I laughed. I gagged. (Oh, what those royals do to me.)

At my very core, I believe that the monarchy in general, and in England in particular, is a crock of ridiculous nonsense that has no place in the modern world. I may think it's a crock, but I do find it all very fascinating, in a laughing-gagging-rubbernecking-curiosity-gawking sort of way. When I come across the mention - and they do occasionally pop up in a People Mag sort of way - of a family like the von Thurn und Taxis or of Prince Albert Grimaldi of Monaco or of some pretender to some throne or other, it always makes me laugh a little and gag a little.

But most of my royal laughing and gagging is understandably devoted to the royals closest to the American consciousness, and that would be the Brits. 

The last twelve months, what with the death of the Queen, the elevation of King Charles, and the publication of Harry's tell-all bio, have certainly provided many opportunities to see the royals in all their glory. 

While much of my royal interest - as I do so love the laugh-gag combo - focuses on the tip of the royal pyramid, I also enjoy an occasional laugh and gag at all the British quasi royalty out there, all that hereditary nobility. All the dukes, earls, and dukes of earl that make up the royalish ranks. 

So I was naturally drawn to a recent article in the New York Times on Emma, the Duchess of Rutland. 

First off, the title cracks me up because the town of Rutland, Massachusetts, is a little rural backwater outside of Worcester, Mass. The sort of place that has farms, but not gigantic piles, like 356 room Belvoir Castle, which Emma, Duchess of Rutland, presides over. Who'd want to be the Duchess of Rutland?

Well, the Duchess of Rutland, for starters.

A farmer’s daughter from the Welsh borders, she moved to Belvoir in 2001 when her husband became the 11th Duke of Rutland, one of the most senior hereditary titles in England. He may have inherited a fairy-tale castle, but they were also landed with 12 million pounds (almost $15.5 million) of inheritance taxes and, in her words, “battalions of rats and staff who clearly preferred the former incumbents to us.”

In the years since, as both chatelaine and chief executive, the duchess has brokered filming and event deals, streamlined the operations of the estate and undertaken a costly restoration to safeguard Belvoir for the next generation. (Source: NY Times)

The Duchess of Rutland has been separated from the Duke of Rutland for the past decade. They both live at Belvoir (curiously pronounced Beaver), but with 356 rooms they really don't need to cross paths all that often. His digs are in Belvoir's Shepherds' Tower and hers in the Nursery Wing.

“It’s a very modern arrangement, yet very French 18th century at the same time,” Nicky Haslam, the interior designer and socialite, said in an article in Vanity Fair.

The duke, a vocal fan of Donald Trump and Brexit who has written several books on subjects like naval history, has lived at the castle with various partners in the years since the separation. For the last decade, the duchess has been in a relationship with Phil Burtt, the estate manager.

Anyway, although the house is not hers, and she won't have a claim on it if the Duke precedes her out the door of the mortal coil and Belvoir goes to her elder son, who's the next Duke up, the Duchess has taken it upon herself to keep Belvoir solvent.

Like many other castles, Belvoir has been opened to the public, tourists (many are Americans on coach tours) who pay a fee to look around what they let you look around, and wonder how anyone ever heated the place or ever managed to find their way around. 

At Belvoir, some even stay the night. The castle, which was a stand-in for Windsor Castle in “The Crown” and has been featured in movies including “The Da Vinci Code” and “The Young Victoria,” often hosts guests for weekend events and photo shoots. They can stay in sumptuous state bedrooms, several of which are newly renovated, including one that...is covered in hand-painted wallpapers. (Belvoir wallpapers are, naturally, available to order.)

The Duchess also lets organizations host events at Belvoir. Recent events: a Tough Mudder muddy obstacle course race, a flower show, and a Freddie Mercury tribute concert. 

There are shops at Belvoir, flogging everything from "branded clothing, home wares, gins, wines and cider" to that Belvoir wallpaper to hand-crafted guns and rifles.

The Duchess has also set up a charitable organization to pick the pockets of royal-hungering Yanks. The "American Friends of Belvoir Castle...will host an inaugural fundraising gala at the Breakers in Palm Beach, Fla, next year."

Phew. For a moment I read that as Mar-a-Lago, but that would be more the Brexit-Trumpist Duke's thang. 

One of the Duchess of Rutland's latest endeavors is a podcast. The idea was suggested to her by one of her daughters, Lady Violet Manners. (Such a straight out of Downton name...) In her eponymous podcast, Duchess, the Duchess of Rutland interviews her fellow duchesses. Buds like Lady Henrietta Spencer Churchill of Blenheim Palace and the Duchess of Argyll of Inveraray Castle, who apparently have a lot to say about running a stately home. Her core audience for the podcast includes Americans. 

Despite the podcast's success, the Duchess of Rutland is handing over the chore of running it to Lady Violet.

The duchess wants to focus on the estate’s commercial enterprises, including a retail village and farm, as well as a new YouTube series that delves into the history of Belvoir, rather than houses elsewhere.

Running the Belvoir pile is a pretty big job. Sure it comes with some perks, as she does get to live over the shop. But I hope she draws a big fat salary and doesn't have to hand over all the profits to that lout of a Duke.

As admirable as the Duchess of Rutland is in terms of her business acumen and drive - she is the very model of a modern alpha businesswoman - and I did enjoy reading about all this, the reading still did engender plenty of my standard Brit royalty reactions. 

I laughed. I gagged. 

Just as happy to live in a land where, for all the elites and nepo-babies doesn't have any royal royals.