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classics teacher, and finally as deputy editor of the Daily
Telegraph obituaries pages, until last year, when she married
Harry (father of Bobby, 30; Bella, 28; and Xan, 24, with
ex-wife Tracy Worcester) and left her job. “I joke that I
am now—finally—a housewife,” she says. “But I address
this job in an analytical way. I keep a note of everything I
say, of conversations I’ve had. I’m doing an audit of every
plant in the garden. I’ll send you a copy.” (As promised,
she does. It runs to 23 pages.)
Tea consumed, Georgia strides into the Hall to meet
the head housekeeper, Vivienne Clark. The terra-cotta
arabesque wallpaper by Thomas Willement, which has been
here since the early 19th century, contrasts wonderfully
with the gilt-framed 17th- and 18th-century portraits lining
the room. After various discussions about linen supplies,
Georgia tells Viv that she is going to check the bedrooms.
“Right, Plum, we’re going to start in the Soap Cupboard,”
she adds, springing up the main staircase.
T
he size of a Manhattan galley kitchen, the
Badminton House Soap Cupboard can teach
an aspiring hostess volumes. Situated on the
first-floor landing, it has a heavy Georgian
door and is lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves
of Ortigia, Floris, and Jo Malone. Standing
inside, Georgia fills a basket with products. “Staying here
should feel like a treat, and that means fresh soap in every
room,” she says. “I put a new wrapped Floris soap by each
bath, as well as a Jo Malone Blackberry and Bay Liquid
Soap.” She takes several of each from the stores. “Harry is
not a fan of bath gel,” she says, smiling, “but I do it to save
soap. People rarely open the wrapped stuff unless they really
want to use it.” She then shows me a bowl of half-finished
soaps which are retrieved after guests have left. “Family
soap,” she says, a wry expression crossing her face.
The house has 20 bedrooms and bathrooms, and it takes
us almost two hours to go around all of them, Georgia
fluffing bedcovers, stocking the bathrooms, and moving
armfuls of 1960s original Penguin paperbacks from one
floor to another because “I love having a pile of interesting
books on the bedside tables.” (As the granddaughter of
writers Anthony Powell and Lady Violet Pakenham, she
has broad literary interests.) The bedrooms veer from exotic
grandeur to traditional English charm. “You might think
everything here is exactly as it always was,” says Georgia as
we head into the Fuchsia Room, with its fluted double col-
umns, pink posy-print chintz, and oak-paneled bathroom,
“but things are subtly being redone, in keeping with the
aesthetic. Why would I tear down 18th-century wallpaper?
I like the idea that I am adding a new layer to centuries of
layers.” Decorator Nicky Haslam, a guest at their wedding
party—a “glam rave” in the ballroom—admires Georgia’s
restraint, saying, “The decor is magical. It needs a bit of
freshening up, but not too much. Georgia’s a classicist. She
won’t go in and rip it up and put in spiky chairs.”
Bedroom duties finished, we head down to the library,
where Harry offers me a gin and tonic (gratefully accept-
ed). Tall, affable, and always smiling, the duke, who is also
the lead singer in a rock band, the Listening Device, is
adored by friends for his laid-back wit. Ever the under-
stated Englishman, he wears his responsibilities lightly,
saying no more than “Well, I’m busier than I used to be”
when I ask him how he handles things. His land exceeds
50,000 acres, includes 20 working farms, and is a sublime
sporting estate. The Beaufort Hunt and pheasant shoot are
considered among the best in the world. Occasionally the
duke “lets” a two-day shooting weekend at the house, and,
even more rarely, he allows someone to take over the house
for a wedding or party.
In the volume-lined library, pale-pink pelargoniums spill
from Chinese pots on marble tables behind two capacious
sofas, and family photographs, drawings, and letters are
propped up against the Peter Lely oil above the fireplace. A
Graham Sutherland portrait of Harry’s grandfather the 6th
Marquess of Bath perches casually at the back of the drinks
tray. Two Canalettos hang in front of the bookcases on either
side of the fireplace, painted while the artist toured England
from 1748–50. “My mother read every book in this room
with a gold spot on the spine,” says Harry, himself a vora-
cious reader. He shows me his mother’s red leather-bound
scrapbooks, of which there are 100, each containing news
clippings relating to anyone she met. She was ruthless about
including unfavorable articles, even about her own family.
“My mother was very organized,” says Harry fondly, adding,
“She loved a to-do list. I once found one of her to-do lists
lying around. Number one was ‘Go for a walk.’ Number two
was ‘Watch television.’ ” CONTINUED ON PAGE 202
