THE EARLY-EVENING AIR was cooling as they made their way up Randolph Street, about a block from campus. Lulu, wearing a Ralph Lauren knee-length coat, was feeling a hint of optimism for the first time in her brief career at Devon. Where were they off to?
They came to a modest three-story shingled home, wedged between two others. Shelley rang the bell, which gave off the Big Ben chimes. “I should tell you, they’re a bit eccentric, but just go with it, okay?”
A tiny slot in the door slid open, the kind of thing Lulu associated with a Depression-era speakeasy. A pair of eyes glared out. “Who goes there?” The voice had a British accent. Or maybe it was what Sheldon called a Locust Valley lockjaw. Was that still a thing?
“You know who it is, Winny, you damn twit. And she’s with me.” Shelley nodded toward Lulu.
The slot window closed with a thwack and the door swung open, revealing a remarkably pale young man with slicked-back hair and a double-breasted blazer with some kind of crest on the breast pocket. “Shel! How are you, darling? How was the summer?”
“Same old. You know the drill.”
“Well, it’s about time you showed up. Who is your terribly attractive friend?”
“This is Harris. She’s a fellow New Yorker. We like her.” It was understood that New York meant “Manhattan,” and only certain parts.
“Lulu.”
“A great pleasure, Lulu Harris. I am Winslow Gubbins. You may call me Win. Welcome to Fellinghams.” Win had wavy brown hair and a sallow complexion. Lulu noticed he dropped the h in Fellingham—Felling-um—and he said it in the plural, the way a Brit would do.
“Please, entre.” They walked through the foyer into a living room. “It’s not much, but it’s home. Toby, two Pimm’s Cups for our new arrivals.” Win gestured to an elderly black man in a white jacket who was tending bar. He mixed Pimm’s No. 1 with Sprite, garnishing the drink with wedges of orange and lime.
Lulu accepted her drink and took in her surroundings. Perhaps twenty people were milling around, chatting, all well dressed by Devon standards. One or two wore white dinner jackets, although for what Lulu could scarcely imagine. Several seemed to have accents of indeterminable origin. There was faded but comfortable-looking furniture, the bar, and a large fireplace. The décor was slightly fussy and worn. There was also a what … scepter?… over the mantel. It had colorful inlaid stones. Overall, the place looked like what it was: a small, unremarkable house in Havenport. Except for the scepter.
“Winny and I met in London when I was at Sotheby’s,” Shelley said. “He’s as close as we come to an Englishman around here, so that qualifies him to be president of this dubious establishment.”
“High Scepter, s’il vous plaît.”
“Sorry, High Scepter. Anyway, Lulu’s father is a very important entertainment lawyer,” offered Shelley.
“Is that right? Whom does he represent? Anyone we know?” It wasn’t clear if the question was directed at Lulu or Shelley.
“Oh, I’m sure,” Shelley said, looking at Lulu over the rim of her traditional Collins glass.
“He’s New York based, so Broadway and TV, mostly,” answered Lulu.
“Fascinating,” said Win, managing not to seem fascinated at all.
“I told Lulu that Devon is not the social wasteland she thinks it is,” Shelley said.
“Well, it is, God knows, but there are redoubts of civility,” Win said.
“I take it you mean here?” Lulu said. Win just smiled, eyebrows arched. “So, where is here, exactly?”
“Fellinghams. I thought we covered that.”
“She wants to know what goes on here, you wanker,” Shelley said.
“What goes on here, what goes on here … How shall I say it? We are a haven, a refuge, if you will, for a certain sort. We value the arts and have frequent soirées, most notably for Lord Fellingham’s birthday. We are comfortable in formal wear, and most of us speak several languages.”
“Je vois,” Lulu said. I see.
“Ah, très fábuleux, ma chère.” Win clinked his glass on Lulu’s, pleased with their mutual fabulousness. “But we really should talk to Frazier.” Turning, Win waved across the room. “Frazier, a moment.”
Frazier disengaged from a conversation with a rail-thin brunette with enormous gold hoop earrings and traversed the room. “Hello, Shel.” His eyes turned to Lulu. “Well, whom do we have here?”
“Meet Lulu … Harris?”
“Yes, Harris.”
“Harris.” Win let the word hang there for a moment, as if divining the name’s uncertain provenance. “Well, Lulu, meet Frazier Langham, our society historian. Frazier, meet Lulu Harris, freshman.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Frazier said. He sported a blazer and rep tie, perfectly knotted. “And aren’t we supposed to be saying freshperson, or something?”
“Wait, we have a historian?” Shelley asked.
“It’s first-year now,” Lulu said. “The word fresh targets us for sexual violence. I got a pamphlet. It’s all there.”
“A pamphlet! How wonderful!” Win clapped his hands. “You must bring us one. One has so much trouble keeping up with the nomenclature.” He laughed, imagining he had made a particularly clever bon mot. “Anyway, Frazier here is, in fact, the society’s historian. I thought he might give you the sordid details.”
Frazier liked few things more than talking about Fellinghams. “I will go back to the beginning. Our little island of civility was founded nine years ago by—”
“Hold on, you sure you can keep track of all that history, Frazier? I mean, nine years…”
“Shut up, Shel, you harpy!” Win blurted. “It’s important for any organization to have institutional memory.”
“Okay, I’ll be good. Do go on.” Shelley smiled and sipped her Pimm’s.
“The Society of Fellingham,” Frazier continued, “was founded nine years ago by Sir Alexander Hargrove. A freshman at the time, he found the university’s social options lacking, at least for one as he, born of the British aristocracy. The society was named for Hargrove’s direct ancestor Lord Herbert Fellingham, the second Marquess of Fellingham, who lived in the seventeenth century and was a prominent supporter of James the Second. Sir Alex was a traditional monarchist, you see, and the society’s mission statement asserts that we will strive to reinstate the primacy of monarchic rule, and that America, in particular, should be returned to the monarchic fold. Also, there should be many formal affairs with free-flowing alcohol.”
“Long live the queen!” shouted Win, High Scepter.
All in the room stopped what they were doing. Raising their Pimm’s, they shouted back, “Long live the queen!” Lulu sensed it was a thing.
Frazier continued, “The scepter was chosen as our symbol, and you can see our sacred scepter, handed down through generations of Hargroves, hanging over the mantelpiece. It’s quite priceless.”
Shelley snorted.
Frazier just ignored her. “Sir Alex decreed that only students who were members of the aristocracy could join, but he soon discovered this meant Fellinghams would have a membership of two, himself and Ahmed Farooq. Ahmed was the grandnephew of the deposed shah of Iran, so he was a fellow traveler, aristocratically speaking. Farooq’s family had been chased from the family seat by street mobs during the revolution, but he still qualified. Ahmed aside, though, Sir Alex was distraught to learn that he had arrived in something of an aristocratic wasteland.”
“He did know he was in, like, America, right?” Lulu asked.
“That’s not entirely clear. By all accounts he was intoxicated for most of his six years here, and he may not have technically graduated. Pembroke College at Cambridge had been the family’s scholastic seat for centuries, but they say Sir Alex couldn’t settle on a subject of study, which makes admission at Cambridge problematic, as was the fact he may or may not have written ‘Bugger off’ as the response to one of his A Level essay questions. We believe he chose Devon because it’s the closest approximation to Oxford or Cambridge, what with our Gothic spires and house system. But some details of the story are lost in the mists of time.”
“He graduated three years ago,” Shelley offered, being helpful, as always.
“Anyway, Sir Alex decided to grant admittance to others who could at least act with the appropriate social graces, and Fellinghams was founded with nineteen initial members. They had no house, of course, and held meetings at the residence of a former professor, one who professed to be an Anglophile. Regrettably, it turned out he was also a predatory homosexual, which made it necessary to seek other arrangements. A year later, Sir Alex set his eyes on this very edifice. Lacking sufficient funds for the purchase, as his family was some three generations removed from anything resembling actual wealth, he persuaded his now close friend Ahmed to foot the bill. Ahmed’s family had managed to escape Iraq with Swiss bank accounts of considerable health, you see, so it was a small matter.”
“To the damn Persian!” Win cried.
“To Ahmed!” answered everyone.
“So, how goes it with the whole monarchy thing?” Lulu asked, suppressing a giggle.
“Splendidly,” Win answered. “We’re having a party to celebrate Prince Harry’s birthday next month. Perhaps you might attend.”
“Huzzah!” Frazier cried, in apparent agreement.
Someone turned the music up, and the night became a blur of alcohol, toasts, and slightly loosened neckties. In the fullness of the evening, Win removed the scepter from the mantel and led a march around the living room, waving the scepter from side to side like a drum major. Each time the line passed the bar, a shot of whiskey was all but required. Presently, it was decided that food was an urgent requirement, and so Win led a small parade to Gino’s Pizza down the block, everyone singing “That Gay Old Devon That I Love” along the way. Five pies were ordered in high-Elizabethan English from Gino, otherwise known as “my good man.”
Gino didn’t mind—this wasn’t the first time. But he did wonder about the university now and then.
Shelley and Lulu walked back to campus in somewhat less than straight lines, clutching each other for support and giggling as they went. Lulu deliberately mangled a few lines of “Rule, Britannia!,” another of the evening’s standards.
“Don’t take them too seriously. They’re harmless. Win’s from New Jersey!”
“The High Scepter of Hackensack?” Lulu laughed hysterically.
“It’s all in good fun.”
“You don’t have to convince me. Those are the first people I’ve liked since I got here, and that incluudes the people I’ve had sex with.” They both laughed hysterically, swerving under the wrought-iron gates to East Quad. They paused while Lulu took a double selfie, which she posted to Instagram with a click.
The inscription over the gate, which few ever took note of, read UNA CRESCIMUS.
Together We Grow.