The White Gloves, Page 2

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  One very cold November morning, everything for Lord Crawley was going wrong. His finest hunter had pulled up lame and he had been forced to postpone tomorrow’s hunt. The cook seemed to be suffering from complete incompetence and forgot that he hated poached eggs and served them for breakfast in the most insolent way. There was a leak in the barn roof that wasn’t going away and he had lost his favourite cummerbund; a fine piece of attire that held his pants up quite well. On top of all this, his beloved Annabelle had shut herself in her room, demanding only God’s strength to mend her broken heart, or failing that, a gin martini.

  Lord Crawely did not know who the young culprit was who dared wrong his niece, but he had a right mind to tell them what-for! Now he had to deal with tears and emotions and all that nonsense that women insisted upon displaying at times of trauma. Crawley had different ways to deal with misfortunes. The stableboy would be made to spend the night in the stalls this evening to attend to the every whim of his beloved brown steed. The cook would be given a stern talking to with an emphasis on the vital importance of a good breakfast. While the stableboy was residing in the barn he could see to the leak in the roof and the cummerbund (although nothing particular could be done at the moment) would be met with the same energy as the rest of his troubles. Yes sir! That was the way to deal with things. Action. Change. Enforcement. Hearing the smashing of glasses and commotion from Annabelle’s room upstairs he resigned to go see her, with the thought of perhaps persuading her to adopt his upstanding approach to grievances, in solemn, dignified silence. And so ascending the stairs, proud of his new plan he went to console her, and the staff were said to hear him approaching the rest of the day with the words ‘Action! Change! Enforcement!’