The Golden Age

Chapter 17: A Bit Of A Do

The grand hall of the Chateau was packed. The Comtesse's idea of ‘a bit of a do for a few friends' shouldn't have surprised Freddie but nevertheless it was one of the most elaborate affairs he had ever seen.

The first clue had been when he found the invitation, immaculately lettered on gold edged card, on the table in the lounge of his suite.

“Please join me in the Salon Grand for a Ball Masqu é ,” it had said. “On the theme of villains and fiends.”

Freddie of course was delighted to accept although fancy dress was hardly his thing. “Could he,” he had wondered in conversation with the Comtesse, “come as himself?”

The Comtesse had giggled, chided him with a wagging finger for being a spoil-sport, and then insisted that he could not. He could however, she said, have the run of the Castle's wardrobe, acquired from Neuschwanstein in the confusion following the death, or was it murder, of Ludwig III.

He found a monk's habit, dark brown with a high cowl. This, he coupled with an enormous, ancient looking, mask. The mask was of leather rigid with age. It was modelled on the masks worn by the Florentine's as they went forth to collect the victims of the plague that swept through the city in the 1340's – Freddie had thought that evoking something that had wiped out a quarter of the population of Europe was probably enough of a villain, even for him. The long, hook shaped nose of the mask, originally designed to hold fragrant herbs, stretched out a good two feet in front of his face.

When he entered the Grand Ballroom of the Chateau that Friday evening, no one was quite sure who he was meant to be – all they were sure of was that he certainly fitted the bill of villain or fiend. From the head of the stairs that led down into the ballroom he surveyed the scene. The Comtesse's ‘few friends' were perhaps two hundred people in all.

Clegg saw a figure that was evidently Bertie. Even in a mask it was hard to mistake his bouncing gait. “Hullo, Bertie,” Clegg boomed from within his mask. “Who the devil are you supposed to be?”

“Can't you guess old man, can't you guess?”

Clegg looked closely. “Well he said you look exactly like you've stepped out of Beau Brummel's England but I am not sure how you qualify. Unless of course this was the common dress adopted by the senior prefects at your school. What are you, sir? Villain? Fiend?”

“Ha! Right era, certainly but I, Freddie, am William Pitt. Prime Minister 1783 to 1799 when he was responsible for one of the greatest atrocities ever to afflict mankind.”

Clegg looked blank but his mask, of course, failed to communicate his confusion.

“Biggest villain of them all, Freddie, old man. Know what he did? Introduced income tax! How much of a villain is that. Look over there – Blackbeard – sank a few ships, nothing. Nero – let his city burn down. Trivial! Now my man – takes millions every year. And he's got every government in the world doing it now! Biggest fiend of the lot.”

“I do get your point Bertie,” Clegg chortled, “I do get your point. Not really too much of a problem for me you know but I can see what you mean.” Clegg had to admit that although Bertie could be tiresome he did have his amusing side.

The Comtesse was, Freddie knew, one of the premier traders and trainers in Northern Europe . She also, he knew, saw her vocation as much a pleasure as her work. Those guests who shared her enthusiasms had seized on the opportunity to parade their own particular tastes.

To one side Cleopatra towed two, cork blackened, “Nubian” slaves as she progressed across the room. To the other a crook-backed Richard the Third appeared to have taken some liberties with history as he toyed with what Clegg could only assume were intended to be the little princesses in The Tower.

Clegg was pleased to see that Elspeth had entered into the spirit of things too. This wasn't her sort of thing either but appearing as Britannia was exactly the sort of political commentary he should have expected from her, though whether it was meant to be an indictment of British imperialism or of the exploitation of the British working classes wasn't entirely clear to him. Knowing Elspeth, it was probably both.

Freddie watched as the Comtesse stepped into the room, noticing approvingly the way in which her tight black velvet dress clung to her figure and the deep neckline revealed her cleavage. She wore a long wig with black hair that almost reached to her waist. Her companion – an immensely tall, grotesque looking butler gave Clegg the answer to the question who she had come as. Clegg had seen a copy of the New Yorker earlier that year and been mightily impressed by the work of Charles Addams. He hadn't expected the Comtesse to enjoy cartoons. She moved towards Clegg, almost gliding across the floor – it was hard to see how else she could move given the tightness of her skirt.

“Freddie,” she called, laughing, “I'd know that nose anywhere!”

“Oh, thank you Comtesse,” Clegg responded with irony. “And how is Gomez?”

The Comtesse laughed in response. “Do enjoy yourself, Freddie,” she said before excusing herself and drifting away across the room to greet another of her guests.

Bertie drew Clegg's attention to a woman on the far side of the room. “I say, Freddie,” he said, have you seen that girl over there? That is what I call a villainess”

Freddie peered across. An almost painfully thin woman was standing chatting to Quasimodo. In one had she was holding a drink - a bright green cocktail – in her other she held the leash of a naked, hooded, slave crouching beside her. As Clegg looked more closely he could see that the slave's hood had the legend, “Slave David” marked on the forehead while the unfortunate slave had both of his nipples pierced with rings from which chains linked down to a further ring pierced in the tip of his foreskin. The woman though appeared quite normally dressed as far as Clegg could tell - an elegant, understated, long dress that showed off her angular, almost mannish, features. And there seemed nothing remarkable about the woman either, confident, poised dark hair slicked down with a centre parting.

“No, I'm sorry Bertie. She's got me fooled as well as you had. Evidently likes to keep her chaps well under control but apart from that? I'm obviously not as well up on villains and fiends as I thought,” Freddie said. “Who's she meant to be?”

Bertie smirked triumphantly. “You can't have seen a newsreel in the last year old chap, or looked at a newspaper. Really you should get out more. Absolutely the greatest fiend of the last year according to the tabloid press, the government and the British establishment. That woman was, if you believe them, solely and entirely responsible for putting at risk the entire British Empire not to mention the Anglican Church. Elly would approve I think.” Clegg still looked puzzled. Bertie went on. “That my dear chap is the woman who claimed you could never be too thin or too rich, whose husband is the erstwhile King of England, Edward the Eighth as was. That is the Duchess of Windsor, the American divorcee, Wallis Simpson.”

“Oh, come on Bertie, that's a bit rich. Someone's turned up here dressed as Wallis Simpson?”

Bertie laughed. “No old chap, that's not what I'm saying – not dressed as Wallis Simpson, actually Wallis Simpson.”

Clegg almost choked on his drink. “Then the chap kneeling at her side is ?” Clegg turned around as the Comtesse joined them again.

“Do you know Freddie, I think it might actually be,” she said. “One doesn't like to ask of course, but one hears such rumours.”

“Good lord,” said Clegg. “You certainly do have an extraordinary circle of friends.” He looked across at Wallis and her kneeling slave who was now trying to shuffle along behind his mistress as she headed off to chat with another woman. “Those piercings look rather painful,” he said. “Still after the Prince Edward, perhaps that will be known as a Duke of Windsor!”

The Comtesse grinned and the party went on.