The FitzOsbornes in Exile (21 page)

“It’s not supposed to work like that,” I protested. “You’re meant to leave it up to Fate!”

“Funny you should say that!” she said. “Because you know what I came to? ‘Men at some time are masters of their fates!’ Cassius, urging Brutus to take action!”

“Urging Brutus to
kill someone
,” I pointed out. “An action that Brutus bitterly regretted for the brief remainder of his life.”

“All right,” Veronica said. “How about this, then? ‘The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power.’ That’s Hitler, obviously, and that Nazi officer, Gebhardt, as well—all power and no remorse. ‘Think him as a serpent’s egg … and kill him in the shell.’ ”

I wasn’t sure how
that
applied to us—unless Veronica and Daniel were secretly plotting to assassinate Hitler, which wouldn’t actually surprise me. However, I agreed aloud that
Julius Caesar
was full of powerful phrases.

Veronica nodded thoughtfully. “Mind you, I
did
keep getting distracted by all the historical inaccuracies in that play. Clocks striking the hour, when the ancient Romans didn’t have clocks! And people reading books rather than scrolls—”

We had a short discussion in which we failed to agree about poetic license, then Veronica said she had to get back to the library. At the doorway, she turned and added, “Anyway, you’re
not
bound to fail. I have complete confidence in you.”

Well, she might, but I haven’t.

Still, what’s the likelihood of King George attending a garden party for Girl Guides? Extremely low, I hope.

6th May 1938

Well, I didn’t get to talk to King George, because he didn’t make an appearance at the Buckingham Palace tea party. However, His Majesty is now very aware of the FitzOsbornes of Montmaray. Just not in any positive sort of way.

This, I must emphasize, is not my fault. It’s not even Henry’s fault—well, not entirely. She was provoked from the very start by little Princess Margaret, who spilled her milk on Henry’s shoes, scoffed at Henry’s name and the name of our Girl Guide patrol, refused to believe any such place as Montmaray existed, and (worst of all, in Henry’s opinion) laughed at the notion that Henry’s brother might be King. Then, while I was caught up in conversation with a Guiding Lady, Henry explained to Princess Elizabeth in graphic detail how London would be annihilated by German bombers once war was declared, which made a dozen Guides cry and no doubt condemned them to weeks of screaming nightmares.

“How dare you upset the little ones with such lies!” cried one of the mothers, clutching her weeping child. “The Germans are our
friends
!” Whereupon Henry (in her usual strident tones) replied that that was a load of rubbish, all Germans were bloody Fascists, weren’t they, Sophie? At which point, everyone realized Queen Elizabeth, resplendent in feathery pink, surrounded by ladies-in-waiting, was standing, horrified, in the doorway of the summerhouse, having dropped in unexpectedly on what was
supposed
to be a decorous tea party for the crème de la crème of junior Society.

The row that followed our misadventures at Buckingham Palace was the worst yet. Aunt Charlotte even threatened Henry with boarding school (an indication of just how upset our aunt was, because she believes sending a girl to school is like trying to teach a monkey to cook—not only a waste of time, money, and effort but extremely dangerous). Henry and Miss Bullock were packed off back to Milford Park at once, as if they needed to be quarantined. In fact, one of Julia’s stuffier aunts reported that Henry is now blacklisted in the nursery rooms of at least seven aristocratic families, although I’m not sure this is solely due to Henry’s outburst at Buckingham Palace. It may also be connected with an incident that same morning when she took Estella and Carlos for a walk in Kensington Gardens. We only found out about that later. Estella dug up a nasturtium plant and ate it, and Carlos went for a splashy swim in the Round Pond, overturning someone’s valuable toy yacht and then shaking himself dry beside a couple of venerable nannies and their infant charges, one of whom was the granddaughter of a duke.

Veronica and I are also in disgrace, Veronica for inciting Henry to misbehave, with all her talk of Fascists and bombs, and I for not supervising Henry more closely at the garden party. Suitably chastened, we are now putting on very good impressions of dutiful and well-bred nieces. We attended the opening of the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition and then, without a word of complaint, a cocktail party hosted by Lord Elchester’s vile nephew (Toby was also invited but claimed to be working so hard towards his examinations that he was unable to leave Oxford). We have also gone to three tea parties, five luncheons, and a dance in Berkeley Square, and behaved impeccably at each event. Veronica even agreed to accompany Aunt Charlotte, Lady Astley, Julia, and me to a charity fashion show this morning, where she made polite (that is, nonpolitical) conversation with several ladies. Then, as the mannequins stalked along the stage, I saw her jotting something on the gilt-edged cards they give out, on which ladies are supposed to mark down which outfits they wish to purchase. Of course, when I leaned over, I saw she was writing,
Letters to: Secretary of State for Air; First Sea Lord; W. Churchill
 …

I probably don’t need to add that the letter we sent to King George did not bear any fruit—or rather, the fruit it produced was so shriveled and bitter that Veronica wanted to throw it straight into the fire, except Simon made her keep it for our records. Simon has won quite a few battles with her lately. In particular, Veronica has come round to his view that we need to convince the government that Montmaray’s invasion poses a genuine military threat to Britain.

“After all, Montmaray’s right next to France, their main ally,” said Simon. “And not far from the Channel Islands, either, and they’re British crown dependencies. It’s in Britain’s military interest to help us.”

“But where’s our
evidence
?” asked Veronica. “How do we know the Germans have armed forces stationed at Montmaray? We don’t even know for certain that they used it in the raids against Guernica.”

“What we need are some contacts in the British navy and air force,” said Simon, frowning at his papers. “
They’d
have some idea of what’s going on at Montmaray, surely.”

“There’s Julia’s uncle,” I said. “Isn’t he something in intelligence?”

“Colonel Stanley-Ross is still overseas—I checked,” said Simon. “I can’t even find out what he
does
. It must be something terribly important, but that’s no help if we can’t get hold of him. Anyway, as I was saying, the navy and air force are both overseen by the Ministry for Coordination of Defence. So, in theory, we ought to start working away at the Minister, Thomas Inskip—”

“You mean, Caligula’s horse,” Veronica said.

“I said,
in theory
,” said Simon. “But I do know a young lady whose father’s a senior civil servant, rather high up in Defence. I may be able to convince her to put in a good word for us.”

“What, using your legendary Lotharian charms?” said Veronica with a snort.

And I couldn’t help adding, “Really, Simon, it doesn’t sound very … gentlemanly.”

He just smirked.

Then I found out via Julia that this particular young lady has Quite a Reputation—which made the whole thing even
more
distasteful. Toby also disapproves heartily, not that
I
told him. He had a loud fight with Simon about it over the telephone. Still, perhaps I won’t mind too much if it produces results …

Oh, yes, I
will
—the end never justifies the means! But the whole thing is too repugnant to consider further, and besides, I need to go and pack (that is, watch Phoebe pack) for this Bosworth house party to which Veronica and I have inexplicably been invited. I’m certain it will be
dire
. Oh dear, I wish Toby were coming, too, at least we’d have someone friendly to talk to, but he claims he
cannot tear himself away from his textbooks
 …

8th May 1938

How wrong can one be? All the way to the Bosworths on Friday afternoon, Veronica and I were moaning about how awkward and tedious and pointless the whole thing would be, and wondering whether there’d be any way we could escape before Monday morning.

“They don’t even have a decent library,” said Veronica. “All the books are about
horses
.”

“And Lady Bosworth loathes us,” I said.

“Well, no, she only loathes me,” Veronica said.

“She ignores me,” I said. “Which is almost as bad. I bet she only invited us because she thought Toby would come. Or else she’s invited some Americans and she wants to impress them with a bit of royalty. Oh … I just had a terrible thought! Cynthia will probably make us go
riding
!”

“Perhaps we could escape on
horseback
,” said Veronica. “How far is it to Milford, do you think, cross-country?”

Unfortunately, Simon had taken the Lagonda in order to promote his nefarious schemes—I think he was planning to whisk the Girl with the Reputation away on a picnic—so Parker had to drop us off, having arranged to collect us again on Monday morning. I suppose the Lagonda would have been a bit of a squash, anyway, what with Veronica and me, two big trunks, several hatboxes, and Phoebe. (Phoebe was the only one who was thrilled by the idea of staying with the Bosworths. I think she’s in love with one of their footmen.)

It was even worse than I’d imagined, walking into the Bosworths’ drawing room for tea that afternoon. Over by the table was a loud, tomato-faced baronet, who’d danced with me at my coming-out ball (if one could call jerking my arms about and stomping on my feet “dancing”). He was being shrieked at by two horrible girls who’d once spent an entire luncheon party sneering at Veronica. Blocking all the warmth of the fire was a very broad Elchester cousin, who was arguing about rugby with a former dorm-mate of Toby’s (Toby had pointed him out at a dance last year and warned me away from him). To top it all off, there by the window, leafing through
Vogue
, was Penelope Stanley-Ross, Julia’s snooty sister-in-law.

“At least Oswald Mosley’s not coming,” muttered Veronica. “I asked the butler.”

We gazed into the room like swimmers contemplating an ice-encrusted pool in the middle of winter. Then, with a couple of deep breaths, we plunged in. Veronica was immediately snagged by Toby’s dorm-mate, but I floundered alone in the deep end for quite a while. Lord Bosworth eventually took pity on me and “introduced” me to the two horrible girls, whose names I pretended to have forgotten. We made desultory conversation for a quarter of an hour, then Cynthia stomped in, brushing mud off her jodhpurs. She asked if Simon was with us, scowled when I replied in the negative, and proceeded to ignore me. Meanwhile, Lady Bosworth was in a flap, because she’d just discovered her son was bringing his party of young gentlemen the next morning instead of that afternoon, which meant an excess of females at the dinner table that evening. Horrors! For a moment, I thought she was going to make me have supper upstairs on a tray to balance out the numbers, but in the end, the vicar and an ancient bachelor neighbor came to her rescue.

Dinner was interminable, although at least there wasn’t any discussion of politics this time. Afterwards, I sat and watched the older couples play bridge while the Elchester cousin plinked out some “music” of his own composition on the grand piano. Beside me, the two girls flirted with the red-faced baronet, Cynthia flipped through
Horse & Hound
, and Toby’s dorm-mate, Geoffrey, described his hunting exploits to Veronica in excruciating detail.

“No doubt you’ll find it more lively tomorrow, when the rest of the boys arrive,” Lord Bosworth said to me in kindly tones as we went upstairs. “Fun and games! Or, as you young people say,
high jinks
!”

He really is a dear old thing. I just hoped he hadn’t overheard Veronica telling me how she’d coped with Geoffrey’s monologue.

“I simply recited to myself the names of all the British kings and queens, in chronological order, starting with Egbert,” she said. “Whenever I came to a new dynasty, I’d say out loud, ‘Gosh!’ or ‘Really?’ When I reached the House of Windsor, Geoffrey was still going on about a five-mile point, whatever that is, so I did them all again, backwards, with the dates of their reigns.”

“I
thought
you looked a bit too absorbed for it to be real,” I said.

“It’s all those Ethelbalds and Ethelberts that are tricky,” she mused. “The Tudors are so much easier, only six of them.”

The next morning, I managed to avoid being included in Cynthia’s riding party by hiding in the loo for half an hour. Veronica wasn’t as lucky—she was forced into a two-mile walk to the Roman ruins (a couple of fragments of mosaic floor she’d already seen) with Geoffrey, Penelope, and the Elchester cousin. I waited till everyone had gone, then crept up to the Long Gallery. I was happily ensconced there by the fire with
Persuasion
when a commotion downstairs announced that the party from London had arrived.

“Ah,
there
you are, Your Highness,” said Lady Bosworth, pouncing on me a few minutes later. “Where
has
everyone disappeared to? Well, you’ll show this young lady around, won’t you, while I find—Darling! Where have the boys gone? The
billiards
room? Oh, for heaven’s sake!” And Lady Bosworth stalked off, leaving me to entertain the American Ambassador’s daughter, Kathleen. I looked at her with interest because I hadn’t met any Americans before (apart from Anthony’s mother, and her only briefly, in the chaos of Julia’s wedding). At first glance, this girl appeared much like anyone else, except for having more teeth, all of them very large and straight and white. They were noticeable because she smiled so often—indeed, I’d never before met a girl of my own age who was so friendly and relaxed. I liked her at once.

“Call me Kick,” she said, demonstrating her nickname by kicking off her shoes and curling her feet beneath her on the sofa. “All my friends do. Are you
really
a princess? Gosh! So, are you making your debut this Season? I’m being presented at Court next week, and boy, you should
see
my Court dress! It’s gorgeous! White tulle with silver threads, from Lelong in Paris. My sister got hers from Molyneux.”

I asked about her sister.

“Rosemary’s two years older, and then I’ve got three younger sisters, but they’re all still at school, and four brothers.” She laughed at my expression. “Don’t you
have
proper-sized families here in England, then?” she teased. She went on to tell me all about her life, which sounded fascinating—a father on first-name terms with Hollywood stars and the American President; a couple of dashing older brothers at Harvard; her own convent education in Connecticut and then France; holidays spent winning tennis trophies and sailing her own boat and dancing to swing records. She even chewed
gum
! I had to refuse, though, when she offered me some from a little paper packet—I was afraid Lady Bosworth would see and report me to Aunt Charlotte for unladylike behavior.

The morning’s riders and walkers eventually straggled in, damp and dirty, and made straight for the fire, followed shortly by the billiards players. It was, as Lord Bosworth predicted, all fun and games from then on. The boys were entranced by Kick, even though she wasn’t beautiful, or even very pretty. She was sturdily built rather than ethereal, her face was square and freckled, her hair was even wilder than mine—but she was so lively and confident that none of that mattered. (There’s probably a lesson somewhere in there for me. What a pity it’s as difficult to change one’s personality as one’s looks.) Kick sprawled on the floor and poured out a stream of gossip and politics and bad jokes in her slangy, enticing American accent, and the boys laughed and argued and teased her back. The girls were equally impressed—they didn’t even try to compete. It was amusing to see the two horrible girls become instant longtime friends of mine once they realized Kick liked me. (“Oh, but you should have seen
Sophie’s
Court dress!” they cried. “Sophie, do tell Kick about that wonderful speech your brother gave at your coming-out ball!”) The only one to ignore Kick was Geoffrey, who seemed to have fallen head over heels for Veronica.

“You’re being very patient with him,” I said to Veronica that evening as we dressed for dinner. “It must be such a bore for you, when he’s so dreadful.”

“Oh, I don’t mind
very
much,” Veronica said. “If Simon can bear it, I expect I can.”

“What do you mean?” I said, putting my hairbrush down.

“Well, you know who Geoffrey
is
, don’t you?”

“Yes, he’s Toby’s awful dorm-mate, the one who tried to get Toby to join the British Union of Fascists.”

“Well, he seems to have lost interest in Fascism now, thank heavens for small mercies. If only he’d lost interest in hunting as well. Anyway, he’s Geoffrey Pemberton.”

“Who?”

“Oh, Sophie! His father’s Sir Julius Pemberton, from the Foreign Office.”

My mouth fell open. “Veronica FitzOsborne!” I gasped. “I can’t believe you’ve actually been, been …” I couldn’t even find the words. “Been
encouraging
that poor boy’s attentions, just to get access to his father!”

“I haven’t been encouraging him,” she said. “I’ve simply refrained from
discouraging
him.
I
didn’t want to come to this stupid house party, but I’m not going to ignore an opportunity when it jumps up and down in front of me. Anyway, you didn’t think he was a ‘poor boy’ a moment ago—you said he was dreadful.”

“I am absolutely appalled,” I said, deciding to ignore that last remark. “I just want you to know that I thoroughly disapprove. And I suppose
that’s
why you’re wearing
that
dress.”

“I’m wearing it because, firstly, you and Julia made me buy it, and, secondly, it’s the one Phoebe laid out for me tonight. She spilled talcum powder on my black silk, and I wore the blue gown last night. Why, do you think it’s a bit much?”

“You’re practically falling out the top of it,” I said, which was only a slight exaggeration. “Geoffrey will be struck deaf and dumb at the sight—or is that your intention, so you’ll be spared another hunting monologue?”

“One can only hope,” Veronica said, peering in the looking glass and trying to tug up the neckline of her dress. “Isn’t it
odd
, the way males react to what are, after all, simply bits of flesh designed for feeding infants? I’ve had whole conversations in which men have spoken directly to my chest—as though they expected
it
to answer. But it’s just biological determinism, I suppose, in which any sign of female fertility acts as a—”

“
Please
don’t mention biology or fertility in Geoffrey Pemberton’s presence,” I begged her. “I can’t bear to think of what the consequences might be. And here, take my wrap. You need it more than I do.”

I kept a wary eye on Veronica all evening. However, I have to admit that her behavior was entirely proper and her dress no more revealing than the other girls’, so it’s probably just bad luck that Geoffrey has invited us to his country house for—

The ink blot obscuring my previous sentence was the result of a startling interruption. I’d decided to update my journal, and the Long Gallery proved to be much warmer than my bedroom (Lady Bosworth doesn’t believe in fires being lit in guests’ rooms; she thinks it encourages hibernation). I was perfectly safe in the Long Gallery, I’d thought, as everyone else was off riding or playing tennis or working on the vast jigsaw in the music room. So there I was, scribbling away in what I’d imagined was an empty room, when I suddenly heard a voice say, “Ah! Kernetin, I presume.”

My head jerked up and I stared with astonishment at the middle-aged gentleman who’d appeared directly in front of me. He tilted his head, examining my page with interest. His gaze was so intelligent that I slammed my journal shut at once, for fear he might actually be decoding what I’d written (even though I knew that was impossible). But how could a complete stranger have known it was called Kernetin? How, for that matter, had he been able to approach me so silently?
Was
he a stranger, after all? Now that I came to look at him more closely, there was something familiar about that faded hair slanted across his forehead, those sharp hazel eyes …

I held out my hand. “Colonel Stanley-Ross,” I said. “How do you do? I’m Sophia FitzOsborne.”

He beamed at me, showing nice crinkles around his eyes, and shook my hand. “And you’re just as clever as I’d heard! May I sit down? I’d ask to have a closer look at that marvelous book of yours, but I fear that really
would
be presumptuous. However, I cannot resist one enquiry—is that an abbreviated form of Kernetin that you were using?”

I acknowledged that it was. “I suppose you’ve seen Toby with the proper version.”

“Yes, and that hard-hearted boy refused to teach it to me, on the grounds I was both a grown-up and a non-FitzOsborne. But now I see it’s boustrophedonic—most ingenious!”

“I expect you come across quite a few codes in your line of work,” I said, hoping to find out what exactly he did.

He twinkled at me. “Oh, it’s a fascinating area,” he said, giving nothing away. “And
speaking
of interesting communications”—he fished around in the pocket of his tweed jacket—“I’ve just come from Oxford and happened to drop in on my favorite nephew. He asked me to give you this.” The Colonel handed over an envelope, my name written on the front in Rupert’s careful, rounded script. “He was reluctant to send it to your aunt’s house when you weren’t there, seemed to imagine she might open it
herself
. What a suspicious boy he is! I wonder where he gets it from? And no, I haven’t peeked, I promise.”

“Did you see Toby at Oxford, too?” I asked, sliding the envelope inside my journal.

“I’m afraid not,” said the Colonel. “It was quite early in the morning when I visited, about a quarter to eleven. He was still in bed.”