The Marquise was a former beauty queen, whose face- her only talent- now bore the scorch marks of a lifetime of lies and malice. A ruinous aspect on life that had left her considerably cankerous, bilious and bloated in her dotage.
She had dozed off peacefully enough in her comfortably worn leather wingback chair, after breakfasting on a brace of quail’s eggs accompanied by several indulgently buttered crumpets. She enjoyed listening to the warm hoots of the wood pigeons, and the metronome, tok, tok, tokking away the hours, as disturbed motes from the dusty books sifted through the early morning shafts of sun. She liked it in the library. It was most tranquil. The dank odour from the carpets kept others away, but it mattered to her not one jot.
After a few moments, the Marquise laboriously eased herself out of her favourite chair and ambled arduously to the window casement, with the simian gate of one whose legs have yet to fully awaken from slumber. She traced her finger idly along the lead beading of 'The Garden Of Earthly Delights'. It's rendering really was exquisite. She truly felt that her personally commissioned Hieronymus Bosch stained glass picture windows really gave the room a prodigious feel. Peering through a rare empty space in the debauched triptych, she spotted Thrust-Munch as he marched into view, looking for all the world like he owned the place. Swiftly stepping back into the obscurity of the ever-gloomy library, her scowl did little to enhance her repugnant demeanour.
Outside, preparations for the gala were well under way. It had been the Colonel's idea, a foolproof way to show off a choice selection of Miss Bintwrangler's finest works. She really did have a way of capturing the unexpected with that box camera of hers.
Yes, a handful of distinguished guests, an extensive tour of the grounds, taking in the rotating summerhouse, the ornamental pagoda and the Monkeypuzzle Drive, followed by a spot of light lunch by the bandstand, a short lecture from the Reverend, and the grand unveiling, was just what was needed. Maybe even a lawn game or two: quoits, perhaps. All in all, an excellent way to curry favour with those whose opinion mattered most and also an insidious opportunity to further his relations with Constance. He had a feeling his amorous dalliances had not gone unnoticed.
Rounding the windiest of corners, Norbury and his valet Clench strode towards the house, where their noses caught the evocative scent of freshly cut grass, with perhaps, every now and then the unmistakable residual waft of the cesspool effluent and the library it had so rudely intruded upon. Thrust-Munch's nose wrinkled in disgust.
'Clench. Get the Stench-muffler, there's a good man. We can't have this malodorous ronk ruining my meticulously planned day. And get Master Twemlow and Lady Jezebel to give you a hand with the bunting, I'm told the girl’s a dab hand with that sort of thing. By the way, have you seen my delicate little Constance?'
In Clench's opinion, the 'delicate little Constance' in question, was a dried up old sow, but in no way did he let this show on his pallid, pendulous face.
'Miss Bintwrangler's just putting the finishing touches to the arboretum, training and trimming her topiary into those perturbing and suggestive shapes she’s so fond of, down by the old Gastric Mill race. Just follow the stream, you can't miss it' said Clench, pointing vaguely into the middle distance.
The Colonel stalked off in the instructed direction, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, leaving Clench to deal with the fumigator, a treacherous device he'd hooked his gizzards on on more than one occasion. Behind him the archaic machine rumbled into life, billowing great smuts of choking smoke for several minutes before it squalled, crunched, guttered and died.
Spaz and Flid, who had been expertly groomed and fitted with new taffeta ruffs for the occasion, scampered at the Colonel's heels, tripping him repeatedly, and generally making a hindrance of themselves.
'Loathsome, lousy little knob Jockeys! Wiffett would have none of your gibbering foolishness!' he chuntered, making a mental note to accidentally dropkick at least one of the asinine canines into Slag-Grope Lake at the next opportunity. The sooner he got himself and his fine hound ensconced here, the better. He would soon have things shipshape.
For her part, Miss Bintwrangler had hand selected a clutch of the most noteworthy gentlemen and ladies of the picturesque village of Saintless Niche on Manifold and its environs; the significant, the superior, the celebrated, and of course those with far reaching influences. As each arrived, she was there to ensure that either herself or her dearest Norbury was there to greet them personally, ascertaining that neither the malingering and meddlesome Marquise nor that window-licker Clench were anywhere in sight.
Reaching across to whisper seductive, breathy nothings into Norbury's waxen ear, she gave a surreptitious tweak to his proud nipple. As an involuntary mewl escaped him, she popped an industrial strength mint between his lips. God forbid he should inadvertently breathe his toxic miasma into the upturned faces of the guests. She knew only too well how his legendary breath could bring a tear to one's eye. Often, she caught herself ruminating on how he required his own herb-strewer to precede him, although secretly, she had grown to quite savour its ripe charms.
First to arrive was Lord Ambrose Ambrose Winnit IX, a spoonfaced noob if ever there was one. As a competent mutineer and an accomplished virtuoso of the muted trumpet, he had been near the top of Constance's list of invitees.
Following hot on his heels were the esteemed Mr. Foulk Stapleford and his fiancé Miss Ettiley Heath, whose unfortunate face, crumpled as if perpetually riddled with doubt, peered out meekly from beneath a thatch of gossamer-thin titan hair and a precariously balanced hat. Mr Stapleford was first apprentice to Mr Boondock Frisk, of Bribe, Bribe & Frisk's Undertakers, Embalmers & Morticians; a Monumental Mason, and, in Mr Stapleford's opinion, a Monumental Oaf. Mr Frisk's sense of humour was not to everyone's taste. Indeed, his particular style of low buffoonery was usually highly inappropriate in a funereal setting. Thankfully Frisk’s wild notion of a plaque above the door proclaiming ‘We put the FUN back in funeral’ had been shouted down at the last director’s board meet.
Next, to arrive was the aptly named Dame Rotunda Asquith, curator of the Apuskidu Squid and Fish Museum, as remote and aloof as ever, and her good friend Horatio Flange, the self confessed aesthete and devilishly handsome owner of the Smug Kitchen Art Gallery. Tales of his rampant loins preceded him. He took Miss Bintwrangler's far from dainty paw and with a flourish, bowed profoundly, actually succeeding in brushing his moist, succulent lips against her slightly overlong toenails. A blushing circle of ladies both young and mature watched this display from behind their fluttering fans, long evenings of gymnastic depravity on their minds. Indeed, the move even seemed to enthral Lord Winnit IX, under whose scrutiny Mr Flange had been for some time. He simply didn't seem to be able to stop fondling his moustache, twisting and twirling the ends until they were quite corkscrewed, resulting in an utterly preposterous countenance.
Measuring the situation carefully, the often-unperceptive Norbury decided it was high time he stepped in, and under a flimsy guise of civility, he near dragged Constance away from Flange, purposefully thrusting her towards their latest arrivals.
'The celebrated author, Miss Philomina Millicent Gripewater and her identical cousin Miss Cecilia Sprint-Strudel.' introduced the Colonel.
'Charmed' they chimed in unison.
'Extraordinary!' Miss Bintwrangler enunciated enthusiastically.
'Yes, how unusual! Your own mothers must have the very devil's work cut out for them, just telling you apart!' quipped the ever ubiquitous Horatio Flange.
'Indeed they do!! Aside from my love of deserts, which gives me away time and again! I'm a complete sugarwhore!! Cecilia's more of a fillet mignon girl, but give me a crepe suzette any day!' indulged Philomina, flirting outrageously.
As the steady stream of cultured guests arrived, each was duly introduced to the Colonel by Miss Bintwrangler, or vice versa, and then plied with the intoxicant of their choice, be it sparkling, on the rocks or dry with an olive.
'Ah, Lord Winnit, I believe you haven't met The Professor yet! Professor Dreadnought, may I introduce Lord Ambrose Ambrose Winnit IX. Lord Winnit, this is Professor Dulcimer Dreadnought, from the institute.' offered the colonel by way of introduction.
'Yes, yes, but who are you?!' inquired the professor, offering the Lord a dismissive handshake, forgotten almost before it started. He turned to the Colonel questioningly.
'Why, I am Colonel Norbury Liquorice Thrust-Munch, of course, Miss Bintwrangler's beau. I visited you at the university last year..?’
'Ah, yes, yes, quite, quite, you must forgive me, I was unaware of your ... your ascension to this most envious status... Miss Constance and I have not had much call for correspondence recently. Not recently at all, at all...' Thrust-Munch smiled wanly, as the professor’s conversation dwindled into repetitious mumblings, serving as his own echo.
Once all the guests had arrived, and after charging their glasses once more, the party set off on an amusing junket past the hothouse and on through the specimen rose garden, led by the happy couple. The coppered domes of an obsolete observatory tower winked at them through the trees. It had more recently been modified to house an extensive weather station, whose pinwheels, gauges, and suite of clocks and barometers were something to behold. They paused to marvel at the innate beauty in the intricate myriad brass cogs, pendulums, dials, and pulleys. There was even a saucily amusing water-powered automaton of a goatish gentleman with a jaunty topper, who saluted each evening with his own full moon.
'And this, of course, is our astronomical clock' boasted the Colonel, temporarily forgetting exactly what was who's. Taking mental note, Constance acquiesced with nought but a tight smile.
'Yes, these elaborate clocks do set one back rather a pretty penny.... we had one set in the wall of our South turret and it was extortionate!' interjected Cecilia Sprint-Strudel inadvisably.
They sauntered on, exchanging benign banter; the men’s superficial and pompous, the women’s deliciously unclouded by thought.
Having initially tagged along behind, Lady Jezebel and her brother Twemlow stole off towards the bandstand, disinterested in the spurious facts of the Colonel's concocted monologue.
Marquise Nomenclature also took this opportunity to decamp from the house, commanding full attention of the servants. First nibbling a few savouries and a finger sandwich or two at the buffet, then, emboldened, the dowager sampled extensively from the cocktail menu, finally making her way to the spectator’s seats in front of the bandstand where she made herself at home, a small cache of olives and glacier cherries concealed in her lap. Glancing through a programme on her chair, she tutted openly at the idea of 'The Geraldine Mowbray Skiffle Experience' who headed the bill. A barber's shop quartet from the village, known as 'The Mrs M Social Club' were warming up, and she contented herself with that. She had always relished a good a cappella.
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