Her Majesty's Own

(or, They Call Me “Earl”)

GOD Save The Queen! Sir Christopher, Earl of Surrey Suffolk, recounts for his journal the merrymaking of Her Majesty's Ball, a regal presentation of We Make History.

Pictorial representations by Sir M. Cynecki
(Click any for a larger view!)

22 January, The Year Of Our LORD 1710

My heart simmers with expectations upon the meeting with my seamstress, just now completing the task of sewing my garments for tomorrow's assembly. I must mention that the rendezvous to deliver the attire takes place in an awkward locale, in the lot of a merchant the locals refer to as the “Valero.” Nervously I sit in my carriage, with not even a footman to watch for trouble.

She arrives unaccompanied but with the goods. The glistening floral-patterned golden brown satin coat with matching breeches shine through the night like a candle, as does the glistening satiny weskit. She has gone well beyond my initial selection of fabric and large brown buttons to add flourishes of trim in all the right places, overlooking no important mark of refinement while sparing any hint of foppishness.

The labour has taken many months, more hobby than task, and she has persevered through much, including the difficulties of working with the pattern of my hand-picked materials: “You picked a fabric I could not reverse!”

Yet now she is giddy with delight. “I know you will call me if you have any problems!” No, My Dear Lady, no problems whatsoever.

23 January, The Year Of Our LORD 1710

“The Earl of Surrey,” I present myself, bowing to His Lordship, Secretary To Her Majesty.

“Earl Of Surrey,” he wonders.

Does Surrey even have an Earl, or is there mischief afoot? We have long known of spies trying to infiltrate Her Majesty's Realm, looking for signs of weakness. Ah, but she is stronger than that! A mere glance at her beautiful countenance should suffice, radiant in her golden orange gown, warm amongst the cold of winter. Her secretary is the fitting match in his regalia of deep red and gold with the long flowing wig of dark brown locks.

Maybe Surrey does not need an Earl. Yea, it never had one. Perhaps that Earl or that impostor who calls himself Earl is in flight to escape his debts and evade the bailiffs. Surely I cannot be that Earl. Yet, maybe Suffolk is in want of an Earl? Suppose the previous Earl has vanished, disappeared, perhaps lost his life at sea en route to the New World? Or maybe he too is on the lam? In either event, a vacancy is left. So by His Lordship's word, acting on authority of Her Majesty, he subtly declares me the Earl of Suffolk, and all is made right.

I am admiring the work of the Royal Court Artist when I notice Madame. Her head pokes through the doorway to the ballroom, crowned with a black cocked hat. Then I notice the black veil hanging from it, and then, the long black gown.


“Is your friend in mourning?” a lady discreetly asks.

“No,” I reassure. “She is simply on the edge of fashion. And she is living up to her namesake: Madame Noire, Special Emissary of Sun City. But perhaps she is in mourning, in a sense, wistful for a time long gone.”

It is that time we are re-creating, a time where there were no Republicans or Democrats, nay, nor Whigs or Tories. All were loyalists. “GOD save the King! GOD save the Queen! Huzzah!”

“Huzzah!” I cry, finally eliciting the outburst of enthusiasm our host is seeking, one deferred out of respect to the one holding the privilege of speaking.


I know I should save some of my energies for later. My feet, however, cannot resist skipping as I lead Madame around the floor to the lead of our hosts in the grand procession, one hand joined high with hers, the other buckled tastefully to my side.

The assembly is small and yet enthusiastic. Some dress in simple elegance. Some let their gowns flow and flourish. Some prefer trousers to breeches. But one thing unifies the ladies in fashion; that is the presence of tiaras, adorning many a fair head. So many are princesses in Her Majesty's realm.

Christmas may be many days long past, but not in our hearts, as we dance to the tune “Noel.” It demands much of us. The gentlemen leave their partners, skipping around in a circle in front of the ladies to fall back into place beside a new, temporary partner. Then the ladies do the same, skipping to find their original partners, bowing and curtsying to each other at the end. I have great opportunity to see how well Her Majesty carries herself as I have the fortune to slip into place beside her many times. I bow to her as low and proper as my frame will permit. She is unhindered by her royal regalia. She continues her reign as the Dancing Queen!


We continue on to the set dances, lining up in long rows of ladies and gentlemen. Our dancing mistress decides we should take a walk in “Knowle Park.” Or perchance, a run. A circle precedes a change of corners before another circle and another change of corners. One couple leads through the other, and then the couples weave around each other in a pousette. All of this is taking place quite quickly, to the confusion of some of the Queen's loyal subjects, who stand bewildered in the middle of the set before attempting another go at the dance. My partner and I do some teaching between steps. Our fingers point to where others should move, nearly forgetting to move ourselves. Nay, we hardly have time to breathe, it seems.

Does this discourage Her Majesty's guests? Nay! Nay! So they dance heartily to her in tribute: “The Queen's Jig.” Again the dancers spend many moves changing places, but there is neither a quickening pace nor a complicated weave. One young lady is still a bit confused, but she does her best to keep pace and time, even if she does emit a hint of a pout.

“GOD Save The Queen!” I shout to the Heavens.


GOD save her attendants, as well. Twelve beautiful ladies – beautiful both in countenance and in manner – are chosen for special honour this evening. So many things of the world are trying to define them, Her Majesty's Secretary reminds us, with so many distractions and influences from all around. Rather, they desire to let themselves be defined by a higher standard, and for that we are grateful. As loyal subjects of Her Majesty, they shall be watched over and guided, protected and loved.


They proceed before us, one at a time, as their names are called, receiving a rose from our host as a symbol of the praise and the hope we all have for them. But then, our host produces one more flower, reserved for Her Majesty, as her most humble and devoted servant. The warmth of the moment penetrates the entire ballroom and I feel it deep within me.

It lingers within us as we dance “In The Fields of Frost and Snow.” It is customary for me, although many a dancing master would disapprove, to hold a free hand high when turning a lady or turning in a set with hands across. My chin is also slightly elevated to match a stately expression on my face, although as I reflect upon it later, I realize I right ought to smile more and let more of my light shine through.

It certainly does shine through when we dance “The Doubtful Shepherd,” the one dance where teasing and tousling and tickling of each other's powdered wigs and locks is highly encouraged on both the part of the lords and ladies as we prance around one another. Her Majesty's young subjects develop a keen affection for it.


“Are you paying tribute to Queen Victoria?” a guest asks Madame.

“No,” she replies, but she adds that she is flattered by the comparison.

The expectation is that a proper gentleman shall dance as much as possible with as many ladies as possible, but I cannot neglect the lady whom I have invited. This is her first time dancing in Her Majesty's court, and I am resolved to make the experience as beautiful as possible for her. Every step I take is refined and reflective of the Grace of THE LORD. I honour her well beyond a bow.



“You glide across the floor,” she notices with a smile.

Others notice. “They know what they're doing,” says one gentleman to his partner as he watches us turn and cast around them during a weaving part of one dance.

She will also share in my joy as I dance my favourite number with her: “Come, Let Us Be Merry.” The dance gives us many opportunities to bow and curtsy to each other and take many stately steps.

For birthdays, however, we cast aside stateliness and dance a circular jig around those who are celebrating another year of life. Her Majesty's Secretary needs not do much convincing for me to jump right in – “I knew I could count on the Earl of Suffolk!”


“For they're such jolly good fellows,
For they're such jolly good fellows,
For they're such jolly good fellows,
Which nobody can deny!”


We dance the “The Indian Queen,” in tribute to Pocahontas, and then “Haste To The Wedding,” in tribute to those loyal subjects of Her Majesty's Realm who shall be joined in matrimony soon. Then, all too soon, as is always the case when we are lost in merrymaking, it comes time for the final waltz.

Such a dance could raise a scandal! All those gentlemen and ladies dancing so closely together! Therefore, Madame and I substitute a minuet, yea, improvised, but comprised of and inspired by the elegant and varied movements inspired from the Royal Court Dances hundreds of years before. She knows not what steps I shall take next, but I can show her subtly through small gestures of my hands and a whispered word or two.

“GOD Save The Queen!” we shout in tribute as our host bids us farewell. “HUZZAH! HUZZAH! HUZZAH!”

Traveling in my carriage after the festivities, another carriage rolls up beside me. The inhabitants, bright and cheery from a night of revelry and possibly fermented beverages notice my outfit, especially my cocked hat. They roll down their windows, laughing and pointing, and quickly mistaking me for a pirate.

“Yarrr! Where ye be goin'?” one yelled.

“I am headed to the local inn, for a feast!”

“The inn?”

“The In-N-Out!”

See more images and memories from the merry group here.

NEXT: The General, The Dancer, His Soldiers, And Our Freedom