William Peel, Lord of Tornbridge

The huge courtyard of Peel Manor had been tented to serve as a venue for William’s eighteenth birthday party and was lined with furniture salvaged from the blaze. William was insistent that the party should go ahead despite Mother’s strong objection to the fact that the guests would be eating off smouldering tables. It was to be his first decision as the new Lord of Tornbridge and, as far as William’s decisions went, it was uncharacteristically sensible. The party would have been impossible to defer. The orchestra had arrived from Florence, the chef and his twenty strong kitchen staff had come from France, and one hundred and fifty pineapples were already being unloaded by the east gate.

 

The guests would be arriving at noon. Many had travelled days in order to attend and it would have been poor hospitality, not to mention unfeasible, to turn away kings, queens and emperors at the gate. True enough they would see the state of the house and realise for themselves that the bedrooms were likely to be very draughty, but there was nowhere else for them to go.

 

Despite the obvious practical complications of hosting such a grand party in what was little more than a derelict building, the preparations had run like clockwork. This was, in no small way, due to the months of planning and an element of fear in relation to William’s temper. William, as many Peels before him, would happily take a riding boot to any staff whose performance needed improvement. Whatever the motivation, dozens of servants busied about the courtyard like an army of ants, fetching linen, decorating the tables and setting the chairs.

Only one of the two ‘L’ shaped annexe buildings to the rear of the manor remained intact. Rooms in the west annexe, which housed the mint and armoury, were utilised as kitchens. The east wing, which formed the servant quarters, stables and kennels, had been the source of the fire. The collapsing roof had taken the walls of the upper floor with it and by morning it looked more akin to a derelict abbey than a grand, neoclassical building.

 

Canvas sheets were supported using taught guide ropes secured to the facades that overlooked the courtyard. These would protect the guests and furniture from the unpredictable spring weather. The staff had moved what clothes and precious belongings they had salvaged of the Peels into the gatehouse which had become the Peels’ new home. Although a substantial building in its own right, the gatehouse wasn’t a suitable venue for the two hundred or so guests. The courtyard, however surreal it appeared with its half-burnt furniture and singed portraits, was the only practical choice. One stroke of luck was that all the wines and spirits for the party had been safely tucked away in the cellar of the manor and were completely unaffected by the fire. Once the servants had cleared the timbers and rubble leading to the cellar doorway it was a work of moments to bring the crates up to the surface. The other stroke of luck was that the two hundred-piece gold embossed dinner service, specially commissioned for the party by Sir Charles, had been secured in a vault in the west annexe. The silver cutlery and glasses were also intact as they had been locked away in the kitchen’s strong room. A few had been affected by the heat but there were still plenty left to service the guests.

 

By noon, Tornbridge Road was a veritable traffic jam of highly polished carriages, many brandishing royal crests and all jostling to be first through the main gates of Peel Manor. The Bonaparte brothers, Joseph and Napoleon, had locked carriage wheels with King Ferdinand of Sicily. After a period of bickering out of their carriage windows they suddenly caught sight of the great manor house ahead and immediately fell silent. The grandest and most splendid house in all of Europe, if not beyond, had been reduced to charcoal in a single night.

 

Although most of the invited guests were long and loyal friends of the Peels, many were not so friendly with each other. The Bonapartes were, of course, unpopular with almost everyone. So much so that other guests often refused to attend Peel functions if the two brothers were invited. This was certainly the case for Wellington, the famous Iron Duke, who had declined the last two Christmas invitations for that very reason. His absence had been a particular disappointment to William as he really enjoyed Wellington’s battle stories. Wellington had been William’s favourite Uncle growing up because he had always made a fuss of him. William especially loved it when they play fought. For many years, Wellington had challenged William to punch him really hard in the stomach just to see if he could hurt him. “It’s iron, my boy,”Wellington would chuckle, slapping his belly whilst blowing a smoke ring from his cigar. That was until one New Year’s Eve when William’s aim was a little low and caught Wellington square in his less than iron jewels.

★★★

Sir Charles’ memorial service was held in the family cemetery, tucked away in the south-east corner of the Peel estate. It was, by all accounts, a somewhat peculiar affair as the illustrious guests had not packed anything remotely suitable for a funeral. Most had, no doubt, intended to out-dress each other in a shameless attempt to endear themselves to Sir Charles. They were all trying to look regal and dignified despite their jewelled heels sinking in the mud.

 

William Peel stood beside Mother at the graveside as the chaplain conducted the service. She gripped her teenage son’s arm tightly throughout. The poet Byron, another guest in attendance, later commented that this wasn’t out of affection, or for support, but to stop the dullard accidentally falling into the hole.

 

Mother, as she was affectionately known, was a matriarchal figure. The Peels had entertained many illustrious guests over the years, both for business and pleasure, and Mother was an equal to them all.

 

Unlike the average scrawny man of Tornbridge with his soiled leggings, ale stained tunic and wooden teeth, William Peel was a portly six-footer with a smooth, handsome face and an unblemished complexion. He would be described as chubby by today’s standards but in the early eighteen hundreds it was a sign of health and wealth to be portly.

 

The birthday party itself commenced a little after two o’clock and despite the unusual venue, and the fact that the house was still smouldering behind them, the atmosphere amongst the guests was rather jovial. Mother’s black mourning dress and veil was a striking contrast to the colour and splendour of the gowns, hats, jackets, and jewelled furs the fashion minded had to show. The place hummed with laughter and conversation. At exactly three o’clock trumpets sounded and the butler, Dobson, requested all of the guests be silent and upstanding.

 

“Your Royal Highnesses, distinguished guests, Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,” he announced, respectfully. “Lord Peel of Tornbridge.”

 

William entered through the west gate to a fanfare and rapturous applause. He had changed from his bland mourning attire to a specially commissioned tunic and matching britches woven of pure gold thread. Around his shoulders he wore a windcheater trimmed with ermine and encrusted with huge jewels. The shoulders were so wide he couldn’t fit through anything but a double doorway. Ahead of him strolled George, William’s pet lion, sporting a specially commissioned gold collar and leash that matched William’s outfit. The lion roared and the path ahead of William grew wider as the sound reverberated through the crowd. Which was exactly the desiredeffect. Mother’s jaw locked when she caught sight of her son but not even her icy stare could temper the moment for William. He stood, regally soaking in the applause that was echoing about him. Just when his pomposity was it its highest, there was the sound of smashing crockery and shrieks as George broke his leash and bounded off through the screaming crowd at the scent of something edible.

 

As George vanished through the south gate, William tapped a glass above his head. All eyes turned on him as he took to a small podium. The guests watched expectantly as William then patted his sides in search of his speech. When it was nowhere to be found, he muttered the word “arse”, then cleared his throat.

 

“You have brought great gifts to celebrate the occasion of my eighteenth birthday,” he eventually began, in his customary dandy drawl. “I have decided, therefore, to share one of my own great gifts. I’m talking, of course, about the gift of song.” A plate slipped from someone’s grip and shattered somewhere in the crowd. William continued regardless. “It was Cleopatra who said that song is the one thing that distinguishes us from animals.” He paused, sensing that wasn’t quite right. “There are a few other things, I’m sure,” he added, letting out a little laugh. ”Hats, for one. And the love of a good cheese. Oh, and riding in hot air balloons!” Mother broke the stem of her wine glass.

 

William sang for a little over half an hour. Although a few more plates were dropped, presumably due to the reflex action of people covering their ears, no crockery was actually thrown. William Peel was not the most gifted vocalist and, where some accounts of the rendition were sympathetic, Architect John Nash said that he would have preferred to slide naked down a splintered banister rail carrying a vat of boiling tar than listen to more of William’s insult to Mozart’s work. It was Emperor Kokaku of Japan, though, who had been perhaps most scolding. In pigeon English, and using some inappropriate mime, The Emperor likened the noise to that of a man being violated with a dry Nasu (fruit of the Japanese Eggplant, which is about eight inches long).

 

After the recital had concluded, Mother backed William into a corner and, with her arms tightly folded, made it clear how displeased she was that he had abandoned the prepared speech. Setting aside the song, which the crowd was still feeling the ill effects of, William hadn’t even mentioned his father’s passing. William tried to justify his actions by saying he thought the speech needed an injection of tempo. This didn’t convince her. Mother also pointed out that George, William's pet lion, had mauled to death Byron’s horse, eating everything but its shoes. She was insistent that an apology and replacement horse would be needed. William vehemently objected, noting that two events would need to occur first. One, that he would have to lay a huge egg. Two, that the egg would have to hatch into a creature with the head of a bear but the body of a peacock. The bearcock, as William called it, would likely be flightless and possess an unpredictable temper. None of this made any sense, of course, and only served to raise Mother’s blood pressure further.

 

“Bearcock?” she enquired, studying her son’s expression with a mixture of bewilderment and anger. “You do understand the enormous responsibility that accompanies your title and wealth?” Tired of William’s idiocy, she sighed and walked away.

 

“It’s the fathead’s perfume,” said William, calling after her. “I should say Byron’s got off lightly. We are in the mating season after all.” Mother didn’t look back.

 

 

★★★

 

Napoleon cornered William by a scorched Welsh dresser and questioned whether he enjoyed the shit that he put for him in a bottle. He meant to say ship, no doubt, but as he had sacked his inept translator earlier in the day, Napoleon had no choice but to conduct his own affairs.

 

“It takes from me a great deal of patience, oui?” he said, struggling for the right English. “The neck of bouteille is petite. Regardé?” He acted out how he held the bottle. “Un jour, le shit slip from my doigts… er… fingers. Napoleon’s shit is delicate, oui?”

 

The mental image of The Emperor trying to force his poo through a small bottle neck was too much for William’s sensitive stomach. “No, Uncle!” he said, fighting his gag reflex. “In Tornbridge we do not make presents of shits in bottles.” He paused and decided to qualify the statement. “Well, perhaps the peasants in the village do, I will enquire about that, but certainly we Peels do not.” With that, he cocked a snoot and strode away.

 

Mother, who witnessed her son abandon Napoleon so abruptly, stepped in seamlessly and apologised for William’s behaviour stating it had been a stressful day for him on account of being up before eleven o’clock. She then began, with great dignity, to answer his question regarding the fire of the previous evening. The fire, she explained, had been started by Godfrey ‘Samuel’ Boyle. Samuel was the village idiot who had been employed by Charles as an act of charity.

 

William had become pretty fed up by hearing “Yes, he was a good man,” and “of course, you must come and stay with us at our huge palace.” Deciding he needed some time alone, he made his excuses.

 

He was approaching the courtyard’s southern gate when the butler, Dobson, intercepted him.

 

“Mr Parsons is here for his audience, sir,” said Dobson. “He is waiting for you in the Chinese garden.” William frowned. “The walled garden, sir,” Dobson added.

 

“Ah! By the wine trees,” William replied.

 

“If you mean the vineyard, sir, then yes,” said Dobson, numb to William’s stupidity.

 

“Yes, yes,” said William. “I didn’t know the garden was Chinese though. Just thought it was built

badly.”

 

“No, sir. That’s the pagoda.”

 

“Extraordinary! Oh well, ready a mount for when I’ve done, there’s a good fellow. A cheroot is needed and enough distance from Mother to enjoy it.” Without another word, William made his way through the southern gate and away up the path to his meeting.

 

It’s fair to say that William didn’t care for the Chinese garden. The path was too long and there were far too many unnecessary bridges for his liking. But then he didn’t care for this man Parsons much either. There was something about the fellow’s flat sided head that bothered William. Parsons was the lawyer who handled the family’s more complexbusiness interests. In theory, William had been well prepared for international affairs. This meeting was William’s first without his father’s guiding hand or, for that matter, the occasional prod in the ribs if he had dozed off dreaming of Gorgonzola.

 

As William made his way along the meandering path he caught sight of Mr Parsons up ahead. He was clutching his precious satchel as usual.

 

“My Lord,” said Parsons, with a bow. “Congratulations on your birthday.”

 

“Indeed,” William responded, with a heavy sigh. “Not exactly the circumstances one would plan. Still, we Peels are made of stiff stuff.”

 

“I’m sure you are correct, sir.”

 

“Quite so,” replied William, staring down his nose at the lawyer. “And see to it I get a direct path from the gate to here will you? It will save all that pointless walking.”

 

Parsons, who didn’t have the patience to tell William that paths were someone else’s department, chose to ignore the question. “Napoleon has requested additional funds, my lord.”

 

“Has he, indeed?” replied William.

 

“Yes, sir.” Parsons caught William’s blank expression and helped him fill in some of the spaces. “You are financing The Emperor’s invasion of Britain, sir.” The news took a few moments to soak into William’s brain. “Sir?” enquired Parsons again.

 

“Yes?” said William, the information finally processed. “I’m just recalling my knowledge of the matter. Father and I spoke at length about it, of course.” William would never admit he had forgotten something. ”Tell me this,” he continued, “as I’ve already dealt with many matters of high commerce this morning. Didn’t we just give the British a wedge to help Uncle Ferdinand kick Uncle Boney off Sicily?” said William, referring to the King of Sicily, of course, and the fact that Tornbridge lent him money for munitions so he could extricate Napoleon’s forces.

 

“True, sir. British control of the Mediterranean is at present to our advantage. When Napoleon controls the British fleet, however, it will be very different. Sicily will fall to the French once more.”

 

“Ooops! Poor Uncle F. Hope he doesn’t have plans to re-gild the fireplaces, what?” William chuckled to himself, reflecting on the irony. “Does Mother know?”

 

“She had your father’s confidence on the matter, yes, but it’s important it reaches no one else. The British live in fear of a French invasion and to hear one is being funded by the Peels might cause the Regent to view you in a less than favourable light.”

 

“Strike us off the Christmas party list, you mean?”

 

“Undoubtedly, sir,” Parsons quickly replied.

 

“Understandable. Tell me, is it a French tradition to bottle one’s own dried turds?”

 

“I… I have no idea, sir,” responded Parsons, taken aback. “Shall I make enquiries?”

 

“No, no. Just a thought. Pray continue.”

 

Parsons took a moment to pick up his thread. “Shall I inform The Emperor that the funding will continue?” he asked, assuming the decision was a mere formality.

 

William pondered. The easiest thing to do would have been to say yes but, despite his father’s enthusiasm for the deal, William had a nagging doubt.

 

“No!” he said, stiff backed.

 

“But, sir!” questioned Parsons, with genuine concern. “Victory in the Peninsular is poised on a knife edge if…“

 

“Then Uncle Boney should have thought of that before he started bottling his dung,” said William, cutting him off. “No, it’s crockery we seek, damn it, not clay and promises. Why, the man must go through a pair of shoes a day the way he drags his feet.” He clapped his hands to indicate the discussion was at an end. “That it? Sparkling! It might take me an hour to find my way out.”

 

William had already taken a few steps away up the path when Parsons coughed. “There is another pressing matter, sir.”

 

“More business you mean?” enquired William, turning back with a sigh.

 

“Two very important guests, sir.” Parsons glanced about to make sure they weren’t being overheard. “Who have travelled far and at great personal risk to see your father.”

 

“Should I care how far they’ve travelled, Parsons?”

 

“If you’ll allow me, sir,” Parsons responded, directing William’s attention towards Peel Manor. “The subterfuge, as you will soon see, is entirely justified.