Fredrick Prendergast III surveyed a wide expanse of well-manicured lawn from the vantage point of the terrace. In the distance, on a hill, the ruins of a Gothic chapel shimmered in the sunlight. Even if it was fake, a Romantic ornament on the landscape, it was wonderfully quaint. The grass was so green it almost hurt his eyes. From the mouths of fantastical serpents glistening streams of water gushed into the fountain.
The scene pleased him greatly: all he surveyed was his and it was grand. He took a deep breath, filled himself with pride and satisfaction, then exhaled with the usual pang of disappointment. Banbury Manor belonged to him, no doubt about that – he had purchased the estate with the staggering inheritance his father had left him – but, despite his social pedigree, he wasn’t quite legitimate: he was an American and definitely not the Seventh Earl of Lauderdale, no matter how much he craved to have the title attached to his name.
He had bought the estate three years before. Along with the extensive property there was a neoclassic, historic manor house filled with priceless furnishings. In order to maintain the estate he had agreed with the National Trust to keep part of the house open to visitors, an arrangement that allowed total strangers to invade his domicile four days a week, Wednesday through Saturday, gawking and running their fingers over his furniture. It was unpleasant, but necessary. When the hoi polloi weren’t tramping through his halls, all the house was his. But there were still reminders of their presence: the mandated exit signs, descriptive labels in the cabinets and on the walls, red velvet cord barriers stashed in corners. Fredrick and his wife Beverly might amble through their spectacular rooms, arm in arm, imagining themselves Lord and Lady of the Manor, but the presence of the invaders was always there.
He wondered what the public really thought of his domain. Surely visitors would be speechless in awe at the magnificence of it. He had a fuzzy memory of a Roman emperor (was it Augustus?) who had occasionally dressed as a common citizen and left his palace incognito in order to mingle with the people and learn their opinions. The idea of playing the undetected observer appealed to him. It was clever and just a bit devious. He waited for a Saturday, the busiest day at the estate, to carry out his undercover surveillance.
The Prendergasts employed their own servants who had nothing to do with the staff that supervised the part of the house open to the public. Just in case, Fredrick donned a ball cap (Baltimore Orioles), so that he could blend in with the crowd. To ensure his anonymity, he even stood in the queue and bought a regular entrance ticket. The irony of paying admission to visit his own house amused him. Most of the visitors were British and other Europeans, with a smattering of Americans, easily identifiable by their tasteless dress and the loud comments they made.
He joined a small group of tourists, climbed the back stairs, and entered a small anteroom. His heart swelled with pride in front of a case displaying the finest porcelain, three complete table settings for twelve, two Sèvres and one Royal Dalton. Beverly relished laying the table with this gorgeous and valuable tableware, fastidiously rotating the three sets.
“Splendid! Marvelously delicate porcelain, and I’m sure it’s hand-painted,” opined one ample lady sporting a floral sun dress, her nose pressed to the glass.
“Pretty useless, I’d say,” interjected her companion dismissively. “Who gives dinner parties like that anymore? I’d go for a buffet and use disposable plates.”
The comment rankled. Paper plates, indeed! Not in this house! He followed a gaggle of visitors through the domed entry hall and into the Green Bedroom, the very room in which Lord Byron was reputed to have spent a night. He overheard fragments of conversations, and what he heard annoyed him even more:
“…and one must consider how these people acquired their wealth. It wouldn’t surprise me if it were slave trading or some other nasty business,” sniffed a well-dressed middle-aged man.
It was the cold disdain with which this remark was delivered that distressed Fredrick most. Must these people drag everything through the mud? He had had quite enough. He turned on his heels and left the room, heading for a door, always kept locked, that would bring him to the private side of the house. He unlocked the door, fumbling with the key, and strode quickly down the hallway that led to the dining room, fuming and muttering to himself.
There was a large nineteenth century Persian Isfahan carpet on the dining room floor, very rare and much admired by guests. Fredrick wasn’t thinking of the carpet now, but he should have been. His foot caught on the edge and he tumbled headfirst into the room, hitting his head on a Chippendale chair as he went down. He writhed in pain, having twisted an ankle and pulled two ligaments in his leg. His yowls of pain brought Beverly to his aid. She found it necessary to call for an ambulance. It arrived soon thereafter, transporting her husband to a local hospital.
Fredrick spent two days in hospital and then returned to Banbury Manor as an invalid, confined to a wheelchair, his left leg propped up, his head bandaged. The day nurse wheeled him out to the terrace every morning. The grass was still blindingly green, the fountain’s serpents still gurgled, the distant chapel ruins sparkled in the sun, but Fredrick Prendergast III did not inhale with pride or exhale with regret. He sat hunched in his chair, brooding on the unfairness of the world. The splattering waters of the fountain seemed to mock him.
© John Mueter