A Brief History of Montmaray

by Michelle Cooper

  If this vision (for want of a better word) involved anyone but Isabella, I’d tell Veronica about it—she’d soon talk me back into common sense. Although perhaps not—not in the mood she’s in right now. She’s barely said a word these past few days.

  Also, while I remember—another odd thing happened. I came into our bedroom the day George died, and Veronica was sitting on her bed with her back to the door, holding a long piece of shiny cloth. Now, I am familiar with every single garment that each of us owns (there are not that many of them, and I’ve pretty much taken over doing all the laundry now), and this didn’t belong to either of us, or to anyone else in the castle. It was too glossy, too richly colored. Veronica jumped up and disappeared into the bathroom as soon as she heard me, and when she came back, rubbing her towel over her face, there was no sign of the cloth. I didn’t like to ask, but because I have Isabella on my mind, all I can think now is that it was one of her dresses. I can almost see Isabella striding along in it, the fabric swirling around her long legs. Veronica must have kept it all this time—but why? Where could she have hidden it (we do share a room), and why would it be any comfort to her now in her grief over George, given her poor opinion of her mother?

  I have had more than enough of mysteries for one day. I am wary of falling asleep and dreaming, so I’m going to sit up all night (or as much of it as I can manage) and reread Northanger Abbey. If any book is able to make dark mysteries seem ridiculous, it’s that one.

  15th December 1936

  Poor journal, I’ve been neglecting you. But I haven’t felt like writing and nothing much has happened. However, I have finally made up my mind to go to England. I haven’t actually told anyone this yet, but there it is, written down in ink. Now I’ll have to go through with it.

  You see, I’ve resolved to become Sensible. It’s futile, me trying to set myself against Aunt Charlotte, against family tradition and social custom—and that’s what I’d be doing if I attempted to stay here. It’s all very well for Veronica, but I’m not her. I’m not strong-willed or clever. I want to go to dances and dinner parties and the theater and meet eligible young men and fall in love and marry and have children. Well, I don’t particularly want to have children (not if they’re going to turn out like Henry), but the other things sound lovely. I’ll just have to learn to cope with being in a terrifying new situation so far away from home.

  Now that I’ve turned Sensible, I’ve also resolved to restrain my natural tendency towards being fanciful. So I’ve told myself firmly that whatever I thought I saw at George’s funeral was merely my overactive imagination—the result of reading too many Gothic novels, probably. And whenever I’m in the Blue Room and feel invisible fingers trailing down the back of my neck, I will remind myself that it’s merely a draft, as Veronica says.

  It’s fortunate I have all my resolutions to occupy me, because Veronica is not a very cheery companion at the moment. She’s never been like Rebecca or Henry, who let the whole world know they’re in a black mood by stomping around, lashing out, and shouting. Nor is she like me—I sit in corners and sulk. No, she simply seems … absent. Yesterday, for example, Rebecca launched into a monologue about Simon’s immense intelligence and natural leadership abilities (I can’t remember what started her off), but Veronica didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow after Rebecca returned to Uncle John’s room.

  “Is Simon going to become something important, then?” said Henry. “Is he going to be a solicitor like Mr. Grenville? Or a… a commodore? No, that’s the navy, isn’t it? What’s that gentleman called who used to live in Montmaray House in London and have meetings with their Prime Minister?”

  “Ambassador?” I offered.

  “Yes, that’s it,” said Henry. “Is Simon going to be an ambassador for Montmaray? Veronica, is he?”

  “No, he’s not,” said Veronica calmly, writing away at the Brief History. “Montmaray’s ambassadors have always been of noble birth.”

  “Veronica!” I couldn’t help protesting. “Remember, ‘Kind hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood.’”

  “Are you suggesting that Simon Chester has a kind heart?” Veronica asked, still not looking up. “Although I’ll allow the simple faith—a simple faith in his own ambition.”

  “What’s a coronet?” demanded Henry. “Soph? What do you mean about Norman blood? Is it to do with battles?”

  I might have been able to provoke Veronica into an argument about Simon then, if I’d really tried, but by the time I’d finished my explanation to Henry, Veronica had gone off to the library to check the spelling of some long-dead prince’s name and it was too late.

  It must be that she’s still upset over George…

  But now the supply ship’s been sighted, guessing from the clamor Henry’s making. Will finish this later.

  Received from supply ship—two tins of paraffin, a box of dried fruit, a sack of flour, a side of bacon, five skeins of khaki knitting wool, new boots for Henry, what looks like a Christmas hamper from the Stanley-Rosses, another mysterious brown-paper parcel that Veronica hid (although not before I’d seen it), and a letter from Toby:

  Dear All,

  Aunt C is fussing over her broken foot (an absentminded horse stood on it at Lord B’s last hunt) and is insisting I spend Christmas with her. I will try to get out of it, but she’s madly clingy at the moment. Still in shock, I expect, over … no, you’ll never guess. King Edward has abdicated! Given up the British throne to marry an American divorcée! Isn’t it too scandalous? Julia says that the unfortunate woman, Wallis Simpson, has actually been divorced twice. Or divorced once and still trying to divorce the second husband; I can’t recall the details. I’ll enclose a newspaper article for you to read. Anyway, Aunt C is appalled by the whole thing.

  Lady B is devastated, too—claims she gave the Simpson woman “a frank talking-to” at a party in London a few weeks ago and now wishes she’d been even more forceful. I can just see Lady B stomping over, all towering hair and clanking emeralds, to honk at the poor woman. No wonder Mrs. Simpson’s decamped to the Continent—I would, too, if that’s what it took to get away from Lady B. All I want to know is—why on earth would any mother (even an American one) name her baby girl Wallis?

  Anyway, that is the main news here, apart from the Crystal Palace burning to the ground—I don’t suppose you’ve heard about that, either—and the last mutterings of the Talking Mongoose. I meant to send you newspaper clippings about the Mongoose because I knew it would amuse you, but I didn’t get round to it. You see, a Talking Mongoose lives on the Isle of Man—a farmer reported seeing it, said its name was Gef and that it sang nursery rhymes and could talk in several languages. A man called Lambert managed to obtain some blurry photographs and a few hairs as evidence, and wrote a book about it. Then someone suggested Lambert might not be a fit person to be a director of a particular company, given his belief in Talking Mongooses and such. So Lambert sued for libel. And won—more than seven thousand pounds—which just goes to show that Believing In The Incredible pays. And I can just see the steam coming out of your ears, Veronica.

  What else? Oh—one of my dorm-mates has joined the British Union of Fascists. He tried to get me to go along to a rally the other week, but all he could come up with by way of argument was that the Fascist leader, Sir Oswald Mosley, is “one of us” and “a good sound chap.” (Oswald Mosley, another odd name for a baby—try saying it five times fast.) Pemberton, the dorm-mate, seemed rather confused as to the purpose of the rally—to show support for King Edward, I think we finally established, as the (former) King is rather keen on Hitler. The strange thing is that Ant went to a Communist rally last week—he showed me his “Long Live Edward, Down with the Government!” banner, and admitted they got lost on the way to Downing Street and had to ask a policeman for directions. Aren’t the Communists supposed to do the opposite of the Fascists? Or is it just that they’re both anti-Government in general? You see, this is why I abhor politics—because it
doesn’t make any sense.

  Anyway, I told Pemberton in no uncertain terms that he was being a tremendous bore and that black shirts are very unflattering for someone of his coloring, so he stormed off to rugger training in a huff. I suspect he joined the B.U.F. because he doesn’t get quite enough practice bashing up people on the playing field and thinks Fascist rallies would give him more scope in this area.

  Nothing else, except I failed another Latin test. What a pity they don’t offer Kernetin as a subject; I might have a chance of passing a test in that.

  Love from,

  Toby

  P.S. Please, please, use your Christmas pudding wishes to make sure I can come home for Christmas!

  This is absolutely typical of Toby. He must have received my letter about George by now, but does he write one word of condolence? No, he does not. Must not ever acknowledge that death exists. Must ensure that every serious topic—whether injury to an aunt, royal abdication, or political violence—is smothered in hilarity. Froth and fairy floss, that’s what Toby’s letters are.

  I sound cross at Toby, and I suppose I am, a little. No, mostly I’m cross at Veronica, who is keeping at least two secrets from me—firstly, the content and origin of all those packages she’s been receiving lately, and secondly, something to do with George. Because I think that’s where she got that mysterious cloth she was clutching—it couldn’t have been in our room all that time. George must have given it to her just before he died. But why would George have kept anything of Isabella’s?

  No, this is stupid. I am not going to speculate. If Veronica wishes to tell me anything, I will listen sympathetically, but otherwise I will mind my own business. It’s not as though I don’t have one or two secrets of my own. And I’m certain it would be kinder to keep at least one of them from Veronica.

  So back to Toby. He reminds me of our old clown doll, a foot high, round on the bottom, and weighted with lead. Henry and Carlos used to try their best to knock it down, but it always bounced straight up again, grinning wildly. That’s Toby. That’s why everyone loves him so. Well, nearly everyone. One of our old tutors, who quickly tired of being on the receiving end of Toby’s jokes, was mad about Freud and insisted that Toby was the most repressed, most neurotic, most in need of psychoanalysis of all of us. We laughed it off (Toby, of course, laughed the hardest). But even though the tutor didn’t know nearly as much about the subject as he thought, he did have a point, because Toby had to have been the most affected by our parents’ deaths. He’s the eldest, so he’d known them the longest—he was most able to understand what their loss truly meant. And worst of all, he was the one who watched it happen.

  Not that he ever said a word about it to us—Veronica and I only found out because we overheard Nanny Mackinnon telling Rebecca. This was weeks later, when Nanny and Toby had returned from Spain and the funeral was over (not that there was anything to bury, but there was a service held in the chapel). You see, Isabella had been invited to a royal wedding in Seville. However, Uncle John was being a bit difficult just then, so it was decided my parents would go instead. Part of their reasoning was that they could take Toby, who used to suffer badly from earaches, to consult a doctor. He had his tonsils removed the day before the wedding and was sitting on a balcony, eating a strawberry ice and waving to the golden carriages passing beneath, when the first bomb went off. No one knew it was a bomb at first; everyone thought it was fireworks. There were a lot of people lining the avenue below, as well as hanging off all the balconies and even the rooftops, and they all started clapping and cheering at the noise. Nanny said she remembered shaking her head as the horses shied and whinnied.

  These Spaniards! she thought. Not a care about what all that commotion might do to the poor ponies, as if it weren’t bad enough what they do to those bulls!

  It wasn’t until the second bomb exploded that anyone realized what was happening. The bomb landed on the carriage that my parents were traveling in and blasted away the roof, exploding the rest of the carriage into red-and-gold flames. That was when the police started firing into the crowd. In the ensuing stampede, no one was able to get anywhere near the carriage to rescue the occupants, or even to see if anyone had survived the explosion. All the while, the fire was spreading, via the terrified horses, to the adjacent carriages, to people fleeing the avenue, even to the ground floor of the hotel Toby and Nanny were in, although that particular blaze was extinguished straightaway.

  In total, three wedding guests, two horses, and a dozen spectators died. No one knows what happened to the bomber, who was later discovered to have sent letters to the newspapers stating he was striking a blow on behalf of Moroccan freedom fighters. (Even though not one of the victims was a member of the Spanish government or the Spanish aristocracy, or indeed, had anything to do with Moroccan repression.)

  Perhaps this is one of the reasons Toby dislikes politics—that some of the people who care most about politics seem to have the least compassion for ordinary human beings.

  Still, one good thing about politics is that it’s managed to spark some signs of life in Veronica. She came into the kitchen just now to read Toby’s letter, and proceeded to interrogate me about Mrs. Simpson (lucky for me that Julia had passed on all that scandalous gossip). Not surprisingly, Veronica is taking a very unromantic view of the idea of a king abdicating for love.

  “But this woman isn’t even divorced yet,” she said, perusing the newspaper clipping Toby had enclosed. “She’s had two husbands, both still living. Apart from everything else, he’s supposed to be the head of the Church of England—he’s hardly setting a good example.”

  “But if he’s so terribly in love…,” I began.

  Veronica was still reading the newspaper article. “She’s not of noble birth, not British, she’s not even from Europe. No money, apparently, except her current husband’s. And how old is she, anyway? She hardly looks likely to produce an heir … Hmm, perhaps it’s best he abdicated, then, if he’s such a hopeless judge of what’s appropriate and what’s not.”

  “So you’d expect Toby to give up the throne if he fell in love with someone you thought was inappropriate?” I asked.

  “Give up the throne to whom?” Veronica said. “Who else is there? Unless Henry manages to convince everyone she really is aboy…”

  As I said, no romantic sensibility whatsoever. Still, at least she’s taking some interest in her surroundings again.

  Luncheon is over and Veronica, Henry, and I have just finished mixing up the Christmas pudding. Usually it’s Rebecca or Alice who makes it, but neither of them has showed any enthusiasm for the task so far (poor Alice has taken George’s death very hard), and if we leave it much later, it’ll be Easter. We followed the recipe out of Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management as best we could, but had to improvise a bit. For one thing, not even Veronica knew how much a “gill” of milk was. Also, I don’t think Mrs. Beeton ever used goat’s milk in her puddings. We didn’t have any currants or shredded almonds, either, but we made up for it by putting in raisins and a whole jar of Mary’s candied lemon peel. Then Henry knocked the bottle of brandy into the basin, so the pudding mixture ended up with a great deal more than the required “one wineglassful.” Henry gave Carlos the bowl to lick afterwards and Carlos turned rather glassy-eyed, then slumped on the hearthrug. I think the alcohol evaporates after the pudding’s been boiled for a while, though. I suppose if it doesn’t, we’ll all be so drunk that we won’t mind if it tastes a bit peculiar.

  The main point of Christmas pudding isn’t really how it tastes, but the Stir-up, when we get to make our Christmas wishes. Henry went first this year after we agreed to measure Carlos’s age in dog years, rather than human ones. She took up the wooden spoon with a flourish, screwed her eyes shut, and stirred the mixture the required three times.

  “Phew,” she said, opening her eyes. “It’s like stirring wet sand.”

  Veronica added a splash or two more of goat’s milk. Then Henry stirred for Carlos, ho
lding his giant paw in one hand and the spoon in the other. She accidentally let Carlos’s wish slip out, so we each had to say ours then—that’s the rule, if one wants them to come true. Henry wished for a proper big tree for her to climb and build a tree house in, like the Swiss Family Robinson. Carlos wished to meet a lady Portuguese water dog so we could have lots of Portuguese water puppies. Veronica wished Toby could come home for Christmas. I said I wished for peace throughout the world, especially in Spain (I actually wished Simon could come home for Christmas). Rebecca said, “Don’t you go bothering me with your foolish games, I’ve work to do”—not that she was doing any work. And Uncle John gave an unintelligible grunt.

  Veronica and Henry have now finished tying the mixture into a cloth and are hanging it up in the pantry. Oh, here comes Alice across the courtyard. If she’d been ten minutes earlier, she could have had a wish, too. Good heavens, she’s wearing her best frock and an actual hat, and it isn’t even Sunday. Wonder what’s going on …

  Well. It is rather awful, but I suppose we should have expected it. It’s just that I can’t see how on earth we are going to manage—no, I’d better tell it in order.

  All right. Alice came in, all dressed up, refused a cup of tea, and didn’t even want to sit down at the table. All she wanted was a word, please, with “Your Highness.” Veronica, she meant. I assumed it was something to do with the supply ship not delivering something she’d ordered, or Basque fishermen sailing too close and getting their nets tangled with ours and Veronica needing to give them an official warning.