A Brief History of Montmaray

by Michelle Cooper

  “I promised His Majesty,” whispered Rebecca. “Not to tell, not while…”

  “How convenient,” sneered Veronica. “Now that there’s no one left to contradict your ridiculous story, you think you can spread a lot of lies to further your son’s ambitions.”

  “Veronica, really,” said Toby. “Simon had no idea.”

  She turned on him then. “And you! The only reason you’re giving this any credence is that you’re terrified at the thought of taking on a king’s responsibilities! How much easier to hand them over to Simon Chester, who’s cleverly made himself so indispensable to you!”

  “Stop it,” said Toby, in a very low voice. “I know you don’t mean it, Veronica. It’s just that you’re upset and I can understand why, it must be awful, especially with your poor mother …”

  “Don’t you dare mention her!” snapped Veronica, and before anyone could move, she had stormed out of the chapel. Toby, looking distressed, took a few steps after her, then stopped.

  Henry tugged on my sleeve. “I don’t understand,” she whispered to me. “How could Uncle John get married to Aunt Isabella if he was already married to Rebecca? And why is Veronica—”

  “Not now, Henry,” I said.

  “Soph?” said Toby, falling to his knees beside me. “Please, could you go after Veronica? She’ll talk to you.”

  Rebecca had moved closer to the altar and was staring down at Uncle John’s face with a ghastly, triumphant expression. It was this more than anything else that made me tug Henry to her feet and lead her and Mr. Herbert into the kitchen, where I sat them down and made them tea. I left Henry teaching Mr. Herbert the complicated rules of Squid and went in search of Veronica, eventually finding her, as I should have known, in the library. She was halfway up a ladder on the second floor, her face buried in a heavy leather-bound volume.

  “Veronica?” I said tentatively. “Are you all right?”

  “What? Oh, hello.” There was a dust-colored smudge across her black skirt, and a cobweb dangled from her ebony hair clip. “Ha! Just as I thought …” And she backed down the ladder, a couple of thick books tucked under one arm. She sat on the lowest step, placed the books on her lap, and beckoned me over. “Look at this. Village child claims to be the grandson of King Stephen, appears to be the very image of King Stephen’s son. The court rules that illegitimate offspring have no claims to heredity and Bartholomew the Second retains the throne. The story’s confirmed in Edward de Quincy’s journal.” Veronica gave the thickest book a friendly pat.

  “But wait a minute,” I said. “Does that mean … do you think Rebecca’s telling the truth? That Simon really is … who she says he is?”

  Veronica shrugged. “If Rebecca had any proof, she’d be waving it in our faces, and she’s not. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that Simon Chester can’t possibly inherit the throne. Toby is the eldest living legitimate male relative of the late King—the throne is his.”

  It shouldn’t have surprised me that the question of who should be king was foremost in Veronica’s mind. However, Rebecca’s outburst had other implications.

  “You know, if Simon really is Uncle John’s son,” I said, “that makes him your … well, half brother. And it means Rebecca is my aunt. Sort of.”

  “Don’t be so revolting, Sophie,” said Veronica with a faint shudder. “Anyway, what happened? Is the funeral over?”

  I shook my head and explained it had been postponed. The coronation, traditionally held seven days after a king’s funeral, seemed destined to be even more postponed. I couldn’t see Rebecca backing down on this, no matter how many relevant documents Veronica pulled off the library shelves. And if Simon was convinced that Rebecca was telling the truth, not to mention Toby…

  As usual, Veronica seemed able to read my mind. “I suspect Toby might regard Simon’s taking over the throne as a lucky escape for him,” she said quietly. “However, we’re going to convince him otherwise.” She brightened. “Oh, and I must write to Aunt Charlotte at once. I’m sure she’ll be very supportive of our position when she hears of this.”

  She gathered up all her books and we went back to the kitchen. Rebecca appeared to have locked herself inside Uncle John’s room and was thumping around in there, possibly in some sort of tribute to him. Henry was beating Mr. Herbert at Squid, and Toby and Simon had disappeared. Veronica sat down next to Vulcan and started scribbling down notes while I went looking for the boys. They weren’t in Henry’s room, which they’d been sharing due to the leak in Toby’s room. Nor were they in the nursery, the Blue Room, the Gold Room, the attics, up on the roof, in the chapel (poor Uncle John looked quite forlorn lying there, alone and unburied), in the gatehouse, or anywhere in the courtyard. It was only after I’d given up and was washing my hands in the bathroom that I heard a low laugh and realized they’d hidden themselves away in the Solar. I shoved open the door at the far end of the bathroom.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you—” I started crossly, then broke off. Toby and Simon were scrambling up from where they’d been half sitting, half lying against the wall. Both looked flushed; Toby looked guilty.

  “How’s Veronica?” said Toby at once.

  “What do you care?” I frowned.

  “Sorry, we were busy talking and lost track of the time,” said Simon, smoothing back his hair. “There was rather a lot to discuss, and we preferred not to say it in front of Henry.”

  I stared at him. “Sorting out which one of you is going to be king?” I said in a voice that sounded remarkably like Veronica’s. Simon blinked at me.

  “Now, Soph—” began Toby.

  “Don’t ‘Now, Soph’ me!” I cried. “Veronica’s right—you don’t want to be king, do you?”

  There was a pause.

  “Perhaps Simon would do a better job of it,” said Toby.

  “Perhaps Veronica would do a better job of it,” I said. “In fact, I’m certain she would. But it’s not going to happen, is it? She’s already looking up things in the library and there’s no way… Besides, when Aunt Charlotte hears about this—”

  “I’ve a great deal more influence over Aunt Charlotte than either of you have,” said Toby. The set of his mouth reminded me of Henry at her most stubborn. It made me absolutely furious.

  “Don’t you dare threaten me!” I shouted.

  “You have no idea—” Toby began.

  “Stop it! Both of you,” said Simon. We stopped it. “Look,” he said. “Things are a bit strange at the moment, but there’s no need to shout at each other like this.”

  “I’m sorry, Soph,” said Toby quickly. “I’ve just been very… upset.”

  He hadn’t looked at all upset when I’d pushed the door open. He’d been smiling and leaning against Simon, practically sitting in his lap. If I was being honest with myself, it was that that had bothered me the most. If Toby had been a girl, I would have been burning up with jealousy (well, obviously, if Toby had been a girl, he wouldn’t have gone off alone with Simon and ended up sprawled over the floor with him, but still). Even as it was, I envied Toby for how close he was to Simon, for having the sort of friendship with Simon that I could never have. And this made me ashamed of myself, especially as I was supposed to be finished with my ridiculous infatuation with Simon. So although I was still angry on Veronica’s behalf, I grudgingly accepted Toby’s apology and offered an (insincere) apology of my own. Then we all went downstairs.

  A couple of hours later, the funeral started again and this time continued to the end without interruption. After the blessing, we stood and carried Uncle John down to the crypt, stopping before one of the few unoccupied tombs (I tried not to think about the last time I’d been down there). As a compromise, Simon and Toby removed the Royal Seal together and handed it to Mr. Herbert for safekeeping. The Oath of Accession, the traditional method of introducing the soon-to-be-crowned King, was omitted altogether. Finally the stone lid was scraped back into place over Uncle John and we trooped back upstairs into the chapel to sn
uff out the candles.

  The funeral dinner was a dismal affair. Rebecca was stomping around upstairs, occasionally bursting into unintelligible rants. The rest of us poked at the rabbit stew on our plates and said very little. As soon as possible, I escaped to the library so I could find a book to bury myself in. I wasn’t in the mood for Jane Austen or even the Brontës. I wanted something with no romance at all, something sharp and cynical, so I ended up with The Importance of Being Earnest. It was as I was settling myself in bed with it, wondering what the time was and wishing that I had a watch like Simon’s, that I had a horrible thought. I must have made some sort of strangled noise—Veronica glanced up from the letter she was writing.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You don’t think that Toby and Simon are…,” I said, then bit my lip. I looked at Henry, sprawled across Veronica’s bed with her half-built Meccano train engine. Veronica raised her eyebrows impatiently. Henry kept working away with her tiny screwdriver, the tip of her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth. “Well, that they’re a bit like Oscar Wilde and that boy?” I whispered.

  “Oscar Wilde?” said Veronica blankly.

  “The writer!” I said, waving my book at her. “The one who went to prison!”

  “Did he?” said Veronica. “Why? Was it for sedition or forgery or something?”

  “No, no, it was for …” I hesitated again. If I said “the love that dares not speak its name,” I might have to explain further. This would cause problems, not only because Henry was in the room, but also because I wasn’t entirely sure what it meant. Well, I knew in general terms, but …

  “It was for indecent behavior,” I ended up whispering at Veronica.

  “Oh,” she said without much interest, turning back to her letter. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised at anything Simon Chester gets up to.”

  Henry lifted her head at that. “Veronica, is Simon going to be King now, instead of Toby?”

  “Over my dead body,” said Veronica, her pen scratching across the paper.

  “Is that what your letter to Aunt Charlotte says?” Henry exclaimed. “Ooh! Can I write one, too?”

  “Why not?” said Veronica, handing her a piece of paper and a pencil. “And what do you want?” I glanced around and saw with a start that Rebecca was in the doorway, looking furious. I suspected she’d heard everything, even the Oscar Wilde bit, although she was glaring at Veronica, not me. She snarled in our general direction, then disappeared.

  “You can do a letter as well,” Henry said to me, not having noticed this. “Or you can help me with mine. I’m going to do mostly pictures. I’m doing one of Toby wearing a crown.”

  I shook my head, my mind still full of Simon. I was almost certain now that Toby had given Simon that gold watch; it fitted with the accounts Veronica had been going over. It was Simon’s birthday at the start of the school year; I was sure of it…

  I groaned and buried my head in my pillow.

  “I know how you feel,” said Veronica sympathetically. “It’s an awful situation, isn’t it?”

  I agreed in a muffled voice that it was completely awful.

  “But there’s nothing else to be done about it at the moment, so why don’t you update your journal? It’s important that we have a record of these events.”

  I sighed. Then I went out and got my book from its hiding place in the gallery and I wrote all this down.

  8th January 1937

  Mr. Herbert’s yellow hair is sticking up all over his head from his clutching at it, making him resemble nothing so much as a stout hen with very ruffled feathers. “My dear child,” he clucked at me when I poured his tea this morning. “I would feel far easier if you and your sister and cousin would join me. Your passage is booked aboard the ship, you know, and I believe the Princess Royal is expecting you…”

  Mr. Herbert has also made several attempts to talk Toby into returning to school, but Toby says he wants to make sure we are all right. Simon assured Mr. Herbert that he’d accompany Toby back to London himself in a fortnight or so, once Rebecca was feeling more “herself” (not an appealing prospect—I think I preferred her silent). Simon implied that our entire household would be leaving with him. He only dared say that because Veronica was in the library at the time, though.

  Poor Mr. Herbert—he can’t comprehend our resistance. He himself can’t wait to leave this cold, dripping, rat-infested castle, populated as it is with madwomen and ghosts and people who have no idea who their fathers are. He is refusing point-blank to take sides in the king debate, saying only that he will consult with Aunt Charlotte as soon as he returns and promising to pass on all our letters. There is a thick wad of them. Even Simon wrote one, although I’m pretty sure Veronica contrived to burn it before the package went into Mr. Herbert’s bag.

  Luckily for him, Mr. Herbert won’t have to endure Montmaray much longer. The ship carrying Mr. Davies-Chesterton from the British Foreign Office arrived this morning. Toby and Simon are down in the crypt with the young man now, showing him the tomb. It shouldn’t take long for him to pay his respects—he didn’t even have a wreath; it fell overboard when he was getting out of the launch. He is a very junior diplomat. He looks about fourteen. He looked even younger when Veronica was ticking him off about his having missed the funeral. He made the crewman who brought him across from the ship come with him up to the castle, as though he were afraid he might otherwise be left stranded here.

  I wonder how he’d react if he were in the kitchen now, because Rebecca has just burst in and is raving on and on about Death. I really do wonder if she’s gone a bit mad. Apparently she was off telling the bees about Uncle John’s demise—if there are any of the poor little creatures left, that is; I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d all drowned, in this weather. It is an old Cornish custom, telling the bees, but there’s nothing in the tradition that says one can’t wear a raincoat or a hat if it’s pouring. She looks like an elderly Ophelia risen from a watery grave—sodden hair straggling over her face, black dress plastered to her body—as she staggers towards the stairs. I suppose it’s rather appropriate, given Uncle John’s Hamlet-ish behavior over the years. Now I’m trying to imagine the two of them as beautiful, tragic young lovers, torn asunder by cruel fate. It isn’t really working. It does explain Rebecca’s hatred of Isabella, though, and the way she’s treated Veronica all these years. Did Isabella know about Simon, I wonder? Was it that knowledge that helped her decide to leave?

  Thank heavens I’ve switched to writing in Kernetin—Mr. Herbert just peered over my shoulder. I’m sure he’d be scandalized by a young lady writing about It, particularly if he managed to read last night’s entry about Simon and Toby. Oh, and now Rebecca’s stumbled back downstairs with some black cloth to drape over the kitchen garden: otherwise the plants will wither, the crop will fail, we’ll perish of starvation, and so on. Where did she get all that black stuff from, anyway?

  Oh, she really is too much—that’s my mourning dress! Admittedly it was a bit big around the waist, but I was going to take it in. It was the first new frock I’ve had in ages! Oh, the others are leaving now…

  Goodbye, Reverend Mr. Herbert. Goodbye, Mr. Davies-Chesterton. Heavens, Simon must be the only person in the world who can manage to look dashing in that old macintosh.

  No, I’m not going with them. I am going to console myself over the loss of my frock with some of that fig-and-ginger jam and a leftover breakfast scone…

  The most dreadful, terrible, awful thing has happened!

  I should have gone down to the wharf with them, I really ought to have gone, but Toby said he and Simon could manage the bags themselves and it was raining so hard and I couldn’t bear the thought of trailing after the two of them, watching Toby with his arm around Simon’s shoulders, or worse, Simon tousling Toby’s hair and laughing at Toby’s jokes … but now I can’t help thinking that if only I’d gone, it wouldn’t have happened. Or if I’d been firmer with Henry and insisted she stay; or if I’d ordered Carlo
s to go along with them …

  Oh God, poor, poor Toby! And I felt so angry yesterday when I found him in the Solar with Simon, so full of sick, jealous fury that for a moment I actually wanted to hurt him. It’s as though I’m being punished now for thinking such horrible thoughts, because it’s far worse to see Toby in pain than to have suffered such an injury myself. The snapped bone was actually sticking out through his skin … Ugh, I think I’m going to be sick just remembering it …

  Back now, having hung over the basin for a bit. Wasn’t actually sick, as it turned out.

  All right.

  What happened was that Simon, Toby, and Henry took Mr. Herbert, Mr. Davies-Chesterton, and the crewman down to the wharf. The two passengers were bundled into the launch with Mr. Herbert’s luggage, the crewman tugged the rope free of the pylon and jumped in himself, and the launch was wrenched away by the waves, disappearing almost at once in the spray and the mist.

  Simon isn’t sure what happened next. He said Henry had been doing handstands and cartwheels along the wharf, and that she must have slipped. Toby lunged to catch her, both of them dangerously close to the edge. It might have been all right even then, except for the wave that suddenly crashed over them—not even an ordinary wave, but one of those ten-foot terrors. Simon, turning around at that moment, said they vanished completely in the white water. When it cleared, Toby was clinging to the side of the wharf, his legs battering against a pylon, and Henry was lying on the wharf, clutching at Toby’s arms, screaming for help. Simon ran over, almost skidding into the sea himself, and yanked Toby to safety, shouting at Henry to run back to the castle and try to signal the ship. But there was no point; it had already gone, vanished into the fog.

  By the time Veronica and I got there, Simon had pushed Toby’s dislocated arm back into his shoulder (mercifully, the freezing water had numbed it) and carried Toby to Alice’s cottage. There hadn’t been much he could do for the leg, though. Even Veronica looked daunted when she tore away Toby’s trousers. The break was halfway down his shin, the bone having carved itself through the flesh like a serrated knife. It was the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen—worse than Hans Brandt, even, because I knew that he wasn’t suffering, not anymore, whereas Toby clearly was. In the end, we gave Toby a mug of brandy (Veronica had had the foresight to grab a bottle of it, as well as bandages, before we ran down), and then I went outside with Henry while Veronica and Simon pushed the bone back into place and strapped it all up with a splint.