The Inbred End of the Line

I recently made the mistake of peering into the murky gene pool of Britain’s aristocracy – and emerged from the experience with a renewed respect for goldfish. At least they breed in straight lines. What I discovered, much to my horror (and a mild choking fit over a custard cream), is that precious few of our blue-blooded betters are actually descended directly from the lords and dukes who founded their family fortunes.

That’s right – the vast majority of Britain’s hereditary titles aren’t held by proud, uninterrupted first-order sons of ancient grandeur, but by the genealogical equivalent of leftovers: second sons, third cousins, and the bloke who was around when the original line died off in an unfortunate combination of typhus, duelling, and overconfidence on the roof of a Parisian brothel.

Take the Dukes of Norfolk – yes, the premier dukes of England, hereditary earls marshal, guardians of royal funerals and family secrets. Think their line descends tidily from the first Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray? Of course not. That line expired faster than a bottle of wine at a shooting party. The current duke is a Howard, and the Howards only picked up the dukedom after a bit of royal arm-twisting and a genealogical relay race through the Wars of the Roses. They've passed the title sideways, down, back up again, and across the marital bed more times than a hot potato in a nursery game.

The Dukes of Marlborough? Don’t get me started. The great John Churchill left no male heir – so they changed the rules. Yes, Parliament actually rewrote the succession laws just so his daughter could inherit. That’s how far we’ve come from "first son to first son" – we're now in "anyone remotely sober with the right surname will do" territory.

Even the Dukes of Devonshire – the Russell Brand of Whig nobility – couldn’t keep a clean line. One minute they’re passing it to a son, the next it’s off to a second cousin who once exchanged hats with a duke in 1842 and never looked back.

But perhaps we’re looking at this all wrong. Because there’s another uncomfortable truth, whispered only at the far end of the long table over brandy and regrets: how many of these aristocratic heirs were actually fathered by the titled gentleman in question?

After all, let’s not pretend your average Georgian duke was celibate between foxhunts. These were men who kept mistresses like they kept hounds – in pairs, rotated frequently, and often overlapping. Meanwhile, their wives – conveniently ignored and often conveniently drunk – were left to their own amusements. It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that more than a few “heirs” were, in fact, the stableboy’s parting gift or the result of a brief but illuminating liaison with a visiting Austrian baron.

Which leads to a rather modern question: Why are we still tracing descent through the male line at all?

In truth, there’s only ever one parent we can be absolutely certain about – and it isn’t the one with the pocket watch and the trust issues. In an age of DNA, it’s time to admit the obvious: the only lineage you can guarantee is the maternal one. Perhaps, in these enlightened times, the tide will finally turn. Perhaps titles should pass through the mother – the only party whose contribution to the child is verifiable without an affidavit, a duelling pistol, and a hushed-up scandal in the peerage.

Imagine it – a future where children take their mother’s surname, and dukedoms pass through actual descent rather than assumed parentage. No more guesswork, no more sideways shuffles through the family shrubbery. Just a clean, verifiable line – from womb to title, as nature intended.

Of course, such a change would leave the current system in tatters. Most titles would evaporate in a puff of embarrassed silence, and Burke’s Peerage would have to be reissued with a section titled “Oops.” But perhaps that’s no bad thing.

Because the real scandal here isn’t the odd illegitimate heir – it’s that we’ve built centuries of social prestige, land ownership, and influence on a rickety scaffold of male assumption. A network of cousins, clerical errors, and convenient timing, dressed up as noble continuity.

And the irony? If we had followed the maternal line all along, the aristocracy might actually be able to prove their ancestry – instead of squinting at oil paintings and hoping no one brings up the DNA.

So the next time you hear some hereditary peer pontificating in the House of Lords about tradition and lineage, remember this: they may be less "son of his father" and more "the milkman’s legacy with a courtesy title." And the rest of us? We’re expected to tug our forelocks and fund their tax breaks.