A Hazy Black Ring

QUALITY

Erulisse (one L) - LJ Idol 6/20/25

"We are people of QUALITY," Grandmother said through her high-lifted nose and piercingly direct eyes. "A person of QUALITY never makes assumptions about another. We look carefully at everything about that person, and base our judgment of them upon that examination. For instance, Mistress Bedvidere, who thinks she is "all that," and who supposedly has been invited to have tea with the King, cannot put a proper dinner party together. She doesn’t even own enough place settings for a full table, and …  AND, her houseman is also employed as her groom."

My ears had shut down at the first uttering of the word "QUALITY". I stole a quick glance towards the dial of the ponderous Grandfather clock in the corner. *Sigh* Less than five minutes had passed between my last glance and this one. I continued to sit with well-mannered docility, ankles crossed, feet positioned slightly beneath me, and my hands in my lap. My demure posture only acted as camouflage for the rebellious teenaged girl that I was, and I was angry.

I felt as though I had been abandoned. I thought I should be with my parents, on board a ship heading to India. Pater had been awarded a governmental position in Mumbai, and Mater, of course, was accompanying him. They both were reluctant to bring me along at this time. My Mother's exact words were, “Your health has always been fragile, and we simply cannot protect you from all of the various diseases that run rampant among the unwashed pagans. No, you will stay with your Grandmother, here in England. If we can, we might summon you later." After a bit of correspondence, I was escorted to my Grandmother’s country estate to stay with her until my parents returned. Since letters between India and England came by sea and it was a dreadfully long distance, I expected to hear from my parents only once or twice a year at best.  

I rather liked Grandmamma (although I would NEVER dare to call her that). She had been a highly popular debutante in her day and had married well. Her husband had the poor taste to become lunch for the lion he was hunting, but since they were childless, the lion's hunger left her solely in charge of both the household and Grandpapa's business.

“A woman in charge of a business?”, you might ask. "It really isn't done in houses of QUALITY, after all." I can hear her voice stating the words as fact, as incontrovertible as the gospel that Reverend Banner spouted every Sunday in our old, rather drafty church. But Grandmama practiced specific blindness in some aspects of her life, and running the business was one of those areas.

Grandpapa's business was distilling liquor. Specifically, a highly regarded limited batch brewery for fine, Scotch whiskey. He wasn't Scottish, but his father (my Great Grandfather) had married a Highlands lass who had borne him two children before succumbing to our cold winters and wet summers. My Great Grandfather’s son, my Grandpapa, inherited the distillery. He had three children, and his middle child was my mother, Fiona. The eldest son, Cormac had died in a far-off land defending King and Country, and the younger brother Angus was simply unsuited for the pursuit of business. He was an artist with his head in the clouds. An accounts ledger was a mere curiosity to him.

My Grandmother was no fool. She saw the faults in her children (she was not shy about pointing them out to each child as well). In her mind, everything came down to "QUALITY", (which in her mouth was always capitalized). A gentleman or a lady must be of good QUALITY. Any acquaintance at the schoolyard must be of QUALITY. Most people in our area viewed her as formidable and they made no comment about her stepping into the distillery business when her husband died.

By the time I hit my majority, I was almost friendless, thanks to Grandmama. I had several dozen acquaintances through school and church, but no true friends. Grandmama made sure I understood QUALITY, however. She made sure that I radiated QUALITY from every pore. If the boys didn’t rally around me, vying for my attention, they had no QUALITY. If the girls, gathered at the far end of the school grounds, always scattered into various directions when I appeared, they were blind to my QUALITY. I stiffened my already ramrod-straight back a bit more when things like this occurred, but buried deep inside me, hidden from everyone, was a desire I held secret. More than anything else, I wanted to be accepted for me.

It was approaching the time for my “Introduction to Society” as Grandmother said in ponderous tones. I dreaded “the Season”. I had no desire to be "introduced" to marriageable men whose only positive aspect was their bank balance. I loathed “Society” with everything that I had. But, dresses had been made and packed, and the London house had been cleaned from top to bottom, waiting for us to arrive and begin the battle.

The “battle”? Such was my perception. I was going to be introduced to people who were of the proper QUALITY to merit being joined to the granddaughter of a renowned brewer; and I was expected to come out of the Season with a proper marriage proposal that would enrich our family’s bank accounts and push me up a rung or two in societal perceived QUALITY.

Of course, a brewer is middle class – working class in some cases. Beer isn’t as upper class as wine. But Grandmama’s Scotch Whiskey was highly prized and even (or so the whispers went) preferred by His Majesty! (Of course, we had no proof of that, but the mere whisper of Royal patronage was enough to double our sales from the prior year.) Grandmama exploited that Royal link and built the brand name, while also keeping a tight eye on the brewery itself to keep that QUALITY intact. She might have made a miserable Grandmother – at least, she wasn’t the doting, kind, woman who would provide hugs and dry tears while cleaning scraped knees. She was, however, an outstanding businesswoman, and obtaining Royal Patronage would be an excellent push for the brewery’s fame and fortunes.

The household moved to London for “The Season”. Dresses were made, calling cards were printed, and we dove into the myriad of events with both feet. Every day was filled with going here or there to be seen with the “proper” people of  QUALITY. I drank countless cups of weak tea and chatted with brainless girls who only hoped for a good match to assure their future. My evenings were spent dancing on the ballroom floors of various socialites, minor Royalty or well-known sponsors. The men, actually boys in most instances, knew how to ask for a dance, and even knew the steps of the dance, but if they understood commerce or what makes a Quality Scotch Whiskey, they didn’t let me know.

Grandmother had done her research, however. There were several good breweries with eligible single young men who had received Royal Warrants in the past. A Royal Warrant, of course, was physical proof of QUALITY. Our own brewery had been awarded several Royal Warrants in the past forty years. A Royal Warrant was an important marketing asset and almost guaranteed a larger sales total at the end of the year. Ladies of QUALITY may not concern themselves with commerce, but in our family, it was the women or nothing. The men were off doing manly things – fighting in wars or expanding the Empire. The women ran everything from behind the figurehead of the Warehouse Manager.

I was introduced to several suitable young men who would be assets to the brewery, and Grandmother was certain to point each one out to me on our morning strolls, and again when we would see them at the various dances and balls in houses of undisputed QUALITY. Grandmother was in her element, an acknowledged asset to the finances of any household whose fortunes may have seen better days. I was told which young men to try to meet, and at breakfast the next morning, Grandmother would dissect my performance of the prior night.

It was during one of these examinations of what I had done right and what I had not, that our butler came in with a calling card. Beautifully printed, it said merely “John Begg”. My Grandmother nodded to show him in and ordered tea immediately. When Mr. Begg entered the drawing room, my heart skipped a beat. I had noticed him at one or two of the Season’s balls. He was well built and a good dancer. We hadn’t spent any real time together, but he seemed to always be in my general vicinity. We spent a lovely afternoon in the drawing room and wandering through the gardens in the courtyard area. There was no subject matter he could not discuss thoroughly, and his interests mirrored my own in many ways. When he asked my permission to call upon me again, I quickly said “Yes”.

That “Yes” grew into more outings and a trip to view his brewery later in the year. Even Grandmama was impressed with the Royal Warrant so prominently displayed in their front foyer. John and I, meanwhile, had an opportunity to learn about each other and, by the end of the year, he had requested my hand in marriage.

So, that’s how I married a Scotsman who was involved in the “family” business. Our brewery worked hard to keep its’ Royal Warrant, and indeed, it still has that warrant today. John and I had five children together, some of whom joined the business either at the John Begg distillery, or at Grandmother’s original distillery in England.

Eventually, as must happen, Grandmother died. My parents were long gone – they had died in India from a tropical disease no more than six years after they had left England. However, I am surrounded by children and grandchildren, and the John Begg distillery has never missed being awarded a Royal Warrant every year of operation. Now THAT’S QUALITY!