The End and The Beginning Part 2
Posted on Sun Jun 23rd, 2024 @ 12:46pm by Lord Archibald Battersly & Clara Brown & Lord Louis Battersly Earl of Marnemouth & Mr David Fitzroy
Edited on on Sat Jul 6th, 2024 @ 9:22am
1,495 words; about a 7 minute read
Mission:
Death of a Monarch
Location: Various, Thrushstone Park
Timeline: 23 January 1901,0630 Hours
Lord Ribble’s Dressing Room, Thrushstone Park
Archibald Battersly was the picture of the English gentleman even early in the morning.
Perched on the corner of the room’s single bed, he awaited the arrival of his Valet, David, whom he had rung for a minute prior. His Lordship had returned from the bathroom, pulled on his emerald coloured silk dressing robe and tied it neatly at the waist. He slipped into his slippers and crossed to the mirror to inspect his appearance.
David halted outside the door to the Marquess’s Dressing Room for a span of two heartbeats, making sure he was presentable. He quickly brushed his jacket front and sleeves before tugging once on the hem of his waistcoat. Once he was certain there wasn’t anything amiss, he entered Lord Ribble’s dressing room and found the Marquess in front of the mirror.
“Good morning, my Lord,” David said, gently, to announce his presence.
Archie turned to look at his valet as he entered. “Good morning Fitzroy.” The Marquess resumed looking at his reflection and ran his hand up his neck, feeling the stubble that had grown. “Can we do a quick shave this morning?” He looked at David in the reflection of the mirror.
The morning light illuminated the dressing room quite well, and so Lord Ribble could see on his valet’s face that he knew something unsettling. “What's wrong Fitzroy?”
David carefully set down the coffee service he was carrying. He plucked the morning’s paper from beside the pot and held it out to the Marquess.
“Ill news from London, my Lord,” David said, unable to hide the sorrow in his voice. He turned and prepared the Marquess’s coffee.
“My God.” Archie took the paper and began to read. “Damn. The Palace will be a madhouse getting ready for the burial. I dare say there aren’t many left who know what to do about a Monarch’s funeral.” He set the paper aside, preferring to read it when he was seated at breakfast.
He took his coffee from David. “What do they make of it downstairs?” He asked, hoping his valet could give an account of feelings in the servant's hall.
“A mixture of tumult and emotions, my Lord,” David answered. He gathered his thoughts and proceeded with due caution.
“Some, like myself, have never known any other leader but Her Majesty. The younger generation, however, seem to understand the import but are…well, if I may say so, m’Lord…detached,” David explained. While he talked, he readied the Marquess’s outfit for the day. He hesitated for a moment.
“Shall I ready your mourning suit, my Lord,” David asked expectantly.
Lord Ribble nodded his understanding of what Fitzroy was saying. “Please, I’ll change after breakfast if you can have it ready. Until then, whatever you have laid out is fine.” Archibald sat down in the chair ready for his shave.
David turned and readied the day’s clothing. He then extracted everything he would need to shave the master of Thrushstone Park, including producing a hot towel to soften the skin and relax the stubble that had formed since the last shave. David handled the towel momentarily, letting the heat dissipate to a level he knew his master preferred. He then wrapped Lord Ribble’s face, pressing the towel gently into place.
With the towel in place, David stropped the razor again, out of habit, and then, using some of the hot water, lathered up the shaving brush. David expertly removed the now-cold towel and began soaping Lord Ribble’s face. Once a generous amount of soap was applied, David began the age-old ritual of shaving his master.
Lord Ribble enjoyed the feeling of a hot towel followed by a soapy lather. He enjoyed the process. The feeling of the razor on his cheek was relaxing. “Will you arrange to get the family’s trunks out of storage,Fitzroy? We may as well get a head start on packing. You can start this afternoon.”
“Of course, m’Lord. I will set aside a mourning suit for now,” Fitzroy confirmed. He took his time shaving Lord Ribble but each stroke was placed and efficient. Before long, David was massaging aftershave into Lord Ribble’s freshly shaven face.
The Emerald Bedroom, Thrushstone Park
The morning light flooded into the bedroom of Lord and Lady Ribble as Clara, one of the maids, pushed the heavy velvet curtains aside. The delicate woman moved to her mistress’s side of the bed. The other side, usually occupied by Lord Ribble, looked as though it hadn’t been slept in. With the mistress ill, Lord Ribble had been sleeping in his Dressing Room.
“Good morning, your ladyship.” There was something solemn to her tone. She lifted a tray over her mistresses lap, her ladyship’s choice newspaper among the tray's contents. “How are you feeling today?” While it may not be entirely proper to ask, in the absence of a real Lady’s Maid, Clara was charged with looking after Lady Ribble and that she took seriously.
Clara came to the bedside and helped her mistress up into a seated position, using the bed’s pillows to prop her upright.
The Marchioness’s appearance was not what she always tried to portray. Since being struck ill, her hair was in disarray and wet with sweat, her face had become sunken and gaunt, and she herself was unfashionably thin. “Is there anything of note in the news today?” She asked, wincing as she tried to find a comfortable position. Though the newspaper was on her tray, she didn’t read it herself lately. Instead, she called upon Clara to read her the headlines until one stood out to her and then the maid would read the article aloud.
Clara bit her lip nervously. “The Queen died, your ladyship. Last night. That's all the papers are talking about.” Her voice nearly broke as a tear fell down her freckled cheek.
Lady Ribble straightened up slightly and bowed her head. “Long live the King.” She spoke softly.
Echoing her words and mirroring her bow, Clara reached for the newspaper and began to read aloud. “The Lord Mayor of London, last night received the following:- Osborne, Tuesday, 6.45p.m. The Prince of Wales to the Lord Mayor. My beloved mother, the Queen has just passed away, surrounded by her children and grandchildren. Albert Edward.”
Setting her ornate teacup aside, Lady Ribble raised her hand “That’s enough Clara.” She shook her head slightly, and reached out a hand to take the newspaper. “I think I’d like a long bath this morning. After breakfast.”
“Yes m’lady.” Clara said with a slight dip at the knee. She quickly headed towards the door that led to the bathroom. Thrushstone Park was outfitted to have both hot and cold running water, many large houses still had to boil water for a bath. Leaving the bedroom door ajar, Clara turned on the bath taps and held her hand under the falling water for a moment before adjusting the flow. She retrieved a jar and took a healthy measure of bath salts in her hand, sprinkling over the pooling water.
The Garnet Bedroom, Thrushstone Park
Louis shrugged into his jacket, assisted by his valet, and brushed the sleeves to ensure they fell into the proper place. The meticulous action reminded him of his years of military service. He didn’t care for many of the trappings of his status but, as his Grandmother, the Dowager, was fond of reminding him they were there for a reason.
Once the tweed jacket was in place and Louis had given himself a once over in the mirror, he thanked the valet and left his bedroom. He wound through the upper halls, headed to the dining room. Along the way, Louis noted a feeling of hesitancy or confusion seemingly hanging in the air. His valet hadn’t had all the news, but the snippet that Louis had gotten didn’t bode well for anyone. The Queen’s passing, certainly an event worthy of mourning, also brought with it an air of uncertainty. Her Majesty had ruled Britain for 63 years, an unprecedented feat, he reminded himself. Who wouldn’t be uncertain about their future, he mused further.
Louis made a mental note to have his dress uniform and give it some attention. While Louis did, in fact, still possess a proper uniform, he rarely wore it. Instead, he opted for a dark blue frock coat with muted embellishments and all his decorations for most functions. However, with the death of the Queen and the impending coronation of the King, Louis suspected his actual uniform would see service again. It hadn’t been that long since Louis had worn it last, but he didn’t want to be caught with any last-minute alterations.
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