'Fancy you being into fantasy flicks, Tom!' laughed Tricia.
'I think we found out more about Dr Appleby's fantasies there than we strictly needed to know!' Toby said, with a wink at Hilary.
'That's not what I meant,' Tricia retorted. She turned back to Tom. 'I always thought you'd hate that sort of made-up mythology, what with you studying real medieval history and literature.'
'I'm sure there are purists who'd disapprove,' he replied. 'Though they'd do well to remember that Tolkien himself was a professor of Medieval English. The truth is, I doubt if I would ever have developed my love of the real thing if I hadn't been swept up in these imaginary histories first.'
'I like history too,' Lyn Walker said. 'Though I don't get what people like about all this sword and sorcery stuff. It's too dark and bloody for me! I like my historical dramas with lots of pretty frocks and posh houses. That's the type of thing I'd like to be in. I'm past playing the dainty little heroine, of course, but I quite fancy myself as a Countess, looking for a good match for my daughters.'
'You don't have any daughters,' her husband reminded her.
'I know, luvvie. My granddaughters, then. It's just a movie, after all...'
A tinkling harpsichord sets the scene as the camera follows Lady Lynette, Countess of Eastleigh, though her preparations ahead of the first ball of the season at her gracious country home, Walker Grange. Lady's maids - who look very much like her modern-day daughters-in-law, Paula and Lorraine, dress her hair, lace her into her corsets and fit her fine silk gown. Dashing footmen of decidedly athletic build, attired in rather tightly-fitting breeches, escort her down a sweeping stairway to welcome her guests as a procession of carriages draws up outside on a balmy summer's evening.
The Countess's elder granddaughters, Miss Amy and Miss Shelley, wait at her side to be introduced to the guests - some of whom are potential suitors. Both young ladies have clearly lavished much time on their hair and make-up, and are dressed in the latest fashions. The music continues as the invitees are announced, before a string quartet within the ballroom strikes up a lively polka and the dancing begins. Miss Amy is the first to speak...
'Why Grandmama! What a handsome gentleman Mr Goodchild is! See how nimbly he dances.'
'La, cousin! You cannot possibly think him so. He is merely the younger son of a baronet, which is, like, completely sad. Mr Meekly is a marquis in his own right!'
'A marquis! O. M. G!' She peeps at the young man in question from behind her fan. 'I swear I shall not dance with him for all that, dear cousin. He makes for such an ungainly spectacle, even beside poor, plain Mary Dashworth in her ghastly muslin frock - that is like, so last century! But I care not that Mr Meekly has a title when his legs are so spindly! He's yours, if you want him, Shelley - I can do so much better! Mr Pleasance, perhaps: he is a well fit personage, though he is sadly dressed in last season's jacket and his ruff is quite tragic. I wonder if he is likely to come into a fortune in due course?'
The handsome young man in question catches Miss Amy's eye for a moment. She looks down modestly before coyly returning his gaze. Her grandmother raps her gently on the forearm with her fan.
'My dear girls, you really must refine your tastes and learn to seek the truly important qualities of young gentlemen. Mr Goodchild may have no title, Amy, yet he has modest prospects and will likely enough end his days as a contented country curate, doing good works for his parish. What could be more delightful than being the support to such a decent man, living in a pretty village vicarage!'
'Bor-ring! When would I wear my fine frocks? How frightfully dull, to be a vicar's wife! Surely Mr Pleasance has better prospects, Grandmama? I want a husband who'll buy me jewels and silks, and take me to Bath in a fine carriage.'
'Pretty young Pleasance hasn't a penny to his name, luvvie, and likely never will have, despite his country estate. He is a charming boy nonetheless and I would be proud for either of you to make a match with him.'
'Oh Grandmama! How can he possibly be charming with no dosh? There must be some deficiency in his character if he is, like, skint.'
'On the contrary, Shelley. The sweet young fellow used much of his inheritance to found a school for children orphaned in the recent wars and, to keep them from harm, he employs their poor widowed mothers in his dairy, at very good wages. I purchase all of our butter and cream from them. It is of excellent quality too, even if a trifle dearer than from Lord Grasper's Farm.'
'How very dreadful! If all landowners behaved in such a way, educating pauper children, wherever would we find sweeps for our chimneys! And what would our brave sailors do for loose women when their ships put in to port, if there were no impoverished girls and young widowed mothers, desperate to feed their children, frequenting the taverns! Fie! I am quite out of love with foolish Mr Pleasance. Perhaps Mr Meekly's legs are not so ill-formed as I first thought...'
'Mr Meekly is indeed quite a decent fellow, girls, bandy legs notwithstanding. He has made a generous bequest to the town library in the hope that, when they have done with their toils, the railway apprentices might have access to works of improving literature.'
'Why ever should he wish railway apprentices to read? Why, he could keep a pack of hounds and a fine hunter for that money. It will encourage those common boys to daydream about lives above their station and may even encourage sedition!'
'Above their station! How very droll you are, dear cousin Shelley!'
The girls giggle stupidly. The Countess sighs with exasperation and snaps her figures for a drink. The family's elderly retainer, Grant (clearly an ancestor of Stuart, the Walker's modern neighbour), potters across with a large brandy for Her Ladyship before slipping seamlessly back into obscurity. Miss Shelley continues to survey the room for a prospective match.
'Sir James Throwback, that tall, dashing fellow currently in pursuit of Harriet Maidenly, is a proper gentleman. He treats every member of his household atrociously, has fathered countless bastards by his chambermaids and called in the militia when his labourers refused to cut the corn unless he paid them enough to buy bread. He evicted them all, demolished their cottages and had them transported.'
'No wonder the Daily Mailcoach named him "Britain's Best Aristocrat"! Alas that he is married already, Shelley, though I hear tell he has a younger brother.'
'You mean the gorgeous Squire Roland. What a dish! Oh Ye magazine says he is not yet attached, has a fortune in his own right and a veritable harem of discarded mistresses - and that he frequents the gaming tables at Blingly Hall on a nightly basis, carelessly wagering his mother's jewels on the throw of the dice or fall of the cards. Why Amy, I should consider myself the luckiest of women to catch his eye!'
'He is a shocking rake and a frightful exhibitionist girls, who has never said a kind word or done a good deed except to curry favour with his creditors. I am most vexed that you swoon so at the mention of his name, or think well of any member of the Blingly Hall set.'
'Is that not Mr Kingston's most elegant abode, Grandmama?'
'It is, Shelley dear.'
'Is not Mr Kingston himself a very wealthy gentleman, with two handsome sons of much the same age as Amy and myself? When there are so many dullards in the room, why have you not invited them?'
'I'm afraid Mr Kingston made his fortune from trade, dear girls.'
'You are always telling us not to be judgmental about people's social background, Grandmama, especially since my mama is from the Colonies. How then can you look down upon Mr Kingston?'
'Because he and his sons trade in opium, Amy dear. They sell it to the Chinese in return for tea and, it is said, not a little finds it's way onto the streets of London.'
'Oh my! A smuggler! That's absolutely wicked!'
'I'm glad you agree with me, luvvie.'
'Yeah! How badass is that! He must be incredibly rich!'
Lady Lynette is about to remonstrate with her granddaughter, when she notices another young man in the ballroom. He is wearing a military-style greatcoat and a red neckerchief, has rather spiky short, brown hair and wire-framed spectacles. He is looking out of the French window. As Lady Lynette follows the line of his gaze, she notices flickering firelight outside. Leaving her granddaughters to their gossip, she moves through the dancing throng towards the young man, following him out into the entrance hall. Outside the Grange, there is the sound of shouting, neighing horses and the clash of weapons. Thinking he is unobserved, the young man smiles and reaches to open the grand front door. Lady Lynette calls out to him, catching him by surprise.
'Is that you, Martin?'
'Oh, hi Lyn!'
'What are you doing in my costume drama?'
'I'm leading the Revolution. I was going to start one in Middle Earth, only they hadn't invented glasses, so I couldn't see to write incendiary literature that would encourage the people to rise up against their oppressors. The nineteenth century is much better for this sort of shit!'
'Is that what's going on outside?'
'I think so. The poor have no bread, their children have no shoes and dress in rags.'
'Well, that won't do at all, luvvie, especially as we've got plenty of cake left. These silly fashion-conscious girls won't eat it, you know! Tell them all to come in at once, as long as they wipe the mud off of their feet on the doormat, and myself and the young philanthropists at the ball will make sure they are all well cared for.'
'That's very kind, Lyn, but I'm afraid there's going to be a fight - Sir James has sent for the militia.'
'Oh dear! Still, I suppose we can sing some rousing revolutionary songs while we wait for them to arrive.'
'Songs?'
'Yes, Luvvie. It's still my movie and if you want a revolution, you'll have to do it Les Mis style.'
'Oh fu...'
Martin Connolly is stopped mid-swear by the boom of a cannon from outside. He rushes to the door and throws it open. Sure enough, a troop of red-coated soldiers are lined up along the top of the steps, their muskets turned on the angry mob, who are armed only with pitchforks and blazing torches. The dastardly Sir James points a pistol at him.
'I always suspected you were a filthy Fenian or similar radical riff-raff, Connolly! I know it was you who incited my labourers to demand a living wage. You'll pay for this, you dog!'
He levels the pistol at Connolly's chest but, as he pulls the trigger, an uncannily well-aimed arrow takes the gun from his grasp and the ball misses its mark, ricocheting harmlessly off of the brass doorbell.
'You rang, Milady?'
'No Grant, I think you'll find that was Sir James.'
'Very good, Milady...'
A very tall young woman wearing a red sash across her simple peasant dress steps to the front of the mob. A tall, wide-brimmed hat is pulled down over her ears. She is carrying a bow and already has two arrows notched. The militiamen look nervously from one to another. Sir James shouts an order.
'Shoot them down!'
'We can't, your Grace. We haven't loaded our muskets yet and, in the time it would take to do it, the wench with the longbow will kill us all. It'll be more than seventy years before automatic weapons allow us to fire faster than a good archer.'
'Bloody hell!'
'We can charge them with our bayonets, if you like?'
'Oh, go on, then!'
Scuffles break out on the steps between the militia and the peasants. Lady Lyn is delighted to see Mr Goodchild, Mr Meekly and Mr Pleasance come to the aid of the common people, fighting gallantly alongside Martin Connolly, singing all the while, while Sally's archery incapacitates several of the soldiers while miraculously doing no harm to her own side. However, when she joins in with a stirring chorus of 'Do you hear the people sing...' the militia throw down their weapons in surrender and clap their hands to their ears. Oblivious to the effect of her singing, she reaches the front door of Walker Grange.
'Did you say there was cake, Lyn?'
'Yes luvvie. Go in and help yourself, though do take your hat off. It's frightfully bad manners for a young lady to wear one indoors.'
'No chance. Wardrobe still can't get those stupid elf ears off me!'
She pulls the hat more firmly onto her head and, before she vanishes inside, turns to Connolly.
'I almost forgot, Martin - Parveen says you mustn't forget to change Malala's nappy, as her mum will be totally furious if that posh pram she bought you gets all pooey.'
'Malala! Oh fuck! I forgot I was looking after her tonight. I left the pram over there!'
He points towards where one of the still stupefied militiamen is standing at the top of the steps, beside a bay tree and a very traditional baby carriage. The militiaman turns to see what the young revolutionary is pointing at, accidentally catching the pram with butt of his musket. Connolly stares in horror as, almost in slow motion, the pram rolls forward from the topmost steps and begins to bounce down the steps. Martin sprints through the crowd and reaches it, catching the handle just in time to save it from tipping over. The Countess and the people cheer before breaking into another show-stopping chorus which continues with great gusto, until a slight young woman wearing a stunning shalwar kameez steps from the shadows. She strides purposefully up the steps towards Martin Connolly and the pram, looks into it and wrinkles her nose in disapproval.
'You had one job, Martin...!'
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