Fackham Hall

1931.

England and the Empire

are in the grips of the Great Depression,

But the British aristocracy keeps calm and carries on.

None more so than the Davenports,

lords of Fackham Hall for over 400 years.

The sheer grandeur of Fackham Hall

was a testament to splendor,

and an enduring family legacy.

Its hallowed rooms have witnessed so much.

Life and death, laughter and tragedy,

-heartbreak and romance. -

But England was a nation divided by class.

The below-stair staff

obediently served their masters,

and prepared sumptuous feasts.

Pheasant, caviar, venison.

Whatever a guest desired, they would supply it.

And whilst this winter would prove particularly bleak,

the tireless work of those staff below stairs

ensured that Lord and Lady Davenport wanted for nothing.

They led a decadent life of unimaginable luxury,

and barely had to lift a finger.

So, finally, one of our children is to be wed

and shall soon fly the nest.

I'm just delighted

that our beloved home shall remain in the family.

I'm just delighted that after so many years of courting,

she's finally found the right cousin.

At least Poppy's got our interests at heart,

-unlike Rose. -Rose may yet marry.

Oh, come on, Humphrey. Who'd want old Rose?

She's 23. A dried-up husk of a woman.

Barren, desiccated.

A wizened old walnut of a spinster.

Rose, darling, would you pass the milk?

Mama, Archibald is ghastly.

It's unfair to force Poppy so.

Why can't she simply marry for love?

Oh, how can you be so naive, child?

Do you think that I married your father out of love?

Because I found him attractive?

Liked his personality? His micro penis?

No, I married him out of duty.

And we couldn't be happier.

But Mama's right, my darling.

This is about the future of Fackham Hall.

Of our family.

We thought, having produced four sons,

that the Davenport line of succession was assured.

What cursed luck to lose all four of them.

And in four completely separate incidents.

I console myself knowing

that at least they died doing the thing they loved.

But does this not make you realize

that such an archaic system of succession,

that only recognizes male heirs is, pardon my French...

Rose, we must be realistic.

Your father's not going to live forever.

Come on. Father has the constitution of an ox.

- -And so long as we keep a close eye on him,

-he'll remain that way. -How can you be so blind

to the circumstances?

Unless your sister marries Archibald,

we will be evicted.

Forced to live in Central London.

Then I'll find myself a profession.

- -A Davenport working for money?

Are you trying to send your father to an early grave?

All I ever think of is Father's well-being.

Well, you evidently care less for this family

-than your beautiful sister. -

Humphrey! Shield your mouth when coughing.

My sincerest apologies, Prudence.

My lord, ladies.

The dressing bell has been rung.

Drinks will shortly be served in the drawing room.

-Thank you, Cyril. -I do so hope

it will be sunny for the wedding. Hey, Cyri.

-Mm-hm. -What's the weather tomorrow?

Expect partly cloudy skies in Fackham tomorrow,

with a 40 percent chance of snow.

- -Do you ever worry that Cyri

is always listening in to our conversations?

Oh, now, come. Not this again, darling.

We've already had to get rid of poor old Alexa.

That's true.

London, birthplace of emphysema,

child exploitation,

and a charming young pickpocket called Eric.

National ink shortage!

Read all about it! National ink shortage!

-You there. Here. -National ink shortage!

Blast and botheration!

Excuse me, sir. You dropped your wallet.

-Ah. - Eric couldn't be more different

from the Davenports at Fackham Hall.

He doesn't have any land, titles, underwear,

or vitamin D.

But what he lacks in bone density,

he more than makes up for in guile...

Here you go, darling.

-...charm. -Thank you.

- She's got my watch! -...and boyish good looks.

-Come here -I didn't steal it.

Honest to God, sir, I didn't.

Eric was amongst the thousands

of young boys orphaned after the war.

- Morning. -With only his quick wits,

street smarts,

and the watchful eyes of the Sisters of Mercy

keeping him from penury.

Morning, Sister Jude.

What can I be doing for you today?

Nothing for me. But this gentleman

wishes to speak with you.

And of course, our door is always open to unknown men

with an interest in specific children.

Yes. He seems like just the lad for the job.

I need a letter delivered here.

To the manor house owned by the Davenports.

An obscenely rich family of aristocrats.

Fuck 'em all.

That's right.

Fackham Hall.

The most lavish manor house in all of Shropceistershershire.

Well, I'm not doing it for any less than five shillings.

I'll pay you a pound.

Pleasure doing business with you, mister.

Good luck.

Eric.

You're the smartest child we've ever had at this orphanage.

If only you directed your talents down the righteous path,

you could really make something of yourself.

"I may do some good before I am dead."

It's Thomas Hardy.

Here's another quote for you.

"Thou shalt not steal."

Ah.

Your watch, sir.

Oh.

And your trousers.

But I'm wearing my trou--

And so begins Eric's adventure,

as he sets off to deliver

that precious letter to Lord Davenport.

A chance to change his future.

And nothing was going to get in his way.

Whoa.

Shout out to Rachmaninoff. Big up on themself.

New track from Carl Ravell and his orchestra just dropped.

Straight-up banger. Check it.

- -

- -

Oh.

Are you all right?

I've never been better.

Sorry I scratched your car.

Don't worry about it. It was like that before.

I'm sorry about your bike.

Don't worry. It was like that before.

I don't know what happened. I think I was...

...momentarily distracted.

Yes. I only took my eyes off the road for a second.

I think I was captivated by the sight...

...of an incredibly beautiful woman

with the kind of carefree essence

that makes a man glad to be alive!

Well, it was nice to meet you.

Eric.

It's Rose, actually.

It was lovely to make your acquaintance.

And from now on, I'll pay more attention to where I'm going.

Ms. Davenport! Ms. Davenport!

The lord and lady is wondering where you is be, they do.

-What did you tell them? -I spared your blushes, m'lady.

Said you were wrestling with a tricky dump.

Oh, thank you, Patricia. I just needed to clear my head

before watching my darling sister, Poppy,

marry that odious Archie.

There. Good as new.

Wonderful to see you, Viscount Wolsey.

So good of you to join us, Lord Lucan.

Welcome to our home, Lady Gaga.

Where on earth have you been?

Please don't say reading or thinking.

As you well know, that's men's work.

-Humpty! -Ah!

If it isn't J.R.R. Tolkien, the writer.

Poppy, dear old friend of mine from Oxford, John.

Please. Call me J.R.R. Tolkien, the writer.

It's a pleasure to meet you.

Would I know anything you've written?

I doubt it.

He's not had anything published.

Well, not yet.

But I have spent the last 15 years

coming up with an alphabet for orcs.