November 26^th, 1922

For days I’ve been trying to talk Marguerite into wearing Queen Zizo’s chain outfit. Yes, it’s an unorthodox style, but a woman of Marguerite’s fine figure can wear just about anything. She refuses adamantly, going so far as to accuse me of crimes against fashion. As if!

November 30^th, 1922

I’m really getting tired of all the strangeness the Plateau is throwing at us this month. First witches, then poison-arrow-induced hallucinations, aliens and now an encounter with Death. The Grim Reaper wasn’t what I had imagined. He – or should I say she? Well, however I had pictured Death in my mind, the reality on the Plateau is a rather striking red-headed woman. Dressed in fine clothes, elegantly coiffed, with lovely make-up. Not only was she a pleasure to behold, in our skirmishes she made sure that I was also dressed appropriately. Wearing the white dinner jacket was an unexpected pleasure. I miss being well dressed for afternoon cocktails! But as much as I enjoyed the brief moment of sartorial splendour, the fact of the matter remains that Death tried to turn me into a permanent fixture of her kingdom and threatened my friends as well. I prevailed in my fight against her; a few more years among the living were granted to me. How I did it, I’m not quite sure. It just seemed like a good idea to smash the hour glass. ‘If you can’t shoot it, then smash it’ is my motto. Now here’s to a quiet December!

December 6^th, 1922

A new adventure – a new fashion experience! Marguerite and I were transported to an old German village and the translocation also included a change in garments. Marguerite wore a lovely style of the early 19^th century, which looked very fetching. No surprise there! I looked very dapper in a uniform that was well-cut – unlike the rather shapeless uniform I wore while serving in the Great War – and had a wonderful colour. Deep blue is a hue that definitely agrees with me. Oh, and I almost forgot – Veronica was nearly killed by a crazy musician/composer she fell in love with. That girl isn’t quite herself since Malone left us.

December 16^th, 1922

Last night’s entry was short. I just couldn’t bring myself to continue. Marguerite’s big secret why she came to the Plateau – she was looking for her identity. How ironic that my biggest secret is how I tried to escape from my identity. Lord John, British nobleman, inheritor to a large fortune, a man with a reputation. To this day I remember how my father looked at me when he found me in that shop in Paris. It was a few months before my brother died.

How young I was then. Young and carefree. Secure in the knowledge that my brother would carry the burden of inheriting the Roxton estate and all the responsibilities that were tied to it, I was living a life of leisure and pleasure. I would lead a life of my own choosing. At least that’s what I expected at the time.

I decided to fulfill a dream I had since childhood, a most un-British dream. I wanted to become a fashion designer! I knew very well that my father regarded fashion designers as mere tailors, and tailors were lowly creatures in his eyes, unworthy of respect or attention. “Wear your tweeds and don’t worry about colour coordination,” was what he always told me.

But I DID worry! The fine dressmakers at Bond Street would have been an appropriate place to begin my apprenticeship in fashion design, but I didn’t want to be in a place where family friends might show up as customers. I wasn’t ashamed of my dream, but I wanted to gain a modicum of fame before my choice of profession became known to our circle. So off to Paris I went.

My search for design fame was harder than I imagined. Being English actually worked against me. The Parisians snobbishly claimed that the King’s proud subjects were clueless about all fashion matters. I was adamant about showing them how wrong they were. At first it was practically impossible to get entry to the salons. But I found a devious solution - I decided to go incognito and create a whole new persona for myself. I created a fancy alias, calling myself Charles Campfield. I used a heavy middle-European accent, spoke with a lisp and wore only black. I also gave myself the airs of a genius. Think Challenger on a bad day.

My new persona did indeed do the trick. I rented a salon, designed my first collection, and thanks to the rumours about my unorthodox personality and amazing creativity interest in my creations grew. I sold my first collection in a matter of days. I had finally found my true calling. But doom was on the horizon.

The day when my father came into the shop is forever burned into my memory. I was kneeling on the floor, discussing skirt lengths with an assistant, when I suddenly felt a familiar presence. It was my father, who had searched all of Paris for me. How he knew that Charles Campfield and his son were one and the same person is still a mystery to me.

The look in his eyes, when he saw me do what he considered such a menial task, was heartbreaking. I tried to explain to him how happy I was, but he didn’t want to listen. “Meet me in my hotel room tonight at eight,” he said gruffly and left.

I went to his hotel that night, prepared for the worst and yet not quite expecting the vitriolic opposition to my new life that my father threw at me. He mocked my new look, my accent and – worst of all – he mocked my marvellous designs. He threw my careful drawings of dresses and accessories to the floor, accusing me of mediocrity and being a dark spot on the proud Roxton armour. Since I was so young at the time, my father’s scorn of my new career had a devastating effect.

It pains me to admit it, but I left my drawings, my designs, my budding career behind, and went back with him to England. He ordered that William and I go to Africa on safari.

“Do something manly for a change, lad. Shoot at wild animals, seduce a native or two. I’d rather have you come home with a wife than play with yarn and needle in a Parisian fashion salon.”

None of us could have known… It was on that fateful safari that I shot my brother while trying to save him from the wild ape. I know that my father always blamed himself for William’s death. If he hadn’t asked us to go to Africa, if I had been allowed to stay in Paris, William might still be alive. My father died of a broken heart, I’m sure of that. I sometimes wonder whether my guilt was less in shooting the rifle but rather in not standing up to my father that fateful afternoon in Paris.

December 29^th, 1922

We’ve seen the future and it’s bleak. Grubby clothes, unwashed people, and our new houseguest can’t even read or write.