The FitzOsbornes in Exile

by Michelle Cooper

  I suppose I should provide a description of Aunt Charlotte here. I’d always pictured her as a female version of Uncle John, only younger and nicely dressed and sane (so, not very like him at all, really). She certainly is just as grand as I’d expected, and very handsome, with curling chestnut hair parted to one side, piercing blue eyes, and the long, straight FitzOsborne nose. This morning, she wore a beautifully cut black-and-white suit with a cream silk blouse, black silk stockings, and black shoes with gold buckles. There were large pearls in her earlobes and around her neck, a diamond-and-sapphire horseshoe brooch pinned to her lapel, and an assortment of large, glittering rings on her left hand. And I could see that these were just her everyday jewels, laid out routinely on the dressing table each morning by her maid. I could only imagine what treasures Aunt Charlotte had tucked away in her safe, thanks to her rich, dead (and, according to Toby, unlamented) husband. Who hadn’t had a “proper title,” either, come to think of it, just a knighthood. It seemed a bit much for Aunt Charlotte to criticize the poor Morland girl, whoever she was. Although I suppose Aunt Charlotte had had more than enough title for both her and Uncle Arthur, being a king’s daughter and everything.

  At that point, a very good-looking footman came in and murmured something in Aunt Charlotte’s ear. “Take whom to the station?” she said. “Oh, Simon Chester.” I choked on my toast. “Well, tell Parker to have the car back by half past ten. No, eleven—such a lot of correspondence to attend to this morning. I shall need more black sealing wax, too. Now, has a breakfast tray gone up to His Majesty? And to Her Highness?”

  The footman murmured a bit more, then departed. Luckily, the notion of a chauffeur named Parker helped divert me from any foolish speculation about where Simon was going, or how long he might be away.

  “One needs to supervise every little thing,” Aunt Charlotte sighed. “Even to ensuring breakfast gets sent up to Tobias. Although I must say, I think that’s sheer indolence on his part. If I can limp downstairs with my injured foot, then an energetic young man certainly ought to be capable of it.”

  “But Toby’s leg is still in plaster,” said Henry. “Your foot’s not.”

  “It remains weak and frail,” said Aunt Charlotte sternly. “But those of us with responsibilities do not have the luxury of dwelling on our infirmities. One struggles on, no matter how fragile one may be.”

  Since Aunt Charlotte looked about as fragile as Cleopatra, Henry did not bother to express any sympathy but only asked if we could visit the village this morning.

  “The village?” said Aunt Charlotte with a frown. “Well, perhaps I could spare Barnes as a chaperone, although she does have that evening gown to hem and all my furs to—” Aunt Charlotte suddenly peered at her newspaper. “Good heavens, the Dowager Duchess of Dewsbury has died! In San Luis Obispo, wherever that is. How very eccentric of her.”

  “Well, Aunt Charlotte didn’t actually say no,” said Henry an hour later as we set off across the park by ourselves. Veronica had shown no inclination to get out of bed, and Toby was unable to walk so far on his crutches. He did, however, give us detailed directions, lend me his comb and his smallest jacket, and press a handful of coins upon me, ordering me to buy myself something nice.

  The park proved to be very pretty—almost too pretty. On one side was tame woodland, and on the other was a lake, far more pleasingly shaped than Nature could ever have managed. There were a lot of smooth, sloping lawns and then, wherever the beauty of this began to pall, avenues of trees and sculpted hedges. There were sundials and statues, fountains and follies and fishponds, all in the most fitting places.

  The village of Milford was equally picturesque, although more rustic. I could just imagine Tess of the d’Urbervilles trudging down its narrow road on her way to some fresh disaster. Toby had said there was an actual mill, too, where the river narrowed, but we only went as far as the village green. This was edged by a row of stone cottages decorated with ivy, an inn called the Pig and Whistle, a shop, a lovely old church, and a Georgian vicarage (we waved at its front windows as we walked by, just in case the Reverend Webster Herbert was at home). The shop seemed the busiest—there were bicycles leaning against it, women clutching wicker baskets standing about the doorway, and boys playing marbles on the footpath nearby. Everyone stared as we approached—probably flabbergasted by my hair, which Toby’s comb hadn’t done much to improve—but then they all recovered and were very polite. Henry bought a pennyworth of sweets from a jar on the counter and ran out to share them with the boys. I chose the thickest exercise book they had, then looked around for something to cheer up Veronica. I couldn’t imagine her showing much interest in gingham-capped pots of blackberry jam or little bags of dried lavender, which was all they seemed to stock in the way of gifts. But then the nice shopkeeper unearthed a dusty booklet about Milford, written by a local historian twenty years ago. The shopkeeper and I were both very pleased by my purchase. I hoped there’d be some historical inaccuracies in it for Veronica to get indignant at, she’d enjoy that—

  Oh, Toby has just limped in and collapsed on the sofa beside me. Henry is settling his broken leg on a footstool and fetching him the newspaper. He needs another cushion, though. Just a minute …

  Back again, hours later.

  Toby explained that he and Henry had spent the past half an hour perched on Veronica’s bed, trying to prod her into showing some signs of life.

  “I even stole her pillow,” Henry said, sprawling on the floor with her sketchbook. “But she just pulled the blankets over her head. Toby, can you please pass me the red crayon?”

  Fearing for the well-being of the Aubusson carpet, I asked Henry whether this was really the best place for crayon-based activities.

  “Course it is,” said Henry. “It’s a drawing room, isn’t it?”

  I explained that that was short for “withdrawing room,” a place in which ladies and gentlemen could conduct civilized conversation, usually while sitting on chairs. Toby only laughed. At that moment, the butler, tall and terrifying, glided in to announce that “the Right Honorable, the Viscount Whittingham” had arrived.

  “Yes, thank you, Harkness. Send him in,” said Toby. I had just enough time to cast a frantic look at my shabby skirt and wonder who on earth the Viscount Whittingham was before Henry jumped up.

  “Anthony!” she cried, rushing over to the familiar figure stooping in the doorway.

  “That’s ‘Lord Whittingham’ to you, young lady,” said Toby with mock severity. “Come and sit down, Ant. Sophie, could you ring the bell for tea?”

  “No, I’ll go!” shouted Henry, because she’d just discovered that the dumbwaiter—a little elevator used to convey dishes to the dining room—provided a quick and interesting route to the kitchen. She galloped off.

  “Hello, hello! How are you, Sophie?” said Anthony, coming over to wring my hand. “Gosh, we were worried about all of you!”

  “You saved our lives, Anthony,” I said sincerely. “If you hadn’t raised the alarm and sent someone for us—”

  “Oh, no, no, no,” he protested, stepping backwards. He narrowly missed Henry’s crayon, slipped on a stray piece of paper, and landed in an armchair. “Oof! No, but, really, it was mostly Julia’s uncle, you know, Colonel Stanley-Ross. And that Basque captain—what was his name?”

  “You shall all be awarded the Order of the Sea Monster for personal services rendered to a Montmaray sovereign,” said Toby grandly. “Once I’ve found out whether there is such a thing as the Order of the Sea Monster …”

  “It couldn’t possibly be called that,” I said, although I knew our family did have some sort of jeweled decoration. I’d seen people wearing it in old portraits in the Great Hall at Montmaray.

  “The Danish have an Order of the Elephant,” said Toby. “Which is just silly. At least we have sea monsters at Montmaray. And then there’s the British—the Order of the Garter!”

  “Well, your cousin will know all about it,” said Anthony, settling back in his
chair. “In fact, Veronica’s the reason I came over. You see, I realized this morning that I hadn’t delivered her parcel as I’d promised. Terribly sorry about that! Got left in the aeroplane, and what with all the rush …”

  I suddenly saw that he held Veronica’s manuscript of A Brief History of Montmaray, as badly wrapped as when she’d thrust it at him that dreadful afternoon … could it really have been only six days ago?

  “Where is she, anyway?” asked Anthony, setting the parcel on the gilded table beside him. “In the library, I suppose!”

  Toby sighed. “In bed, actually, and no sign she’s ever going to leave it.”

  “Oh!” said Anthony. “Oh, I do hope she isn’t ill.”

  “No, no,” said Toby. “Just sulking.”

  “Toby!” I protested. “She could have died! If Captain Zuleta hadn’t arrived when he did, I don’t know what would have happened.”

  “But … but your aunt didn’t mention anything about that!” gasped Anthony. “Good heavens! Was it one of the bombs or falling rock or—”

  “No, Rebecca tried to murder her with the firewood ax,” said Henry, coming back into the room.

  “Rebecca? You mean—your housekeeper?”

  With unfortunate timing, the parlor maid arrived with the tea tray. She began to set out the silver teakettle, teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl, and tiered stand of scones, gingerbread, fruitcake, and finger sandwiches while Anthony stared at us, and her, in horror.

  “Thanks, Phoebe, we’ll manage the rest,” said Toby after about half a minute of this. “Ooh, smoked salmon, we are lucky! No, no, that’s fine. Sophie can pour.”

  The maid, a thin, sallow girl not much older than me, bobbed her knees and departed.

  “Here, Henry,” said Toby, shoving some fruitcake and half the sandwiches into her hands. “Take this down to Carlos. The poor thing must be lonely, and probably starving, too.”

  “You’re going to talk while I’m gone, aren’t you?” said Henry. “I don’t know why you bother sending me off, I know all about it, anyway.”

  “Yes, but this way I can look Aunt C in the eye and swear I haven’t said a word in front of you,” said Toby. “Oh, and keep a lookout for her, will you? Give us a signal if you see the car coming up the drive. She’s gone off to Lady Bosworth’s for a chin-wag, so she’ll probably be hours, but one never knows.”

  “I’ll give my special whistle,” Henry said, cheering up. She provided us with an ear-piercing demonstration, then ran off.

  “Rebecca?” repeated Anthony as soon as Henry had disappeared. “Tried to murder Veronica?”

  “Well, perhaps not,” said Toby. “It’s possible that Rebecca just happened to be swinging the ax around and Veronica sort of … got in the way of the blade.”

  “And we think Rebecca was a bit mixed up,” I added. “She might have thought that Veronica was her mother. Veronica’s mother, that is, not Rebecca’s mother. Veronica and Isabella do look awfully alike, and Rebecca always hated Isabella.”

  Anthony, not surprisingly, appeared even more confused.

  “But the woman’s been arrested?” he said. “She’s in prison now?”

  “Not … exactly,” said Toby with a sideways glance at me (we’d already had one lengthy argument about this). “Because we’re not quite sure what happened. Neither Veronica nor Rebecca is saying much, and no one else was there. Besides …”

  Besides, there were a number of other complicating factors, including Rebecca’s revelation that her son, Simon, was the eldest child of the late King of Montmaray. But I didn’t think Anthony needed to know that.

  “Anyway, for now, she’s locked up in the attic,” said Toby. “Only, Sophie’s convinced she’s going to creep downstairs one night like the mad Mrs. Rochester and burn us all in our beds.”

  I maintained a dignified silence and ate a scone.

  “Well!” said Anthony. “It’s all very, very …” He struggled for a while. “Odd” was the word he finally came up with.

  “Never a dull moment with the FitzOsbornes,” agreed Toby calmly. “Mmm, this gingerbread’s good.”

  It certainly was, and so were the sandwiches, which had the crusts cut off and were filled with all sorts of delicious things. And the scones—I barely recognized them as such, they were so fluffy and high, so beautifully round. The few times I’d tried to make scones back home, they’d been reduced to cinders when our temperamental stove had flared up. Or else they’d emerged as desiccated lumps that had to be scraped off the baking tray, then sawed open with a carving knife.

  I lifted my Spode teacup and was suddenly convinced that I was dreaming. What other explanation could there be for me sitting here, having tea with a viscount in an elegant drawing room? Unless I’d split in two a few days ago. Here I was, the new-made twin, set down in a fascinating, incredible world, while the old Sophie, the real one, was still in Montmaray, milking the goat and cleaning out the stove and setting buckets under the leaky parts of the castle roof when it rained. Perhaps Uncle John was still alive there. Perhaps Hans Brandt had never made his fateful midnight trip to the castle, perhaps he and Otto Rahn had never visited Montmaray at all …

  My head felt fuzzy. I tilted warm, smooth china against my lips, the taste of bergamot and lemon and sugar rolling over my tongue. It wasn’t enough to convince me that this was real. I concentrated on the voices.

  “—and Julia sends her love, of course,” Anthony was saying. “She had to go up to London, sort out bridesmaids’ frocks or some such thing.” His voice took on a proud, tender note as he contemplated his fiancée. “But she’ll be back tomorrow, and they’re all longing to see you. Her mother wants to invite you to luncheon next week, although if Veronica still isn’t well …”

  “She will be,” said Toby. “The doctor says she’s perfectly able to get out of bed now.”

  “Oh! Well, I’m glad the doctor said … But then, it doesn’t seem awfully like your cousin to, um …” Anthony trailed off.

  I knew what Anthony meant. He’d been impressed—possibly even intimidated—by Veronica’s intellect and energy. He, like the rest of us, had assumed she was invincible. It was disconcerting to think of her as even slightly broken.

  “Don’t worry. She’ll be back to her usual self soon,” Toby assured us. “I have a plan.”

  19th January 1937

  One would think I’d have far more time for writing in my journal here than I ever did at home, now that I have servants to cook my meals, and wash my clothes, and even put an extra log in the fireplace if I wish (not that I’d ever ring the bell for that; the intimidating butler might turn up). But somehow, the hours seem to fly past, and now here I sit, days after my last entry.

  There has been rather a lot happening, though. Firstly, our new clothes arrived, and it was like ten Christmases at once. Two suits for me, one a lovely, heathery tweed and the other a dark blue jersey, as well as a gray box-pleated skirt and a slim black linen one. Three silk blouses, two plain and one striped, and three Aertex shirts. A knitted jersey, a matching cardigan, a coat, two pairs of shoes, and a sweet little velvet hat that my unruly hair keeps shoving off my head—plus pajamas and vests and knickers and cotton gloves and handkerchiefs and lisle stockings. I’d only ever worn socks before, so the stockings make me feel very grown-up and sophisticated. Or they would if I could figure out how to use the mysterious devices that prevent the stockings from falling down.

  There’s also a black woolen frock for church, because we’re all supposed to dress in mourning when we go out. Toby says I ought to be able to get away with white or violet as half mourning because Uncle John wasn’t my father. I wholeheartedly agree with Toby, as black makes me look like a very faded ghost. Aunt Charlotte is not yet convinced by our arguments. She is thoroughly Victorian in such matters.

  Veronica has the same clothes as I do, except one of her suits is black and she got brassieres as well as vests, on account of her having a great deal more bust. Veronica says the brassieres don�
��t fit properly and need to be sent back. Aunt Charlotte says they’re supposed to be uncomfortable. The two of them also had a spirited debate about girdles. Veronica is not willing to suffer on behalf of Modesty and Decency, let alone for the sake of Fashion—a stance that Aunt Charlotte finds both baffling and perverse.

  But all that arguing came later. First, the doctor came back to check Veronica’s stitches.

  “Thank heavens debutantes wear long gloves,” said Aunt Charlotte, frowning at Veronica’s arm after the doctor had gone. Thin purple lines crisscrossed Veronica’s right palm, and there was a three-inch puckered ridge, bristling with spidery threads, running along her wrist.

  “Yes, that’s my main concern—how I’ll look in a ball gown,” I could just hear Veronica saying sarcastically to herself. However, as she wasn’t talking out loud at that stage, she only pressed her lips together and stared out the window.

  “It is a tiny bit gruesome, Veronica,” said Toby, sitting on the end of her bed. “As though you tried to do yourself in. Except you’re right-handed, so I don’t know how you’d actually manage to—”

  “Stop babbling, Tobias,” said Aunt Charlotte, looking round to ensure Henry and all the servants were out of earshot. “Now, there are matters to be resolved. What have you done about getting rid of that dreadful woman in the attic?”

  “Well, Simon’s been investigating various … options,” said Toby.

  “I fail to see why options are needed,” said Aunt Charlotte irritably. “The woman is a homicidal maniac. It’s perfectly clear she needs to be taken away by the police and locked up in Holloway.”

  “But if Rebecca is mad, she’s not liable for her actions,” said Toby. “So she can’t be sent to prison. Besides, we don’t really want her going to court, do we? All sorts of things could come out.”