fainted when they saw his baby blues. But he had sworn his true love to his Mary-Mary from Brooklyn Heights and he was a man of his word. He loved her true-ly with all the trulyness his passionate, young Irish-Italian heart contained. Even more than that, he loved her a lot.

Unfortunately, for the young lovebirds, Mary-Mary had a mother and this mother reminded her how much she and her father had done for her. “With great wealth comes great responsibility,” her Moms said.

“But, Moms,” the sweet young thing said as she primped in front of the large mirror in the hallway, “when a girl has money, she has money. But money is not enough. One must have true love to be a happy girl. Otherwise … well, just otherwise.”

“That responsibility,” her Moms came back at her, “is the cost of the money. And there isn’t an otherwise in the world that can change that. It’s a trade-off. You can either be happy or you can be rich. Me, I’d rather be nouveau-riche. I may not be able to buy happiness but, at least, I can buy the dress. I am not up to living in some hovel on the side of the road, worrying about the kids and their next meal. And neither are you, dear.”

“But, Moms,” Mary-Mary said, ignoring her Moms’ logic, “you want me to marry unhappiness and misery. I want My Sweet Dills and I don’t like the pickle you’re putting me in. Daddykins can give him a position in his shipping company.”

“You would have your husband living off your fortune?”

“That’s what you are suggesting,” the daughter said. “To prop up some old fuddy of a British lord with Daddykins’ money.”

“This is different,” Moms said. She said it in such a way that you could take it all the way to the bank. She took her daughter by the shoulders and turned her to face her mother. “We’re getting a title in exchange.”

“I want Dills,” Mary-Mary demanded. “My Sweet Dills, and you’re turning everything sour.”

“Oh, dear,” her mother, Margaret Smith, smiled, eyeing her daughter’s nubile buxomy bosomss, “your sweet dill of a pickle only wants one thing, and it’s not your Daddykins’ money.”

“But Daddykins said I could be with whoever I wanted. I want Dills.”

“Whom, dear.”

Next Week: An American Girl Gets Aristocratted