Bucky's Edwardian House Party

Miscellaneous and Personal Stuff I Must Share
1

So thrilled to be asked back, Lord B! I do hope you’ve given me the Violet Room, right between yours and Ukulele Ike’s. Wouldn’t do to have the servants hear us crashing about the hallways all hours of the night, like last time! By the way, whatever happened to that upper house parlormaid who tattled to the papers?

Did you SEE the fetching footman “Squirrely” SqrlCub brought with him? SO delightful to see such affection between master and servant.

What’s on the agenda for tonight? Tableaux vivant? Wasn’t it KILLING last month when we did “The Rape of the Sabine Women?” Weren’t the Earl of Manhattan and Lord Alphagene too ripping as “invading hordes,” and didn’t Lady Saxe-Face and the Diva of Tuba make enthusiastic Sabines?

Well, I must off to change into my tea-gown—it’s VERY Diana Manners, my dear . . .

—The Lady Eve

2

Oh, dear. It looks as though Eve has been possessed by the spirits of Wodehouse and Benson!

I’m afraid I’m not clever enough to reply in kind, so I can only say: Eve, if you ever tire of biographies, consider writing some novels, willya?

Make way for Luc…I mean, The Lady Eve!

3

This is what comes, dear hearts, of reading “Unquiet Souls” and “Goodbye to All That” while watching tapes of “Upstairs, Downstairs” over the weekend.

Lord B. himself hasn’t checked in—could he be in the billiards room with that French maid?

4

Hey, I think I saw a CD titled “Bucky’s Edwardian House Party” in the bargain bin at my local music store…

Live a Lush Life
Da Chef

5

I am pleased to accept your gracious invitation, but there are matters of some concern that must be addressed beforehand. I do hope that the maids in your employ at present display more… fortitude than the last time. They tire so easily these days… And I do hope I will be staying in a room with a wrought-iron four-post bed, the wooden ones simply will not do. The splinters I had after our last gathering were absolutely horrid! Putting such concerns aside, might I suggest, for the evening’s entertainment, a reenactment of some of the distinguishing events of the papacy of Alexander VIII, sans poison, naturally…

Yours truly.
Lady de Garbage-Neurotique

An infinite number of rednecks in an infinite number of pickup trucks shooting an infinite number of shotguns at an infinite number of road signs will eventually produce all the world’s great works of literature in Braille.

6

Ah, Lady de Garbage-Neurotique. forgive me for having to greet you—our host is apparently occupied elsewhere (perhaps he’s out by the dolphin fountain, holding “Polly” Polycarp’s head under and demanding he renounce his god—such a naughty boy!).

I’d say, dearest, get your maid to grab whichever room is still available and located between (or across the hall from) those who Interest you for midnight sneaks . . .

—The Lady Eve

P.S. Chef, what’s on the menu for tonight?

7

Dear Lady Eve, you are doubtless aware of the spelling error in your sentence above? I hate to seem overly priggish, but bad writing is a trifle low class.

One is delighted to be invited to the tableaux vivants this evening. I am sure that my friends Gerald and Rupert, strapping young men from the village, will be welcome also. They are already disporting themselves in the pool with the charming english sheepdog, whose yelps of pleasure made me smile with delight.

I have some charming ideas for my stay (need I confess that I have been diverting myself with the charming tale of Justine?)

Until this evening.

8

'ello, ma’ams. I’m sorry I’ve left you standing here…Can I take yer furs? Master Buckminister will be down shortly–he’s presently occupied.

Kitty here will show you to your rooms, and Edward will take your bags. Kitty, Edward, please escort these fine ladies to their rooms.

Dinner will be served as soon as Master Buckminister is finished upstairs. If you need anything, please ring, and I or Kitty will be right up.

I hope you enjoy your stay, ma’ams. I think Master Buckminister is accepting suggestions for the tableaux vivant after dinner.

9

Not to be impertinent, Lord Winklereid, but Lady Eve’s spelling should not be challenged or corrected. She is the Mistress of this Party, and I’m afraid you may offend. You know how writers are, and we certainly don’t want her in bad temper tonight.

If you fancy that fetching fellow for felching, you need only inquire of Sir SqrlCub, his patron. I’m quite certain he’ll make him available at your leisure.

10

Arnold, darling, you are surely aware that the plural of “tableau vivant” is “tableaux vivant?” Not that I would be one to point out one’s spelling errors . . . I think you are due for a spanking by that French maid, if Ukulele Ike and Lord. B. will ever give her time.

Pix, dear, do show Lady de Garbage-Neurotique and I to our rooms—before dinner, we can brush and rat each other’s hair, lace up each other’s corsets and powder each other’s backs. You DID fill up the “spy eyes” in the ancestral portrait, didn’t you?

11

{Doddering about the ancestral home, Lord B prepares a rather long missive.}

Dear me, dear me. We were actually planning a fox hunt. Spose it can’t be helped, bit of a "fox’ hunt, eh what? {Lord B starts to choke on brandy at the perceived brilliance of the joke.}

Lady Eve, just a reminder. NO cheating at cards tonight, my dear. It is a bit smashing to have you back. Sorry about not ebing able to come and see what your personal attacks are like. Oh, you did say the slipper for tonight, didn’t you? By the by, did seem a bit odd, but Lady Saxe-Face and the Diva seemed a bit too willing in the last tableaux, didn’t they. Bit unsporting to be so downright plucky and all, what with their “no, lift with your legs,” when they were sposed to be squealing away on mock fright.

Eve, yes, billiards would be topping1 And so will be yours truly! {a bit of brandy comes out of Lord B’s nose. he is amusing himself rather too easily.} Fraid you’ll have to adminster six of the best to Poly. Just not much fun for me to whack away at a fellow fellow. Well, not since me days at Eton, at least.

Lady de G! Well, old horse, we DO have some quite fit Scottish maids this time round. Sorry bout the splinters, by the by. Thought you rather fancied them. Er, no, that’s hay I’m thinking of. {Stares fondly into the distance…}

Pix, you recalcitrant child! You’re not the front girl tonight! Well, it’s into the school uniform with you, and then over the ancestral knee for a bit of the old smackbottom.

Katy, my dear, I’m thinking of promoting you to cjhamber maid. That means the striped outfit, instead of the standard black one. For the maid. The French maid.

Well, down to the cellar for some port. Come along Pix {taking her by the ear to soft cries of “oh, no, I shall be ever so good.”}

Lord B of B Hall.

Oh, well. We can always make more killbots.

12

And thus begins the tale that I like to call the “Bucky Edwardian House Party Horror”. Hardly had I motored up to the house and had my man layout the dinner togs (including a particularly fetching tie that had been all the talk of the club, although it might have had a slight flaw in that it was somewhat, well, vivid, judging by the pained demeanor of my valet and the rather stricken expression of friends) when Eve, that blight on the face of pastoral England slinked into my room. Now I’m not saying that she is not easy on the eyes, especially when viewed from the side, and normally I would have proposed minutes after being introduced to her, but that her complete lack of the conscience one expects in a young girl causes the hair to rise on the back of the neck like the quills on the fretful porpentine. (“Porpentine?” “Yes, sir, Porpentine.” “Well, I guess that Shakespeare bloke knows best.”)

The last time our paths had crossed, I had been involved in an affair so frightful that the merest sight of cats, policemen’s helmets, or silver cow creamers requires the instant application of a large brandy and a cold compress. So it was no wonder that when she flickered into the room, I jumped like a cat on its eighth life and began mentally reviewing the timetable of the London trains. But then she smiled the smile that fascinates, and it was too late…

13

Lord B., dearest, DO stop snorting your brandy down my bodice . . . I spent far too much on this from M. Poiret, you know!

What will we be hunting? I brought my sidesaddle habit (a lady never rides astride!). Remember how killing it was last time when we thought we were going to hunt “pheasants” and it turned out to be “peasants?” Thank GOODNESS the press never caught wind . . . Mr. Balfour would have had a field day in the House of Commons.

—The Lady Eve

14

P.S. Now, Finagle, you shouldn’t have agreed to play Scavanger Hunt if you weren’t prepared to find things like “a woman’s right wooden leg,” “jewelry from a corpse buried in Westminster Abbey” or “a 21-year-old male virgin.”

You KNOW how shy-making Lord B.'s house parties can get! Though I might add you were a dab hand at “chastising” the parlor maid when she tried to make off with the late Princess Charlotte’s hair-ring.

15

Excuse my lateness, but my afternoon repose lasted longer than expected. Fortunately I was awakened in a novel and delicious fashion by young Betty. Lord B, old drum, allow me to compliment me on the pertness of your maids. In your case, one need not say “it is so hard to find good servants”, but rather indeed “it is good to find hard servants.”

Lady Eve, pardon me for my insistence, but allow me to remind you that my family is descended from some of the best swiss families, that my lineage can be traced back to the 15th century (unlike some others), and that we pride ourself on the purity of our French. Indeed, “tableaux vivants” is and shall be spelled with an s.

I hope that the gathering does not claim that my impertinence needs punishment.

16

Pert. That’s a woody word. Caribou. Erogenous zones!!

Sorry.

And, and, er, sorry, Eve, about the snorting of beverages. It was, sadly, creme de menthe this time, deucedly stain-making, what? Perhaps if I help you with that bodice, eh?

We shall be hunting Katy, Pixoid, Eden in lovely faux fox furs–they’ll be in them we won’t be hunting them in one. Dash it all! Chef will be wearing a leapord skin apron for the chase, and Finagle will be wearing a watch. Oh, and other clothes, didn’t mean ot give the wrong idea.

As to Arnold, not sure if he’s in the hunt or not. The “hope I won’t be punished” bit is a bit off, eh? Not sure if the blighter really means that he’s sorry or if it’s the “say, a bit of having my backside smacked about would be quite ripping!”

I’ll have to have another glass of port and mull it all over.

Lord B

17

Goodness, Bucky, you did have to spoil my fun. Well, I suppose it’s off to my room, then…I’ll be along shortly, darlings, if you’d be willing to help me with my hair.

Eve, dear, meet me at midnight on the grand staircase. We’ll go for a romp, and I’ll show you all the best “spy eyes”. There’s one I think you’ll find particularly interesting…not to mention the other delights an old house contains…

Does anyone know who that dashing young man with the atrocious tie is? I don’t think I’ve seen him at a house party before. One of you will have to give me a proper introduction.

And Bucky darling, I do hope you’ve had the fox furs properly aired this time…the last time, anytime we smacked the things, dust flew. By the time we were done, we could barely see! Not that we needed to see much, then…

I’ll be off, then…see you all shortly.

18

Master B,

Shall I wear the thigh-high boots with 4 inch heels for the hunt? It’s frightfully difficult to run in them, but if you wish…
As this is Eden and Pixoid’s first hunt, might I suggest they run without any furs? The chase will be ever so much more exciting for them if they wear the boots, and nothing more.

Furthermore, I fear the wrath of Lord Winklereid should he be overlooked. Forgive my boldness, but I fear that his arrogance masks his desire to be mastered. He would make a lovely horse for the hunt. Perhaps Mistress Eve could ride him…

I await your instructions…

19

Ah, here it is, a snowy morning—we can’t get out for the hunt, worse luck! “Pixie” Pixoid and I had a grand time last night spying through all the ancestral paintings—NOW we know why Ukulele Ike never made it out of his room! I didn’t know you could DO that with a tennis racquet . . . Lord knows, I’m wearing gloves next time on the courts.

Arnold, dear, I fear you and I shall have to repair to the library with some French dictionaries and a riding crop. Now that we can’t go out hunting today, we shall have to play some parlor games: anyone for Dumb Crambo or Poor Puss?

20

'Elloeverybodyennyonefortennis?

Oh, snowing, eh? Just as well, considering what I hear about the racquets. Then I might as well go see if that saucy chambermaid has,er, made up the bed yet.

Smoke me a kipper, I’ll be back for breakfast.