Memoirs about bad or dotty fathers — from J. R. Ackerley’s (and the brilliant companion piece by his secret half-sister, Diana Petre) to Lorna Sage’s to Blake Morrison’s — exert a special fascination. A small subdivision of the form are those accounts featuring not only a father who is mad, bad or dangerous to know, but a big house. Of these, the Mitfords’ father is probably the most exasperating and lovable. Last year’s Title Deeds by Lisa Campbell, whose father was Thane of Cawdor, was a notable addition. Miranda Seymour’s is the latest gem.
George FitzRoy Seymour was a pedant, a bully and a snob. He wrote unsolicited letters to duchesses, and boasted about being descended from Charles II. ‘He flinched as if pierced when a stranger failed to rhyme his name with the capital of Peru.’ The great love of his life was the House: Seymour justly uses a capital H throughout. This was Jacobean Thrumpton Hall in Nottinghamshire, the property of his aunt’s husband’s family, the Byrons (relations of the poet, of course).
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