AN ENGLISH PROPOSAL
Jessica Fellowes ( born in London, 1974) is the author of the of f icial companion books to Downton Abbey a nd h er o wn crime f iction series, The Mitford Murders ( Little, Brown; Neri Pozza). A former deputy journalist at the Mail on Sunday and editor of Country Life, she currently lives with her family between London and Oxfordshire. Lord Horncastle leant back in his chair and failed to stifle a belch that had begun as a low rumble somewhere in the depths of his voluminous stomach, barely constrained by its stiffly starched shirt and silk waistcoat.
“Tuppy!” exclaimed Miss Peke. She was part of the inner circle that could call him by the same name his nanny had called him when he was six, though no one who could remember how the name had come about was around any longer.
Lord Horncastle shrugged and beckoned the butler over, pointing to his empty glass of wine. The butler, a man who looked to have been born with a snooker cue for a spine, gave the merest hint of a raised eyebrow and refilled the glass. His master downed the drink in one gulp, then pursed his lips as if suppressing another burp and giggled. It was a boyish, saucy noise and quite at odds with his balding head and overgrown moustache.
Lady Evelyn, who was as narrow as he was wide, had pleaded with her brother to trim it to neater proportions but he had objected on the strongest grounds. “You see, my dear,” he had explained patiently, “if after breakfast, but before luncheon, I feel a trifle hungry, I need only run my tongue over my moustache – like so – and I get the leftover egg.” At this, Lady Evelyn thought she had been a little sick in her mouth and immediately made plans to go and stay with her old school friend for a week. Hence, Miss Peke had come to keep Tuppy company instead. She bore an unfortunate resemblance to her name, with a pug-like nose, as if she were permanently squashed up against a glass wall, but she was agreeable company.
“You are an impressionable young lady,” said Tuppy. “At least, I very much hope to make an impression upon you.” Miss Peke sat up a little straighter and waggled her knife at him. Lord Horncastle always made a pass, and was always refused.
The peer of the realm paused to dig out a bit of spinach between his teeth, using the nail of his index finger. Once retrieved, he licked it off and swallowed it down. It seemed to give him an idea. “I say, Miss Peke,” he began, and she stopped the scraping on her plate. “Would you marry me? I think we are evenly matched and we could become the toast of the town. What do you say?”
Miss Peke discreetly wiped her nose on her napkin. “I think,Tuppy,” she replied,“nothing would make me happier.” And they lived disgustingly ever after.