Aunt Charlotte huffed. “There’s absolutely no proof of her ridiculous claims about her son!”
“Well, there’s Alice and the other villagers,” said Toby. “They’re all living in Cornwall now. They might know something about who Simon’s father really—”
“Hearsay,” interjected Veronica, unable to stop herself.
Toby shot me a triumphant glance—he’d made a bet with me that she’d be talking by teatime if he kept mentioning Simon. Veronica sat up higher in bed and began ticking off points on her uninjured hand.
“Firstly,” she said, “the law doesn’t recognize evidence based on what has merely been reported to a witness by someone else. What does it matter if Rebecca repeated her absurd claims to Alice or Mary? Their evidence is inadmissible in court—they’d simply be repeating old rumors. Secondly, even if Simon is my father’s son, he’s illegitimate. Rebecca might claim there was a wedding, but it wasn’t witnessed by anyone, let alone performed by a minister, and it certainly doesn’t appear in any FitzOsborne records.”
Aunt Charlotte gaped at Veronica, astounded by the sudden deluge of words.
“Thirdly,” continued Veronica, “my father had twenty-two years to acknowledge Simon as his son, if he’d wished, and he didn’t. Fourthly, the identity of Simon’s father is irrelevant to the issue of succession when there already is a legitimate male relative of the late King.” Veronica gave Toby a pointed look.
“But I’m underage,” said Toby.
“You’ll be eighteen next month,” Aunt Charlotte said, finally recovering her powers of speech.
“But isn’t twenty-one the age of majority?” Toby asked hopefully.
“King Stephen was only fifteen when his father died,” said Veronica. “His mother ruled as Regent for the next two years, but he’d barely turned seventeen when he ascended the throne.”
No one seemed to have noticed that we didn’t have a throne anymore, nor a castle, nor a kingdom. But I wasn’t going to be the one to remind them, not when Veronica had finally started talking again.
“I still think I’m too young,” said Toby.
“Too lazy, you mean,” said Veronica.
At that point, Aunt Charlotte’s maid tiptoed in to whisper that the Earl of Dorset was on the telephone.
“About that horse, I suppose,” said Aunt Charlotte. “Wait here,” she ordered us, then stalked off.
“Actually,” said Toby, lowering his voice, “it’s not revelations about Simon’s father that worry me. It’s more what Rebecca might tell the police regarding that German soldier. Aunt C doesn’t know anything about that, of course.”
“Rebecca was there, too,” I said. “She was the one who wanted to hide the body. She had as much to do with it as we did.”
“Or even more than us,” agreed Veronica. “She was meant to be keeping an eye on Father.”
“Yes, well, this is Rebecca we’re talking about,” sighed Toby.
“What are you saying?” I asked. “That she’s threatening to—”
“Of course,” said Veronica, slumping back against the pillows. “She and Simon Chester think they can blackmail us into giving them what they want. And what they want is for Simon to be King of Montmaray.”
“Oh, no … I don’t think so,” said Toby, not very convincingly. “It’s more that Simon’s worried about his mother and wants her to get some proper help. There are all sorts of clinics now for people who are, um—”
“Homicidal maniacs,” said Veronica.
“I’m not denying she needs to be somewhere secure,” said Toby. “But, Veronica, those old asylums were just awful! You don’t want Rebecca locked up in a place like that.”
Veronica only raised her eyebrows at this. Oh, don’t I? was what she seemed to be thinking.
“What did Simon say in his letter this morning?” I asked Toby hastily.
“Oh, that he should be back by this afternoon, and that he inspected a place in Cornwall and another near Poole,” Toby said, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. “The one near Poole looked the best. Right by the sea and almost like a nursing home. They stay in bedrooms rather than wards, and therapists take them on outings and teach them how to weave baskets and so forth.”
“It sounds expensive,” I said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll talk to Aunt C,” said Toby. “I think I can persuade her it’ll be worth whatever it costs, to avoid a scandal.”
“And you think that’ll satisfy Simon Chester, do you?” Veronica said. “That once Rebecca’s settled in a luxury loony bin, he’ll happily go back to being a solicitor’s clerk, carting files around and fetching people cups of tea?”
Toby and I looked at each other and then at the carpet. That was the problem. All of us—probably even Veronica—believed that Uncle John was Simon’s true father, regardless of the arguments about Simon’s legitimacy. And Simon had always been fiercely ambitious. Now he had proof, of sorts, that he’d been cheated out of his rightful place in Society. Even the most noble of souls would have felt some resentment about that.
“What if,” said Toby, with the unmistakable air of one grasping at straws, “what if Simon was made, um, Regent? And looked after things till I turned twenty-one? Then I could be crowned King—”
“Simon Chester, give up the crown once he’d got his grasping fingers on it?” said Veronica.
“Anyway, Aunt Charlotte would never agree,” I said.
“Yes, Toby, you’re her favorite,” said Veronica, with the slightest tinge of bitterness. “She’d never allow the mere son of a servant to get in your way.”
There was another long, unhappy silence. Aunt Charlotte’s unyielding sense of How Things Ought to Be Done colliding with Simon’s determination to claim his rightful inheritance and Rebecca’s sheer craziness—it seemed destined to end in catastrophe.
“It depends on Simon, doesn’t it?” I said slowly. “If he could be persuaded to be reasonable—”
“I could talk to him,” said Toby. “Well, I have tried, but it’s difficult. He’s hardly ever here and he’s so distracted and …” He looked down at Simon’s letter sadly, and even Veronica couldn’t find it in her to make any more caustic remarks about Simon. In fact, she looked as though she wanted to pull the blankets over her head again.
Then Aunt Charlotte swept in, wearing a very pleased expression. “Bought that chestnut hunter!” she said. “Lord Dorset’s sending over a pony, too—perfect for Henrietta!” Her gaze settled on Veronica. “Aren’t you up yet? I’ll send Barnes to draw a bath for you. I suppose the two of you will need your own lady’s maid now.” She sighed loudly. “Well, perhaps that parlor maid, the skinny one—what’s her name?”
“Phoebe,” said Toby, running his fingers along the crease of Simon’s letter.
“What sort of name is that for a maid?” said Aunt Charlotte. “They used to have good plain names like Annie and Mary and Dot. What’s her surname?”
“Oh, Westerdale or something. Isn’t she the niece of one of the gardeners?”
“I shall call her Smith,” declared Aunt Charlotte. “Barnes will have to train her. Really, what with trying to find a governess for your sister, dealing with that hopeless secretary of mine, and now this, it’s a wonder I have time to breathe.” Then she swept out again. Veronica trudged off to have her bath, and Toby and I returned to our respective bedrooms to brood.
Wondering whether writing things down might help, I seated myself at my desk. I jotted down all the reasons Toby should be King and then the arguments in favor of Simon. I added the names of those who supported Toby and those who supported Simon. This didn’t get me very far, so I tried assigning points to supporters on the basis of how reasonable their claims were. Ten points to Aunt Charlotte for being head of the FitzOsborne family. A grudging two points to Simon for being older than Toby, and probably having better leadership skills. Five points to Veronica for knowing more than anyone else about the history of the Montmaravian monarchy. Minus fifteen points to Re
becca for being insane and trying to kill Veronica. Arithmetic never having been my strong point, I got into a fearsome muddle with the figures, so I started doodling in a corner of the paper. I drew a crown and a sword, an island and a boat—and then a wisp of an idea appeared. An hour later, Henry stomped in to complain that Parker had gone to collect Simon from the railway station without telling her first, even though Parker had promised her a ride in the motorcar—by which time my wisp had coalesced into a very interesting-looking cloud.
I hastily changed into my dark blue suit and most businesslike blouse. Then I ran downstairs and paced up and down the Marble Hall until Simon arrived.
“Oh, hello, Sophia,” he said, tugging off a new pair of very stylish black gloves and looking over my shoulder. “Toby’s upstairs, I suppose?”
“Yes,” I said. “But before you see him, I’d like to speak to you.”
There was a tiny pause as he took in my severe tone. He’d only heard it once before. Then it had astonished him, as if he’d been bitten by a butterfly. Now he merely handed his gloves to the footman, who was waiting, expressionless, with Simon’s coat already folded over his liveried arm.
“Of course,” Simon said to me. “Perhaps we could talk in … the music room? As the Princess Royal appears to be interviewing governesses in the library?”
“Fine,” I said.
“After you,” said Simon with a half smile, knowing perfectly well I had only the haziest notion of where the music room was. The footman, bless him, inclined his head the slightest bit to the left and flicked his gaze at the double doors of the State Dining Room. I gave him a grateful nod, then marched off, glimpsing with relief an enormous gilded harp through an adjacent doorway. Once we were inside, I shut the doors and led Simon over to a pair of armchairs near the window.
“Please sit down,” I said.
Simon did so, looking amused and extremely condescending. For the first time, I understood how Veronica often felt in his presence. I, too, had the urge to throw something at him. But I restrained myself, because there were Important Matters at stake.
“Do you want to be King of Montmaray?” I asked.
He leaned back in his chair, crossed one long leg over the other, and smiled. “Surely the question is not Do I want to be King? but Who is entitled to be King? I believe the honor usually goes to the late King’s eldest son.”
“It goes to the eldest legitimate male relative of the late King,” I said.
“My mother says she was married to the late King. She certainly ought to know.”
“So, she’s of sound mind, then?” I said. “Quite able to face a courtroom in order to answer charges of assault with a dangerous weapon?”
“I don’t know that that would be a good idea,” Simon said gently. “For her or for the FitzOsborne family.” It was as though he were playing chess with a beginner and was—regretfully—obliged to declare Check after half a dozen moves.
“So,” I said, “deciding not to press charges against your mother, paying for her to reside in an expensive clinic—is that enough to buy your silence? I assume you want something, too.”
“You ought to leave cynicism to your cousin, Sophia,” he said lightly. “It really doesn’t suit you.”
“You don’t know me at all, Simon.” I was proud of how steady my voice was. “You’ve never even noticed me. But I’ve studied you. And I know you won’t be satisfied being plain old Simon Chester, legal clerk, not anymore. I want to know what you’ll settle for—because you can be certain that Aunt Charlotte and Veronica won’t allow you to become King.”
He was nettled but determined not to show it. “They may be persuaded that I would do a better job of it—particularly as Toby is still at school. And I believe Toby will support me in this.”
“I don’t think he will,” I said. “Nor will the others, not when I tell them that you were the sole reason the Germans came to Montmaray.”
“What?”
“Don’t you recall?” I asked. “That dinner at Lord Bosworth’s where you pretended to be a diplomat? When you told the German Ambassador all about the shipwrecks and the sunken treasures of Montmaray? And quoted Edward de Quincy FitzOsborne’s ‘Voyage of King Bartholomew’? The bit about the Holy Grail, surely you remember that?”
“What on earth does that have to do with anything?” he said, but he’d gone white around the mouth.
“They came in search of the Grail. That was the only reason they were there. And it all went horribly wrong, for them and for us, and now Montmaray is in ruins.”
“You …” His fingers clenched on the armrests. “How could you possibly know what I did or said? Unless … Toby wrote to you, didn’t he? About the dinner party.”
“Yes,” I said. “And Herr Rahn told me about his Grail quest. And Veronica had a copy of a monograph Herr Rahn had written, about the Nazi-funded organization that employed him. And I put it all together—”
Simon leapt to his feet. “Even if you’re right! Even if they did … you can’t possibly blame me! I had no idea what the consequences would be!”
“No, and neither did my uncle when he tried to defend the castle against intruders. Neither did your mother, I suppose, when she attacked Veronica.”
Simon raised a shaking hand to his face. I watched, not as coolly as I would have liked. He was right. I couldn’t blame him. Not for that, anyway. I didn’t even blame poor Otto Rahn.
“Sophia, you have to believe me,” Simon said at last. “I never, ever wanted this to happen. Montmaray is my home, too. It broke my heart to see the castle in ruins that afternoon.”
“I know,” I said. “And you helped us escape.” I considered for a moment. “Of course, we helped you escape, too.”
“Yes,” he said, sinking back in his chair. He was pale, but his voice was even. “But this doesn’t change anything. Your aunt and cousin were never on my side. And Toby will support me—even when he knows about this. I’ll tell him myself.”
In fact, I’d mentioned it to Toby last year, but either he’d forgotten (understandably, given what was going on at the time) or he’d decided not to hold it against Simon. Still, I had to admire Simon’s resilience. Perhaps he would have made a good king. But he had a lean and hungry look, as Caesar (or Shakespeare) would have said. Such men are dangerous.
“All right,” I said. “And now we come to what I really wanted to discuss with you.”
He gave me an incredulous look. “Good God, there’s more?”
“I don’t trust you with Toby,” I said. “I think you’re a very bad influence on him.”
I folded my arms and waited for him to work it out. I held my breath, though, because I wasn’t entirely certain I’d guessed correctly about their relationship. It took about thirty seconds. Then he gave a short, unamused laugh.
“You have been studying me,” he said. “Because I know Toby didn’t tell you that.”
“I do make a habit of observing people,” I said. “Not just you. It’s simply that there weren’t many other people to observe at Montmaray.”
He shoved himself to his feet and stalked over to the window, staring out at the lengthening shadows. I examined my fingernails, which looked as though they’d been attacked by a cheese grater. Of course, I had recently spent quite a bit of time hanging off cliffs by my fingertips. Thank heavens for gloves, as Aunt Charlotte would say.
“I can’t believe I’m even discussing this with you,” Simon said abruptly, glancing over his shoulder. “But I don’t suppose you’d accept that Toby started it.”
“I might,” I said. (Actually, it seemed highly likely.) “But he’s a schoolboy and you’re not. Anyway, it’s illegal.”
“You’d be surprised how many gentlemen in the highest ranks of Society ignore that particular law,” he said. His voice had taken on a jagged edge. “Of course, the rules are quite different for the upstart sons of housekeepers.”
“I expect they are,” I said. “But could you sit down? You’re mak
ing my neck ache, trying to look at you from this angle.”
He sighed, then returned to his chair. “All right, Sophia. What do you want?”
“Well,” I said. “Firstly, I’m not sure that your job with Mr. Grenville is quite right for someone of your talents. I was thinking that, with your legal knowledge, you might consider becoming Montmaray’s new Lord Chancellor. Or perhaps our Ambassador—but I think Lord Chancellor has a nicer ring to it, don’t you?”
He nodded slowly, his dark gaze searching my face. “I think it does.”
“And Aunt Charlotte’s been complaining about how useless her secretary is, so perhaps you could do something about that,” I went on. “I’m sure you’d have no trouble making yourself indispensable to her. You could live here or at Montmaray House in London—we’ll be moving there ourselves for the Season.” I paused. “Does all this sound sensible to you?”
“Very,” he said. “Go on.”
“That’s about it,” I admitted. “Did you have some other ideas?”
“Aren’t you supposed to forbid me from ever being alone with your brother?”
“Would there be any point?”
“Not really,” he said. “I could try to stay away from Toby, but I can’t vouch for his actions. He’s very stubborn. It seems to be a FitzOsborne trait.”
We smiled at each other in a moment of perfect, mutual understanding.
“Anyway,” I added, “it would make Toby sad, and we’ve already got enough to be sad about. But I do wish you’d encourage him to study a bit more, Simon. And try to persuade him that Oxford is a good idea. It’ll make Aunt Charlotte happy.”
“And we do want to keep the Princess Royal happy,” he said.
“I think it would be wise,” I agreed. “I hate it when people quarrel, don’t you? Especially when they’re all family.” I stood and held out my hand for him to shake. He rose, captured my hand in his—and then lifted mine to his lips. I jerked my hand back, a couple of seconds too late, and gaped at him.
“It’s been a most … enlightening conversation, Sophia,” he said with his half smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must have a word with Toby before dinner.”
The FitzOsbornes in Exile Page 3
