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Ladies and gentlemen…
Ladies and gentlemen…
Ladies and gentlemen…
Will you have some tea with me?
Ladies and gentlemen…
Time for tea, time for tea, bread and jam and company
Play the music nice and loud, love to see a dancing crowd
It's time for a party!
Most people in the lower classes of England had a vague notion that the upper crust were somehow born with an innate knowledge of comportment, management of large household staffs, ballroom dancing, how to pronounce the word ‘scone’, the proper way to hold a teacup in a condescending manner, and the exact angle at which to put their noses in the air. For that matter, they all seemed to have actual names for their noses—while they held them in the air, they could be heard discoursing on how they had inherited the “Hampton Nose” or the “Gould-Partington Nose.” For all their noses had names, they were usually large and lumpy, or so those who only saw them from below thought.
However, the masses were wrong. Most of the upper crust had to be taught these important items, and while many picked them up as part of their public-school education or under the tutelage of a particularly fussy grandmother, there were those who reached adulthood still in need of polish. For that, they turned to Madame Hortense’s School of Comportment for a ten-week course, with classes held on Saturday mornings and Tuesday evenings. The classes were held in the drawing room and ballroom of her stately Edwardian mansion, surrounded by lawns that were unnaturally clean, as if even leaves didn’t dare blow into her flower gardens.
Now that Madame Hortense had reached her eighty-fifth year, she generally came only for the first ten minutes of the Saturday lessons. She spent those minutes glaring over her cat-eye bifocals at any fault in her pupils and inquiring after their great-aunts that she had known since they were debutantes at the London Seasons of her youth before turning over the bulk of the lesson to her carefully chosen hired teachers.
The current teacher was her grandson Mycroft, home for the summer from his studies at Oxford. Although he was fearfully busy researching and writing a dissertation on the finer points of World War I espionage techniques, he had allowed his grandmother to bully him into filling in while his predecessor, the Honorable Millicent Duckworthy, discreetly attended rehab for the gin and tonics that had gotten quite out of hand. Mycroft was a worthy candidate for the position; his sense of decorum and attention to the finer details of social interactions were already well-practised even at his young age, even if his the patience and amiable demeanour as befitting a teacher were somewhat underdeveloped as of yet.
*****
“So I was telling Margaret that…”
“Hsssh…he’s coming!” Young Lord Herrington (Alfie to his friends) hissed at The Honorable Daisy Malburn-Stokes.
“Ah, so that’s our instructor? What was his name? Mitchell, or Milton, or M…?”
“Mycroft!” Aflie hissed back. Daisy gave him a rather contemptuous glare. Surely there was no need to hush her so insistently just because the teacher was at the door, especially one that couldn’t be much older than herself. For that matter, teachers of all ages had always been rather more intimidated by Daisy (or more accurately, her politically powerful mother) than the other way around.
“Ah, yes, that was it. Anyhow, dear Margaret…”
“Class.” Even Daisy was brought to silence by that voice, and Alfie looked ill-at-ease. The tone of Mycroft’s voice brooked no argument.
“Today we will be reviewing the proper protocols for high tea. If you would kindly take a seat at the prepared tables, we will begin immediately,” Mycroft instructed.
Daisy felt a bit mutinous; this high tea showed no signs of being a cosy affair with lots of chatter like the ones she usually participated in.
“NO. No, no, no. One does not plop themselves down in the manner of an overtired five-year-old. Sir Bertram, rise and observe how I take my seat before attempting it again yourself.”
This is going to be a very long ten weeks, Daisy thought, watching a sweating Sir Bertram reseat himself five times in a row before his movements were considered satisfactory.
*****
“Well, that’s two weeks down,” Daisy commented to Miss Catherine Davies in the parking lot the next Saturday evening.
Catherine just moaned. “I don’t think he’s ever had any fun in his whole life. Has anyone ever heard him laugh?”
“I have,” Alfie paused as he passed them. “I’m quite certain he was laughing at me just now.”
“Well… you are walking awfully funny.”
“You would too if you’d had to drink eight cups of tea in a row! And someone’s in the only loo that’s ‘available to the public’! Bastard…I know there’s probably ten loos in that old barn of a place, but he just wanted to make me squirm!”
“Well, how hard is it to just not slurp, Alfie?” Daisy giggled as he twisted and turned and danced around, trying to avoid wetting himself. No skips or alleys here, and a gardener was up on a ladder pruning the hedge and was already eyeing Alfie suspiciously for having looked at the massive hydrangea bush.
“Practicing your dancing for next week?” James Caruthers (the fourth of that name, from the Shropshire branch) joined them with a smirk on his face.
Alfie replied with some language not befitting his station in life and then took off for the house at a run as the young lady who had been hogging the loo descended the steps.
*****
“Ow. Ow. Ow.”
“Mister Caruthers. A gentleman does not comment upon personal discomfort while dancing.”
“But…”
“Your discomfort is of your own making; apparently, you lack the ability to follow simple instructions, as I clearly explained the proper footwear at the conclusion of last week’s session.”
James groaned, but shut up as Mycroft raised one eyebrow at him and tried to dance his partner, Lady Partington, to the other end of the room. He danced her right back once he realized that her comportment and dancing were not in need of schooling; My Lady was nearing fifty but was taking the course for the fourth time to meet such delicious young men such as himself. The wrath of Mycroft was surely preferable…
“Caruthers! Step two three! Step two three! You did manage to learn to count that high, one would assume?”
Right. Being pawed by an enthusiastic cougar it was, then. He danced off as fast as he could while Mycroft’s stare singed the hair on his nape.
“No, madam, don’t do it that way!”
It was Miss Davies’ turn to earn their teacher’s censure.
*****
There was no chatting to blow off steam in the parking lot after week four, just a scurry of people scuttling into their sleek new cars as efficiently as possible and hastily removing themselves from the premises.
Alfie had thought his skills at scone-eating were well-practised, but he had been sorely mistaken. An errant movement with his knife and some jam had sent a glob of the sweet, sticky red substance into flight, and it had come to land just to the right of Mycroft’s half-Windsor tie, on the small expanse of his crisp white shirt not covered by his waistcoat.
And Lady Partington had giggled.
*****
Week Five had contained an interminably long, stuffy lecture on the duties and responsibilities of the historical families to their nation and to society. Just as the small assembly with glazed-over eyes thought they might be able to survive a lesson without any uncomfortable deductions of any of their party’s less-than-illustrious shortcomings, Petie Worthington let out a snore.
It was a rather more traumatized that previously crowd that slunk out into the pouring rain at the close of the lesson.
*****
Mycroft sighed. Somehow a simple sigh was enough to convey to sixteen people that they were utter imbeciles. “Proper posture is the foundation of graceful movement. How you expect to command respect while lumbering along like a baboon is beyond me.”
“What’s he going to do, strap books to our heads like Victoria was still on the throne?” Catherine muttered to Alfie, who looked straight ahead and pretended he hadn’t heard her.
“Miss Davies. Please demonstrate to the class what you deem a correct manner of ascending steps.”
Only four more weeks, she comforted herself.
*****
“There was a new fellow helping Old Maxwell trim the hedges,” commented the rather stuffy Mr Percy Filbert as they waited for the next week’s lesson (alas, dancing again) to being. They were all assembled; no one dared risk being late and risk Mycroft’s pointed comments about their dubious parentage and mediocre mental abilities.
“I saw him,” Daisy confirmed. “Quite dishy…I’d explore the hedges with him, if he washed up a bit.”
“Me, too,” Catherine giggled. “That cheeky smile! Susan went over and talked to him.”
“Oooh, of course she did. That tart would flirt with the janitor.”
“I don’t think it did her much good, but she did find out his name is Greg.”
“Rather an ordinary name, but then I suppose we can’t expect someone working in the garden to have a name like, say, Rupert.”
Catherine giggled again as Alfie and James joined them. “Yes, well…she did us all a favour by calling him down, cause we then got to watch him go back up the ladder…”
“Mmmm, yes, we did,” Susan added as she wandered by on her way to flirt with Sir Bertram. “And quite a nice sight it was. Thank god for tight trousers!”
James rolled his eyes.
“Oh, don’t roll your eyes at us! Your brother was right there staring with us!”
James looked slightly startled and glanced over at Thomas, who was standing by the wall as usual. Thomas blushed.
At that moment, Mycroft swept into the room with a spring in his step.
“Good afternoon, class! We have a lovely afternoon; let’s not waste it! Take your places, please!”
His smile was nearly beaming as he moved among them, gently correcting their starting postures for the waltz. He hummed cheerily as he waltzed himself back over to the stereo to start the music.
They were startled to hear the opening to Mancini’s Moon River rather than the depressing Valse Melancolique by Liszt they’d been obliged to dance to before.
“I’d been expecting Shostakovich’s Largo from Symphony No. 5…” Percy muttered. Those close enough to hear him, not being especially knowledgeable about classical music—James had progressed in his understanding to be able to categorize instrumental music as “Beethoven” and “Not Beethoven”, just gave him blank looks.
Before anyone could comment further, they were swept up into the dance, with Mycroft flitting about between them, cutting in here and there to gracefully demonstrate the hand placements and movements.
When Catherine stumbled during the second song—from Swan Lake!—Mycroft said nothing about her flimsy footwear, lack of attention, disgraceful genetic heritage (her aunt was still known in their social circles as the debutante who managed to slip on a bit of champagne while dancing, taking three dowagers and two teenage boys down with her in her flailing and showing the polite world that she had worn hot-pink shorts with “Luscious” printed across the butt under her evening gown) or mousy demeanor. Instead, he chided her with a smile.
“No, no, Madam, don’t do it that way.” He grabbed the hand of her partner, Thomas, and merrily took on the women’s part for several bars while she stared dumbly. “Now that you have observed, try it again!” He left Thomas, who was still trying to sort out what had just happened, and offered Catherine his hand.
His enjoyment of the dance was catching, and before long the whole group were moving more gracefully than they had ever thought possible and smiling as they did it. When they finally paused at the end of five songs, they were allowed a moment to catch their breaths while Mycroft called for tea to be served, requesting an array of iced biscuits to be included as a reward for their hard work.
“Wha…what got into him today?” Sir Bertram gasped, still a bit out of breath.
Daisy and Alfie just shook their head wonderingly.
“I’ve never seen him so…human,” Lady Partington mused.
Just then, the far door opened, and Mrs Martin and her staff began carrying in trays. They were followed by a new face—the young man they’d seen outside on the hedges. He had now been commandeered to move a card table into the room.
At the sight of him, Mycroft blushed and ducked his head. The young man, Greg, wasn’t it? gave him a cheeky and really quite suggestive smirk as soon as Mrs Martin wasn’t looking their way.
“Does moving a small table really require that much flexing of muscles?” Daisy commented under her breath.
“Hush, and just enjoy it,” Lady Partington hissed as she stared.
“Mycroft’s definitely enjoying it,” Alfie nodded towards their incongruously-happy teacher, who was blushing harder and clutching the hem of his waistcoat as if he was having a hard time keeping his hands to himself. Several of his listeners snickered.
As they somewhat-discreetly (“Stop staring! Oh, look now! Shhh!”) watched, Greg the Gardener herded Mycroft to the side of the large stereo away from the other staff and most of the students and whispered something into his ear.
“Well,” Alfie said, “I think now we know what got into Mycroft.”
Glancing around to be sure they weren’t being watched (but forgetting to observe the group on the opposite wall carefully), Greg whispered something else they couldn’t hear and patted Mycroft on the arse.
“Well…” Lady Partington began, but stopped as they watched Mycroft’s reaction.
He jumped rather excessively in response to a simple pat. Studiously looking disinterested, they saw Mycroft press a small, folded piece of paper into Greg’s hand. “Probably instructions for which hedge to meet him behind,” Lady P hissed. And then. Greg risked a good, firm squeeze of Mycroft’s right arse cheek.
Mycroft squeaked and gave him a baleful look, while Greg just grinned back and gave him a wink before turning back to the table he was meant to be positioning.
As Greg departed the room, with Mycroft lost in his own little world staring after him, Daisy spoke up.
“Well. Alfie said he knew what had got into Mycroft…and now I think we all know where he put it.”