From Fitzroy's Private Diary (Extract 56)

At the beginning of my career, in particular, I was frequently called upon to adopt one persona or another and attend country house gatherings to root out critical information. Such gatherings can be very pleasant. There can be a lovely house in the country, with lovely women in lovely dresses dancing into the starlit night, lovely meals and lovely wines. Or, it can be a complete nightmare. I’m quite capable of camping out under the stars, catching and cooking my own breakfast, and using nature to accommodate my basic human needs. It is surprising how often this experience appeals over an ill regulated stay at the house of a bad host and hostess.

It is normal for a couple to host an event. Indeed, sometimes the hosting of a gathering serves the surprising purpose of separating host from hostess. There is little more uncomfortable than a couple who are at odds with one another. The more eagle-eyed, such as myself, will notice their attempts at flirtation and the pursuit of secondary parties, merely to spite their spouse. The success or failure of such trysts becomes the hub of whether or not the time will pass pleasantly, or whether there is a constant atmosphere of sniping and malice.

However, even the most genial of hosts can become undone by their plumbing. A scarcity of water closets, the rumbling of old pipes that prevents sleep, or the absence of hot water required for shaving can quite ruin a party (note: the state of the heating in the house is of little issue, as one can generally find some means by which to keep oneself warm at night).

Bad food, as long as it does not make one ill, need not ruin a house party, as long as the wine is good. And by good, I mean truly excellent. Of course, some houses have been built and rebuilt, having been extended and generally mucked about with, so that their original layout has been compromised, and dinner always arrives stone cold as the kitchen is a ridiculous distance away.

Servants do not make as much of a difference as one might imagine, to a gentleman. Unlike the ladies, we can generally do things for ourselves. This is especially true of men like me, with an army background. It is generally appreciated if one brings one’s own valet, which is a blessing in my profession as it allows one to introduce another pair of eyes to the household, ones  that can also roam areas of the building where guests are not expected to be found.

I don’t mind if a host wants to show me his collection, be it china, dogs or mistresses. All have entertainment value. I do mind the long and dreary gentlemen-only sessions after dinner where, as the port lowers in the decanter, the stories become longer and longer and more and more incoherent.

I hate being organised into picnics and games of charades and the like. But then, neither am I keen on hosts who proffer a gun and suggest that one goes out and shoots things (they generally mean pigeons, or some other poor member of the local wildlife, but their love of such blood sports tends to make me want to turn the weapon on the hosts - which is, of course, simply not done).

I always enjoy my stays at White Orchards. It’s in the middle of nowhere and I am unlikely to be summoned by the department. I can relax knowing the food will be excellent and the service near perfect. The wine is always superb, as I generally bring it with me. Alice will have organised the days in line with the guests’ desires and there is an excellent library. As long as Bertram hasn’t organised one of his infamous and awful duck hunts, outdoor activities are confined to riding and gentle walks. The one drawback is Alice tends to sour towards me if I flirt with any of the other females on the premise. At least she always allows me to bring Jack.