Disastrous Dinner

I have felt very low over the past few days. I take it quite badly when an event I have had a major hand in planning goes dreadfully wrong. I should have the experience to know that, no matter how good the planning, one cannot always legislate for the behaviour of guests. Below Stairs we can only do so much. Events of the weekend did not run smoothly.

Eighteen people sat down to dinner a few nights ago. The guest list included the local great and good, as well as a few of Mr Miles' friends thrown in for good measure. Things started well enough. I announced the guests as they arrived. Mr Thomas greeted them. So far, so good. Before dinner conversation seemed lively and all seemed well. It was after I had struck the dinner gong that the problems began. As I served the starter I noticed that the guests were not sat in their correct places. I had organised (with Mr Thomas) the correct placements for all the guests. I had inspected the Dining Table minutely moments before the guests processed into dinner. I could not understand what had happened. The guests could read, they knew the protocol involved in dining: What had gone wrong?

This unsettled me slightly but it could not be helped. Perhaps things would turn out splendidly in any case. The two footmen served the next course, while I supervised. As I was filling up the local MPs glass, I noticed that an animated conversation was occurring at the far end of the table where the Bishop was sat next to one of Mr Miles' friends. This friend, who was not in correct evening dress, seemed to be expounding loudly and with much vigour his thoughts on mysticism, and proceeded to give a detailed explanation of how and why organised religion had got it all wrong. The Bishop seemed strained. Mr Thomas looked pained, and, suspiciously to me, Mr Miles looked amused. The tense atmosphere seemed to slowly seep throughout the table. Laughter became more nervous. Polite conversation seemed to die down. Guests became fascinated either by the 17th century plasterwork on the ceiling, or by the splendid job the Housemaids had made in cleaning the chenille carpet that morning. Awkward is the word that could best be used to describe dinner at this point. The atmosphere begged to be carved more than the meat.

Guests left early and from the look on Mr Thomas' face, I knew that the evening had not improved after dinner. It had died a slow death, but not a quiet one, as Mr Miles' friend, not taking the hint, had continued his tirade against religion, over the port. Dreadfully bad manners. It was like being invited to Windsor Castle, being placed next to the Queen, and then spending all night singing the praises of the French Revolution, all the while expressing a hope that a similar craze would soon break out in Britain. I felt dreadfully sorry for the Bishop. What a terrible evening he must have had.

Later that night, long after the guests had wearily departed, I entered the Servant's Hall to thank the staff for their hard work that evening. There was much muttering about the dinner. I asked Simon (a footman) about the place settings. He told me that just before dinner, Mr Miles had entered the Dining Room, and had switched the settings. He had deliberately placed the loud mystic next to the Bishop. Puck would have been proud of that one, but I cannot say that I was.

Something deep within me can never trust a gentleman who attends dinner improperly dressed. This prejudice, I am sorry to say, has now been reinforced. I should have realised that a man who wears a lounge suit with multicoloured tie to a (semi) formal dinner would only cause trouble. Spirits are low. Hopefully the Summer Servant's Ball tomorrow evening will cheer me up. Mrs Berry has been splendid with the organisation.