A Brief History of Montmaray (10 page)

SINCE JULIA AND ANTHONY left, I’ve spent most of my time curled up in the Blue Room, reading Walter de la Mare and sighing a lot. The weather is doing its best to match my mood – mist and showers, interspersed with icy squalls. It’s affecting everyone, even Veronica. Yesterday, she and Henry had an enormous row in the kitchen – I could hear the shouting all the way up in the Blue Room. Ten minutes later, Henry burst in, ranting about how mean and unfair Veronica was, and how Veronica only cared about people if they’d been dead hundreds of years. I gathered Veronica had accused Henry of taking a piece of paper from her
Brief History
notes and then drawing on the back of it.

‘She never even
listened
to me!’ Henry shouted. ‘She’s always blaming me, I’m
always
the escape goat!’

‘The ... what?’ I said. ‘You mean, scapegoat?’

‘That’s what I said!’ Henry stomped around the room a bit more. ‘Anyway, I
needed
that paper. I’m drawing up some very important plans for Jimmy’s and my raft. It’s going to have a
mast
and a special diving bell off the side, so we can collect all the sunken treasure at the bottom of the Chasm. Maybe even
two
masts!’

Then I went downstairs to find the shouting had set off Uncle John, who was stalking around the kitchen and raving about Isabella, with Rebecca nodding and urging him on whenever he seemed to falter. It’s like living in Bedlam, here, sometimes. If it hadn’t been pouring, I would have gone off to the village to spend the rest of the afternoon with Alice.

However, today dawned a little brighter – and we had letters delivered. There was a fat package from Toby, a thin one from our solicitor and a little brown-paper parcel that Veronica immediately hid in the sewing basket. It must be from the solicitor as well, although I don’t know why she’d bother hiding it. Unless it’s some sort of surprise for someone – no, the next birthday is Veronica’s and that’s three months away. Wait, could
Simon
have secretly sent Veronica something?

One would think that all this cold, wet weather would have doused any lingering sparks of romanticism in me. Clearly not.

Anyway, here is Toby’s letter, translated:

Dear Everyone,

Rupert just told me all about Julia’s visit! She was most impressed with the castle – yes, yes, Veronica, fortified house, I know – and found Rebecca and Uncle J terrifyingly Gothic. Julia’s rather fun, isn’t she? None of us can work out how she ended up engaged to Ant, who could bore for England. But perhaps girls go for men who are Political, is that true, Veronica? Ant’s certainly that – last time I saw him, at Rupert’s brother’s engagement party, he was droning on about the evils of Capitalism, all the while stuffing himself with plover eggs (which were scrumptious, I must admit). I hope you put him in my room and he got dripped on when it rained – he adores it when he gets a chance to experience how The Poor live.

Speaking of parties, Aunt Charlotte made me spend half-term with her, which would have been dire except for two things. Firstly, I took Simon with me (he had papers and things for her to sign anyway), and secondly, Lord Bosworth had a three-day shooting party and invited us for dinner on Saturday. Thank Heavens he didn’t think to invite me to the shoot. I wish I could say it’s because I feel sorry for those poor pheasants, but it’s really that I’m afraid I’ll blast my foot off or worse.

I suppose you want to know what we ate and who was there. Well, there were five courses – caviare, grilled sole with salad, beef with mushroom sauce and potatoes, cheese soufflé, and a pudding of sponge cake with angelica syrup and whipped cream – also, champagne and three sorts of wine and then port. By the end, I felt like the snake that swallowed the bison in that book of Henry’s. I just sat there, digesting, certain I wouldn’t be able to move for another six months, while all around me the men lit up their smelly cigars and talked over the top of one another. It was all about politics, of course, and if it hadn’t been for my enormous stomach being in the way, I would have ducked under the tablecloth, crawled towards the door and tried to make my escape.

The politics was even worse than usual because the German Ambassador, von Ribbentrop, was there – oh, I heard the most amusing bit of gossip about him from Julia! It seems he was only a Ribbentrop, not a von, but he managed to persuade some elderly female von Ribbentrop that he was actually related to her, and he had her adopt him so he could take on her aristocratic name. Isn’t that a scream? Especially as all the girls call him von Ribbensnob – you should have heard him at dinner, he’s worse than Lady Bosworth.

As for who else was there – Rupert’s eldest brother and his wife (who is Lady B’s niece); a young American widow called Mrs Hooper, dripping with diamonds (she even had them on the ankle straps of her shoes); one of the Mitford girls (forget her name, but not one of the madly Fascist ones, thank Heavens, there was more than enough politics already); two Earls; and a French Duke. I rather think I was invited to see if I’d ‘do’ for Lord and Lady B’s youngest daughter, who looks and sounds almost exactly like a horse. At first I wondered if Lady B mistakenly thought we had money, but no, turns out she’s just gaga about royalty, even unimportant ones like us. Needless to say, I tried to be as charmless as possible around the daughter. (And don’t tut, Soph, I wasn’t cruel. To mollify you, please find enclosed two
Tatlers
and a
Country Life,
which I stole from Aunt C’s drawing room.)

Now I am back at school, which is as horrid as ever. I have failed two Latin tests, History is a mystifying blur of dates and names, and we are doing
Titus Andronicus
in English. Also, the Music Master is in love with me, so I have to keep dashing into broom cupboards to avoid him in the corridors. By the way, an accident happened with my roommate’s bagpipes, I can’t imagine
how
it occurred, but they are unplayable. The entire school is prostrate with grief.

Must go, lights out in a minute. Do write back lots and lots, you know how much I miss you all.

Then there were notes for each of us, even Carlos – it’s supposed to encourage Henry to practise her reading aloud. Carlos’s and Henry’s were in English, of course. Veronica’s mostly consisted of a letter that Simon had drafted and Toby had signed regarding Montmaray’s policy of non-intervention in the Spanish conflict, which had been sent to the British Foreign Office. Veronica read it aloud to us and I understood just enough to be impressed by Simon’s clever phrasing. Veronica said it was meaningless diplomatic drivel and that Simon had better not have used the Royal Seal, but that perhaps it would remind someone somewhere in that government that Montmaray was once an influential presence in European politics. Then she went off to the library. Lucky she did before I translated my note, otherwise she would have wondered what I was squeaking about and asked to read it. It said:

Dear Soph,

I didn’t dare put this in the letter because I knew V would have a fit, but Simon came to dinner at Lord B’s. I pretended he was some sort of cousin of ours and a diplomat besides (well, he is, sort of). Aunt C didn’t realise until it was too late, and then it didn’t matter because Simon was so charming and clever.
Truly.
Lady B’s daughter, the horsey one, was quite taken with him.

Then we played a game after dinner, where you say a line of verse and everyone has to guess where it’s from. I was completely stupid at it – all I could think of to recite was ‘The Lady of Shalott’ – but Simon quoted Edward de Quincy’s ‘Voyage of King Bartholomew’, which had everyone stumped (even me – I’d forgotten just how awful Edward’s verse could be).

And then Simon started telling all sorts of Montmaray stories – pirate raids and sunken treasure and the Armada and Napoleon and so on – and the girls were
mad
for it, which of course drew von Ribbensnob over like a bee to honey (he has Wandering Hands, just in case you ever have the misfortune to meet him; the girls were all giving him a wide berth). Then he and Simon had a long fireside chat about history and politics. I didn’t understand a word, but von R was most impressed, I could tell. Isn’t it splendid for Simon? He is wasted in that clerk’s position. If only he spoke German...

Also, I must tell you that Julia thought you were very pretty. She said you had beautiful eyes and the sweetest expression. I know you won’t believe a word of it, but it’s true. So there. Just wait till you come over here and acquire some nice dresses, you’ll outshine all the debutantes. And yes, of
course
I’ll convince Aunt C to buy you lots of lovely things, did you really need to ask? Is V still being stubborn or have you talked her round by now? Regardless, make sure she writes to Grenville about the travelling arrangements – or I could get Simon to do it. Let me know. But
do
get on with it.

I’m not sure which I found more thrilling – the thought of Simon in evening dress impressing everyone with his cleverness, or the image of myself in a glorious, glittering gown, walking into a dinner party on (I may as well admit it here) Simon’s arm. Drawing gasps of admiration. ‘Who
is
that elegant couple?’ Et cetera.

Yes, utterly pathetic, I know. Anyway, it’s a sharp reminder that I need to stop being such a jellyfish and determine once and for all what I’m doing – staying here with Veronica or leaving. But any decision-making will have to wait till tomorrow – I’m going to bed now. My throat feels as though I’ve swallowed a handful of sand. I do hope I’m not getting a cold...

THE WEATHER IS MISERABLE and so am I. My nose is clogged, my head aches, and I can’t stop coughing. I’ve been trying to read, but have to keep breaking off to grope for a handkerchief and then I lose my place – and besides, my eyeballs hurt whenever I move them. I thought writing might be better, but it’s no good either. I can’t help wondering if this is God’s punishment for me fancying myself in love with Simon. And now I’m sounding like Rebecca – I really must be feverish. Going to try to sleep now, although every time I drift off, I dream I’m drowning in a deep, dark sea...

Veronica just came in to bring me hyssop tea and the news. Henry is coughing now and so is Rebecca – although they’re attempting to outdo each other in protestations of wellness, Henry because apparently it’s
girlish
to be confined to bed and Rebecca because she believes His Majesty would starve to death if she weren’t up and about to look after him. There has been no communication to or from the village today, most unusual for us, but that’s probably a good thing, as we don’t want to spread this whatever-it-is to them. Imagine if George became ill – he’s not getting any younger, and this incessant coughing is so wearying. Veronica points out, however, that we probably caught it from the men who brought our mail, one of whom she remembers coughing and spluttering all over our parcels, in which case we’ve all been exposed to it.

I’ve just read back over this and cannot believe I actually wrote the inane phrase ‘not getting any younger’. I do hope my brain hasn’t been
permanently
affected by this ’flu...

I WRITE THIS SITTING by Henry’s bed. Her face is flushed and damp, and her limbs keep jerking the blankets crooked, but at least she’s sleeping now. Awake, she is a most uncooperative patient. She fusses when I try to get her to sip some hyssop tea, refuses spoonfuls of broth and pushes my hand away fretfully when I sponge her forehead. Veronica, the only one to have escaped the contagion, is worried enough to have raised the ‘Doctor Required’ signal flag over the gatehouse. Not that many ships are likely to see it – there’s a storm bearing down on us from the north and another from the west. Any captain worth his salt would be steering well clear of us. There have been hardly any ships around lately, anyway – I think it’s to do with the Spanish war. But as I keep telling myself, what could a doctor do that we aren’t already doing?

Veronica has just taken a pot of chicken soup (she promised me it wasn’t the white fluffy hen) and a jam roly-poly down to the village, in case any of them are ill. Meanwhile, my voice has disappeared almost entirely after reading Henry three chapters of
Treasure Island
(using appropriately terrifying tones for Black Dog and old Pew). It’s the only way to keep her in bed. At least her fever seems to have broken, thank Heavens. Going downstairs now to brew some hot lemon and honey for my throat...

Veronica is back and says Alice, Jimmy and George are all coughing, but George is by far the worst affected. He wouldn’t let her visit him – he was afraid she’d catch it, even though Veronica shouted through his door that we have been coughing all over her for days and she feels fine. Mary reported he looks dreadful, grey and withered, with his chest sunken in. Veronica has left the doctor’s flag up over the gatehouse, but the weather is terrible, there are no ships on the horizon and, in any case, George despises doctors. He maintains that sea air, brandy and comfrey ointment cure just about every ailment known to man and that ‘bone saw-ers’ just make matters worse.

Oh, Henry’s awake again – back to the Admiral Benbow Inn and marauding buccaneers...