A
fundamental aversion to embrace responsibilities is prevalent in Farthing Hall
forcing me to contemplate whether the handsome salary increases I sanctioned
just prior to the Millennium were made in error. Indeed, I once again find
myself recalling my dear Papa’s perspective: service is a calling, he
frequently asserted, and the standards of anyone who prioritises financial gain
or personal values over their station will eventually plummet to depths more usually
associated with the lower classes.
To
be specific, I have been compelled to begin the New Year with the rather
distasteful yet, under the circumstances, wholly obligatory, act of dismissing
the Under Butler.
His
ethics were called into question during our recent Gosworthy-Pringle Gala
Dinner. All was progressing to plan: my hors d’oeuvres selection – initially frowned
upon by Cook in a quite unnecessary burst of culinary uncertainty – were much
enjoyed, if not commended, by guests whilst the temperature of my welcoming Manzanilla
Pasada sherry remained faultless.
Yet,
despite such accomplishments, I will be forever tainted with the discomfiture
of witnessing Baronetess Beauchamp Beauford-Beaumont. As she took her place at
the mahogany dining table my parents commissioned during the second month of
their honeymoon tour of The Continent, I was on the point of sharing my utilisation
of smilax fern amongst the flower arrangements when I noted her gaze drawn to a
tarnished bouillon spoon.
Composure
never left her visage. I would expect no less. My own horror at the public
appearance of flawed silver cutlery, however, ruined my pleasure of this annual
occasion.
The
following morning I summoned said Under Butler.
He proffered various excuses, as one might expect: the pantry boy had distracted
him by seeking help to locate the condiments; a smear on his lower livery required
urgent attention.
The
more he vocally floundered, the more I resolved that Farthing Hall would
benefit from his absence. Indeed, I have always found the act of grovelling rather
unsettling so I somewhat generously offered to provide a reference – modest, of
course - then sent him on his way.
The
fact that the Staff for the Aristocracy Agency remained closed until well into the
New Year caused me some irritation. (Do they truly believe employment issues
plunge into dormancy during the holiday season?) I left several succinct
messages on their answering machine which I followed up with a hand written
letter. At least they troubled to call me immediately upon reopening for
business.
The
Agency is forwarding to me the personal details of a brace of worthy candidates.
Meantime,
I have set aside next week for interviews. Fosdyke, our septuagenarian Butler,
is keen to oversee the appointments, as is part of his remit. However, in order
to avoid any further mishaps, I have notified him of my intention to personally
decide the final appointment.
