A Memorable Memorial Thursday 9 pm

[James O`Neill]

It’s not the preferment Father would choose, but what does he know? It was more than flattering to be in the company of these gentlemen and Lady Cambray – the witticisms, criticisms, and crypticisms kindled the spark of subtle mania that e’er drove the poet forth, loosened by whiskey and wine.

“Crypticism! I’ll use that, I will,” James echoed, raising the aforementioned glass in acknowledgement of his friend’s new word. “Soon, Kingston, we’ll have you writing for the stage.” He grinned, looking at Sedley, considering the play they discussed. “Perhaps His Majesty will even add Avon to your title.”

To Sedley, he added, “A pity my lord father’s title is in the Irish peerage, for I’d so cherish the opportunity to introduce such legislation in Westminster proper. Imagine, ha, how deliciously aghast they might be.”

As the talk became of Langdon’s supposed preference for men, James let out multiple chuckles, smirking  as Rochester added a remark insinuating that the man had a taste those he wished to arrest. At the mention of those who preferred the company of men, the poet suffered brief flush of scarlet, perceptible but short, broke the fairness of his flesh in his dimpled cheeks and neck – he didn’t deny having a fondness for both sexes, but neither did he exactly advertise it. At any rate, his Irish luck was certainly more successful with the ladies, while the peculiarly Irish sense of tragedy dogged him in any relationship with a man.

“Lady Cambray is not the only one who is pretty and witty among our company,” he chimed in at the end, winking at Anne-Elisabeth. “As Lord Langdon denounced me, I could swear I felt his eyes meanwhile scrutinize every inch of me, as he sought to separate me from that Wellesley girl. It all makes sense now!” When the lady then added her trademark limerick, the poet rolled his eyes in jest, and at the end quipped, “My lady, if the spirit of the limerick possesses you so much that you can’t , I may demand an exorcism. For your own good, to be sure…”

[Charles Audley]

Charles was appallingly late, he knew. There were reasons for that — the invitation, like most of his correspondence, had fallen to the side while he had been bedbound, and only been rediscovered after dinner, and frankly Charles had very little interest in raising a drink to Alexander Merriweather. On the other hand, an evening with merry company was extraordinarily tempting, and he had never turned down an excuse for excess.

And to be entirely fair to Alexander Merriweather, he killed Alexander Merriweather, which is inarguably a deed that deserves commemoration. 

Still, whether or not he had reasons, Charles was late, and that rankled.

Fortunately, though, as he doffed his hat and finally joined the others, he was in time to catch the mockery of Langdon, and, better yet, join in.

"I had always thought it was horses Langdon favoured in that respect," he opined drily by way of announcing his presence. "Their wit and intellect are more his match."

He swept an elaborate bow to the company at large.

"I must beg your indulgence for my tardiness, friends. I have been ill, and the invitation was mislaid in the resulting accumulation of correspondence."

[Francis Kirke]

Francis snickered at O'Neill's words, of trying to get him to write for the theater. The activity was a pinnacle amongst many of the court's wits, including Buckingham and many of their current company.

 

"Perhaps I will try my hand at it, but it will be difficult in my current household to become even the best in the house at it, let alone good enough for an actual performance. Cryptocisms or no."

 

Rochester then took to the stage and put forth a case...

 

For Langdon to be a sodomite.

 

He blinked. Wouldn't that be rich? Why could it not be true? Not that he particularly cared what excited someone. Sex was sex. 

 

And he could not be sensitive about that considering the rumors about his own grandfather.

 

It was then that Audley made his entrance, right when Francis had raised his own flask to his lips, so his mouth was full when Audley announced he had always thought the Lifeguard fond of horses.

 

He could not help it, he could not hold back the laugh, and it made liquor shoot up the back of his nose and burn devilishly. He choked and laughed, and sputtered.

[Blackguard]

Rochester looked pleased that each of the others embraced his slander of Langdon. Though he insulted Sedley's daughter, he knew that his friend would appreciate the castigation of the man that would not make Catherine an honest woman, not that a marriage could do so in her case.  She had made her bed with York and would reap what she sowed.

Now that O'Neill and Audley were present, Johnny felt that the Gang would have a more splendid evening.  "Shall we all attend the masque dressed as soldiers and see if Langdon is attracted to us," he tittered.   

"I think you should take Chatham's advice and dress as a horse's ass," Dorset suggested.  "You would be in true form and Langdon might prefer you."  Sedley laughed as he enjoyed the jibe, Rochester less so.

Dorset enjoyed the Irishman's attack upon limericks, though he had to agree with his female counterpart.  "You should create one at will O'Neill, they are tasty morsels of wit. "  He had one for Langdon as well, but he withheld, waited to see if there was a taste for it.  "They become all the more enjoyable and challenging the more drunk you are," he assured.  Looking at Kingston, he suggested "perhaps a crypticism limerick about an unnamed person and we would have to guess the identity?  Perhaps more drink first," he announced as he sought to refill his glass.

"Chatham," Sedley queried, "what did you spend your winnings on from last season?"  By that he meant the prize of the wager won in the King's presence, at a loss to Dorset.

 

[Anne-Elisabeth Devereux]

Anne-Elisabeth wasn't surprised that Lord Chatham had been invited to the memorial.  His opening remark added even more humorous speculation as to who … or what … Lord Langdon was attracted to. “I consider myself lucky then. If he prefers men and horses, he certainly won’t be interested in me.” She could have said the same thing in a limerick, but she decided to spare Master O’Neil ‘s sensitive ears.

 

His suggestion that limericks be exorcised out of her brought laughter to her lips. She figured that Rochester would agree and use the idea to insult her, but he was probably too drunk to recognize the opportunity. “Exorcisms are unpredictable,” she said. “What if, instead of the desired effect, a limerick emerges whenever I speak?”

 

Dorset encouraged Master O’Neill to try creating one himself. “Yes, you should,” she agreed. “Everyone should try everything at least once.”

 

She held out her glass to Dorset for a refill. Anne-Elisabeth knew she needed to be careful about how much she drank. She certainly didn’t want to become so inebriated that she woke up in bed with Rochester! Not that she thought Dorset would allow that to happen, unless he got so drunk he passed out.

 

Her gaze turned to Lord Chatham when Sedley asked about his winnings. She had no idea what that was all about, but, as always, she was quite curious.

[Douglas FitzJames]

Douglas had been annoyed - no, he'd been positively ropeable - when he was sent North at speed shortly after discovering what he was certain was the murder of a member of court. He hadn't been able to convince the constable that it had been murder - the man clearly wanted things neat and tidy and suicide was a neat explanation - but the Life Guard wasn't so easily convinced by the half-arsed attempt to make it look like Merriweather had taken his own life. He had no love for the man of course, quite the opposite, but that wasn't the point. The King and his court were in Windsor, and if someone could top Merriweather and make it look like suicide, what was to stop them going after a more influential courtier? What was to stop them going after Fiona?

He knew, he just knew, that whatever the man had been killed for had been achieved, and the trail would have been covered. He couldn't refuse the King's orders of course, but he'd seethed all the way to Scotland. The boat hadn't helped. Now Douglas was back and as soon as he felt he was on firm footing again he'd headed over to the late Merriweather's house to see what he might yet be able to find out. 

Except that he clearly wasn't the only one there. The place was lit and there were voices within. A memory tugged and vague recollection of some mention in passing of the man's wake waved in the back of his mind. Oh well. He'd crashed the man's death scene, why not crash his wake as well? Nothing for it but to enter like he had every right to be there and follow the noise. And there they were; the rest of the Merry Gang, the lady he'd seen with them, O'Niell, the fellow who'd been in the curio shop... and Kingston. The latter was unexpected, but perhaps oddly fortunate.

"Weel here's a pretty den o' sin
Tae puir the auld lad's whiskey in."* 

The towering Scotsman quipped as he appeared in the doorway, a figure of shadows and high cheekbones in the candlelight, dark crimson and the odd gleam of metal. 

Subtitles
* "Well here's a pretty den of sin
To pour the old lad's whisky in."

Edited April 12 by Douglas FitzJames
Spelling

[Francis Kirke]

(BUMP - James said that we can skip him  this round and he will catch up)

[Charles Audley]

There were times when Serendipity and the Gods of Comedy smiled on one, and allowed a mere accident of timing to elevate a fairly average jest above itself.

Watching Kingston simultaneously laugh and attempt to avoid noisily choking to death, Charles admitted to himself that this was one of those times. It was an effort to restrain his own laughter at the sight, if he was honest, but he managed to keep himself to a chuckle as he crossed the room to pour himself a generous measure of brandy.

Another thing to be said for Alexander Merriweather: he kept a very good cellar.

The talk of limericks seemed almost a challenge to Charles, even if it was not one directed at him directly. He felt a very rare flash of poetic inspiration strike. (Helped, no doubt, by the fact that he had of late been giving some small thought to lampooning Langdon. Hard work could substitute for genius, given a three day headstart.)

"With apologies to Master O'Neill, and further apologies to those of our august company with actual skill in the art form..." Charles inclined his head to Dorset and Anne-Elisabeth, and then struck the pose of a classical orator as he declaimed.

"There once was an Earl from Cornwall

in grace and wit rather small.

For women unable,

he made a brothel of the stable,

as fillies held him in thrall."

He took a generous sip of his brandy as he finished and leaned back against the drinks' table to consider Sedley's question.

"Useless fripperies mostly," he admitted cheerfully, shrugging easily, "though I did purchase a most magnificent hat."

Charles would quite readily have described that hat and its magnificence at length, but it was then that Dundarg made his entrance, and he instead arched an eyebrow at the Lifeguard.

"There is a distinct paucity of whiskey, I'm afraid, but the 'old lad' did leave behind some excellent brandy," he said, smiling thinly.

[Francis Kirke]

Francis finally regained his breath, somewhat, and sought to put more drink in his glass to help with the condition as Dorset suggested another drink. What drinking more was going to do that would dislodge fluid from his lungs or his nose, he had no idea. Having a drink whenever one was coughing just seemed the thing to do.

 

"Yes, crypticism limericks, a new fad," Francis agreed, trying to grin through the odd burn in his nose from the liquor drops that had invaded his sinuses.

 

"Bah, Chatham, you are too modest." He chuckled at the accusation, not noting the irony of calling someone modest when he himself was rather known for the trait. "Fillies, indeed, but by comparison I do not think Lightening Langdon has a royal-sized scepter, so he could not ever compare to actual studs."

 

Francis was not as practiced in limericks, but he was good with other plays on words. 

 

"Ah, Dundarg," he said, in greeting. "I did not think the Scots drank anything other than whiskey, and if one thing can be said about Merriweather, it was that his refinement did not allow for a stockpile of whiskey! We might find a good cognac before that."

 

 

[Blackguard]

The night was getting darker, as was the humor.  As the number of participants grew, so too did the comedy.

"Bravo," Dorset congratulated Chatham as he refilled Anne's glass.  "Everyone has a limerick burning inside them, and it is a damn fine one."  He was still awaiting his cousin to venture in that regard, but he seemed to be recovering from a spate of laughter. "O'Neill, tis your demon to exorcize. You must let a limerick be free of your soul," he insisted.

"Must have been a truly magnificent hat," Sedley observed in response to Chatham's accounting of funds spent.  "I should like to see it."

Rochester had been abnormally quiet, though standing on his chair still, at least until Douglas arrived uninvited.  "And who the fuck are you?" he challenged the tall Scottish soldier.  He could not recall ever meeting the man.

"A captain in the Life Guard," Sedley replied.  "Dundarg is it?  He arrived at the scene of Alexander's hanging as did I.  He challenged the servants and constable, claiming our departed toady was murdered."

Rochester sighed dramatically.  "Dungdar is it?" purposely transposing his title.  "First we are cursed with an Irishman," he looked fondly at James, "and now a Scot?  Are we to expect a bloody Turk next, or does Kingston count as that?"

[James O`Neill]

Soon, they were joined by Chatham and Dundarg, acquaintances James had made only recently and already resolved to befriend - the former had a roguish yet erudite charm, and the latter had a surprising depth of wit for a military man, to say nothing of his assistance in wooing a certain lady. He was glad of the new company accordingly, and as an extrovert, felt even more energized than before.

Ah, but he was in his element, here - heart soaring, mind racing, laughter on his full lips. Nodding at the newcomers as they entered, the young Irishman couldn’t help but laugh even more as Dorset and Lady Cambray challenged him to make a limerick of his own, Chatham meanwhile offering one of his own. James sighed dramatically (achieving plausibility here was not a difficult feat, given the his natural aptitude for melodrama), and mockingly grumbled in the lady’s direction. “An exorcism indeed…I fear, my lady, that if a limerick were to emerge, it would be a sign that you were possessed.”

“I’d offer a crypticism of my own, I would,” he began, flashing a dimpled smile. “But it seems we’re in need of some old-fashioned Irish piety, something to save you godless lot…” He raised his glass by the stem, turning to Rochester and eyeing it for a second. “But first, some holy water.” With a grin, the poet drained its contents and cleared his throat, crossing himself after setting the glass down.

“There ‘tis a great demon named Limerick,

Whose crime makes a good poet heartsick.

For the meter is hazy,

And the rhyme’s ever lazy,

And poor poesy’s a sin quite Satanic.”

“And so I beseech,” James concluded, aping the mannerisms and tone of a priest, “Deliver us, Lord, from the left hand of Lucifer - the Moloch I deem bad poetry.” Moving to refill his glass, he stood by Rochester, adding, “I should think that at the right hand of the Morningstar is whichever beast spawned our friend Lightning Langdon. Certainly, boorishness is one of the few sins I cannot think of a justification for, and even the Turk would be less blasphemous.”

Edited April 17 by James O`Neill

[Anne-Elisabeth Devereux]

Anne-Elisabeth had not known that Lord Chatham was a poet. She would have clapped if she had not been holding a glass that was currently being refilled. “Magnificent!” she exclaimed instead.

 

Lord Kingston’s comment about Langdon and fillies inspired another one of her own.

 

“I heard from a very good source

That Langdon has sex with a horse.

But his minuscule willy

Can’t attract any filly

So he prefers stallions, of course.”

 

Master O’Neill claimed that she would be possessed if she spouted limericks every time she opened her mouth. She grinned mischievously. “The only exorcism needed is to coax a limerick out of you. You're an Irishman, after all.”

 

And then he did it. He recited the form of poetry he loathed. It insulted limericks themselves but at least he had made the effort. “I knew you could do it. If there was an Order of the Limerick, you would now be a member.”  She looked up at Dorset.  "Perhaps we should create one?"

 

A new poet entered the fray, but not with a limerick. Anne-Elisabeth remembered seeing him at the carnival yesterday. Rochester was rude to him, but Sedley explained that he had been there when Merriweather’s body had been discovered.

 

Rochester’s insults were not directed at her, despite the fact that she was a Barbadian and a woman. Perhaps that was a good sign.

Edited April 17 by Anne-Elisabeth Devereux

[Douglas FitzJames]

He seemed to have walked into the middle of a limerick contest, with an interesting side dig at Langdon from O'Niell, and then the young lady. Clearly he wasn't the only one with little love for the man. Interesting. 

Chatham, that was the one eyed man's name. The same from the circus incident. That hadn't turned out well, and Douglas felt rather chagrined about it, but there was no point in dwelling on it. As the man declared that there was brandy available rather than whiskey, the tall Life Guard made a show of giving this some serious consideration. "Aye, that scans." He allowed. "As daes cognac." He added with a nod in Kingston's direction, chuckling as the man said he thought Scots drank only whiskey. "Weel, needs must."* He shrugged. 

Dorset he recognised, unfortunately. He was the one who had dobbed a trysting Douglas and Heather in to the King way back at Newmarket for no good reason than to cause trouble; once day an opportunity would arise, Douglas promised. Interesting that he seemed awfully close to the young lady; something worth noting. Sedley he'd met a few days ago that unfortunate Saturday morning that had led to all this. Which narrowed things down considerably regarding the identity of the man on the chair. The language added weight to his suspicions as to who it might be. Douglas nodded as Sedley hesitantly introduced him, recalling the nature of their meeting, and tipped his hat at the tipsy and in danger of tipping Rochester, as the other deliberately insulted him. 

"Weel, Crotch-fester, I hear yer an expert on aw thin's depraved, sae I thocht I wuid cam straight tae the source."** He drawled. 

Subtitles
* "Yes, that scans. As does cognac. Well, needs must."
** "Well, Crotch-fester, I hear you're an expert on all things depraced, so I thought I would come straight to the source."

 

[Charles Audley]

It was, despite the ostensible reason for the gathering, shaping up to be the very best sort of evening: good company, good drink and good wordplay. Charles laughed heartily at Kingston's play off his own limerick (which had been rather better received than he had expected — he knew well that he was no poet, and that limerick had been the result of a rare flash of inspiration, for which he should probably thank the Muses) and inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"It is rather pleasingly novel to be accused of modesty, though poetry is a field where I usually have a great deal to be modest about." he observed lightly, still chuckling.

It was pleasing, too, to have Dorset and Lady Cambray offer praise. Charles had a robust ego in most things, and generally felt no need of compliments to buttress it, but poetry was one of very few areas where he felt his talents lacking. 

"I shall accept the compliments, but would note that even the unskilled can be lucky on occasion," he said, demurring the congratulations. "I would claim beginner's luck, but reams of wasted paper and an ocean of ink spent in vain bely any claim I might make to being a novice, as opposed to merely possessing the skills of one."

Anne-Elisabeth was certainly no novice, and Charles let out a great peal of laughter at her (vastly superior) variation on what seemed to have become the theme for the evening's poetic compositions.

"He fought a tiger with me, and so I should be kinder to Langdon, and enjoin the rest of you to be likewise, but he does make himself so damnably easy to mock," he said ruefully. That was true, and Charles privately resolved to abandon his plans to lampoon the man. Boorish prig that he was, Langdon had nonetheless earned that much.

I have not yet really even begun, and am still left with Ogle and Albemarle, in any case.

Whatever his distaste for limericks, O'Neill, too, was by no means lacking in either poetic skill or presentation and Charles applauded the Irishman's (also vastly superior) offering.

"It is strangely appropriate that, of all my sins, my hazy metre should be the one that damns me," he mused, solitary eye glinting merrily. "It is, after all, the only one for which I feel the slightest guilt. Ah well, for the sake of my soul, and the ears of the innocent, I shall practice Abstinence, if only in this regard alone."

He laughed and raised his glass in salute.

Of course, it was a sad truth of the world that nothing could be perfect, and that truth manifested in the arrival of Dundarg. Charles smiled thinly at the Scot. The Life Guard was an oaf, and an even greater boor than Langdon, but he was not worth sustained, consistent malice. Dundarg could make himself look a prick without any help at all, Charles suspected, and so the trick was simply to be, and be seen to be, the better man.

Not that that should present any particular challenge.

"Brandy or cognac, then?" he asked with careful politeness from his position by the drinks, and then frowned slightly as Sedley revealed the likely reason behind the Life Guard's presence. On the face of it, murder did seem a much more likely cause of death for Merriweather than suicide — had not his own first reaction to the news been to simply think that Merriweather had saved him a job of work in the future?

"Oh? What made you suspect murder, Dundarg?" he asked, both to satisfy his own curiosity and to distract from the frankly boring and childish exchange of puerile insults between the Scotsman and Rochester.