Regarding my husband's behavior at Lady Thumpton's champagne social

My dearest Hortense,

I must begin this letter with my most sincere, ardent apology. The events that took place at Thumpton Manor this Friday last have left me plagued with an embarrassment so profound that I fear for my very life. Do you recall when we were girls, how Mr. Haggleby fell into the punch bowl at your confirmation and summarily perished? (They said it was the dysentery that took him but I always knew it to be the shame surrounding his most ungainly tumble.) The worry that I should share his fate dogs my every thought!

I must impress upon you that in writing this letter I mean not to excuse, but to explain Montgomery's actions and to beg your forgiveness. You are aware, of course, of Montgomery's time employed by the East India Company and the injury that necessitated his return to England. In the name of his dignity I have been intentionally vague when discussing the nature of his ailment, but I am afraid a full explanation is now the only means of saving face.

You may have noticed since knowing Monty that he rarely sits down. In fact, it may be possible that you have never known him to take a seat for any reason. The awful truth of it is, Montgomery was relieved of his left buttock by a Mughal cannonball during a skirmish near Jaipur. The experience has cursed him not only with a profound insecurity surrounding his missing appendage, but a sensitivity in the extreme to loud noises. (You must never breathe a word of this to anyone, Hortense.) As such, the "pop" from the opening of the Dom Perignon inspired in him the regrettable actions that have prompted my writing.

God, I can scarcely bear to think of it even now! For him to upend Lady Thumpton's table and hide behind it was mortifying enough, but what he shouted from behind it shall echo in my mind forever! I am so sorry for his profanities to have disturbed the ears of the party guests but he did not, as Lord Thumpton claims, hurl any racial epithets. Unless the phrase "you Mughal swine shan't take the other cheek" can be counted as such.

Hortense, you simply must believe me when I tell you I hadn't the faintest idea that Montgomery was still in possession of his service pistol. Nor how or why he saw fit to conceal it beneath his cravat. I can only thank providence that he had imbibed enough of Lord Thumpton's brandy to sufficiently dull his aim. Had he been sober I fear the shot he fired may have relieved my mother of her life rather than just her wig, though the shame of having the thing blown off so publicly may kill her anyway. This brings me to my final point.

I have written letters to all attendees of the social in the hopes that Montgomery and I may somehow avoid complete excommunication from polite society, but in truth my deepest concerns surround your forgiveness. You know how fussy my mother can be; the woman was determined to make a lasting impression with the Thumptons, and as such she had selected one of her Parisian wigs for the evening. The big one. I had seen her wear it only once before, and the weight of the horrid thing left her with a neck injury that persisted for a month. As such, when Montgomery's bullet collided with the family crest affixed to the front it turned the whole thing into one enormous projectile. Never in my worst nightmares could I have imagined that it might land on your precious dachshund! Poor Archibald! Your husband informs me that he has been possessed of a most morbid countenance since the event, and in his humiliation has refused even morsels of chicken. My heartbreak is matched only by my mortification. We are ever so sorry, Hortense.

Eternally yours,

Philomena Flibstwittle