There was some sniggering, then a voice rang out.
“How very interesting,” said Veronica. “For weren’t you a Labour Member of Parliament, Sir Oswald?”
“Certainly,” he said, with a little bow in her direction. “And I was appointed a minister, and I developed an innovative—and, if I may say so, quite brilliant—plan for tackling the crippling unemployment problem. Sadly, the party was in the crushing grasp of the trade unions and voted against my plan, so I realized I must turn my back on their petty games and power plays.”
“Is it only the Labour Party that engages in such games?” Veronica enquired, in carefully innocent tones that had Simon and me exchanging worried glances. “Because you were a member of the Conservative Party before that, I believe? And, after that, the New Party?”
“My dear girl, I’m afraid all the parties have fatal flaws.”
“Now, Tom,” chided Lord Bosworth, clearly a dyed-in-the-wool Conservative.
“I’m afraid you must bow to my considerable breadth of experience on this matter, Bosworth,” Mosley said, raising his glass and smirking.
“Some might salute your breadth of experience,” agreed Veronica. “Although others might call you a political dilettante.”
There was a sudden muffled oath from Lord Londonderry, who glared in Simon’s direction. I was fairly sure Simon had tried to kick Veronica under the table and missed. Penelope gave Simon a suspicious sideways look, then turned to Mosley.
“It’s so fascinating, though, isn’t it?” she trilled. “That your experiences inspired you to set up your own British movement! Awfully smart uniforms, and that emblem of yours—a sort of lightning bolt, isn’t it?”
“We call it the flash of action in the circle of unity,” said Mosley proudly.
“Also known as a flash in the pan,” said Veronica. “Tell me, why do you insist your movement is British when your black shirts, your salute, the name ‘Fascism’—probably even your funding—come from the Italians?”
“How … gratifying to see young ladies taking an interest in world affairs,” Mosley said slowly, doing something very odd with his eyes. The pupils seemed to get bigger, then smaller, as though he were trying to hypnotize Veronica into submission. It had no discernible effect on her, although Penelope fluttered a bit. “But I’m afraid you’re sadly misinformed about our funding,” he continued, “which comes from sales of our newspapers and other literature—and of course, from those in England who see our good work and are moved to contribute in whatever way they can. But you’ll find all this information in our publications. May I recommend Fascism: 100 Questions Asked and Answered?” He spoke in mocking tones, but there was real anger bubbling below the surface. He was not a man used to being questioned, I felt.
“I’ve read that,” said Veronica. “Although I doubt I’m the intended audience—it appears to have been written for people whose critical faculties are severely impaired. For example, how can you insist in one paragraph that your movement is not anti-Semitic, when in another you claim that all the ills of the world are the result of greedy Jewish bankers and shopkeepers? And according to you, even though the Jews are the evil face of capitalism, they’re also busy running the Communist movement and trying to destroy capitalism—”
“The Jews are irrelevant,” he said, waving his hand impatiently. “The press insists on going on about that, but I assure you, it’s of no importance to me. I have a number of Jewish friends.”
“Yet you write that Jews should not be allowed the full rights of other British citizens, that they must have their possessions confiscated and be deported—”
“Successful new political movements are based on engaging the emotions, not the intellect!” he snapped. “They require something for followers to hate.”
“Then how clever of you to choose to hate a traditional enemy of both the undereducated masses and your foreign backers,” Veronica said coldly.
“Speaking of foreign places,” burst out the Scarlet Woman, “we had such a lovely time in Venice last summer, but I have thoughts of branching out this year, and I wonder if anyone has visited—”
Penelope quickly took up the topic, but several of our dining companions preferred to stare at Veronica in icy silence. My appetite had quite disappeared, even though a footman had just set in front of me an exquisite creation of meringue, preserved cherries, and whipped cream. Simon, avoiding my gaze, drained his wineglass and joined in the Vichy versus Biarritz debate. I poked at my pudding, relieved that at least dinner was nearly over. But a further calamity was just around the corner. As all the ladies rose to leave the gentlemen to their cigars and port, my shoe got caught in the leg of my chair—and the heel fell off.
I crouched there for a second, staring at the little wooden thing lying on the carpet, wondering if I could possibly retrieve it. But the longer I stood there, the more attention I attracted, so I was forced to half shuffle, half tiptoe towards the door. The eyes of the nearest footman widened and his mouth grew tight as he tried his hardest not to burst into laughter. I limped into the drawing room and sat down on a chair near the door, whipping my feet under my skirt and wondering wildly what to do.
“Are you all right?” asked Veronica. I whispered my dilemma, although I needn’t have bothered lowering my voice. The others were all giving us a wide berth. Mosley seemed a great favorite of one blonde in particular—she kept shooting Veronica very offended looks.
“Give me your shoe,” Veronica demanded, still fired up from her argument. “I’ll go and find the other bit!”
“What?” I hissed. “I can’t take it off here! And you can’t go in there.”
“Oh, come on,” she said, dragging me up. Under the pretense of visiting the loo (although why we’d need to go together, I’ve no idea), we escaped into the hall. Luckily, the footman was coming out of the dining room, looking for me—he’d rescued my poor heel. I thanked him profusely.
“And if Your Highness will permit me, the shoe can be mended.”
So I sat on the marble staircase like Cinderella, one shoe on and one shoe off, waiting for the footman to return, while Veronica stalked along the hall, gazing up at the paintings.
“Look, Sophie!” she kept saying. “It’s a Caravaggio!” Or a Rubens. Or a Van Dyck. It seemed extraordinary that people who’d grown up with such beautiful, thoughtful pictures could enjoy the company of that horrible Mosley man. The footman eventually came back, and I slipped my shoe on, apologizing to him for all the trouble I’d caused. Then, thank heavens, the gentlemen filed back into the drawing room and we were able to depart.
“What an eventful evening,” said Toby once Parker had stowed away his crutches and gone round to the front of the car. “We never had dinner parties like that before the girls arrived, did we, Simon?”
“Hmm,” said Simon.
“I mixed up the name of Cynthia’s brother with that of her horse, so she glared daggers at me all night,” said Toby. “Veronica insulted the leader of a gang of vicious hooligans. Simon, what did you do to poor old Lord Londonderry? He kept giving you the filthiest looks.”
“I kicked him in the shin when I was trying to get Veronica to shut up,” said Simon.
“Soph, how was your evening?”
I recounted my shoe saga.
“I was wondering why you smelled of glue,” Toby said. “Well, an excellent evening all round for the House of FitzOsborne. Unless—” He slid open the glass window separating us from the chauffeur. “Parker, how did you go at cards tonight?”
“Lost three bob, sir,” said Parker.
“Oh dear,” sympathized Toby. “It wasn’t to one of those Blackshirts who drive Mosley around, was it?”
“Indeed it was, sir,” said Parker. “Indeed it was.”
“Rotten luck,” said Toby, then leaned back in his seat. “We’ll probably never get invited back to the Bosworths’ again.” He smiled broadly. “So, well done, all of you!”
Of course, Aunt Charlotte was a
bsolutely furious when she found out. Lucky for us that she’s too busy with preparations for our London Season to do much reprimanding. She is trying to compile a guest list for our coming-out ball in May (a most arduous task, as she keeps reminding us) while supervising the packing and trying to run a household with two-thirds of her staff (several carloads of servants have already been dispatched to London to open up Montmaray House). At least Henry has now calmed down about being left behind at Milford Park with Miss Bullock—her pony and the impending arrival of Cleopatra’s piglets seem to have helped, and of course, Carlos will stay here …
Oh dear, Phoebe has just knocked a bottle of cologne into my handkerchief drawer. Never mind, they’ll smell extra-nice now!
It’s no good, the poor girl’s still oozing tears. Better go and cheer her up …
25th February 1937
Their Royal Highnesses
Princesses Veronica and Sophia of Montmaray,
accompanied by the Princess Royal,
Princess Charlotte of Montmaray,
have arrived at Montmaray House
in anticipation of the Season.
It seemed an extraordinary thing for The Times to print on their front page—who on earth would care? (Especially as hardly anyone here seems to know where Montmaray is, let alone what’s happened to it. Toby says that people at school were always mistakenly thinking he came from Montenegro or Montserrat, or getting him mixed up with Prince Rainier of Monaco.) But then this morning, an absolute avalanche of envelopes descended upon Montmaray House. Advertisements from dress shops and tea shops and businesses that hire out gilt chairs and marquees; offers of free sittings with photographers; letters from dance schools and florists and “hair artistes.” And then there were the invitations.
“What’s a fork luncheon?” asked Veronica, staring at one engraved card as we sat around the breakfast table. “And who’s Mrs. Douglas Dawson-Hughes, and why would she invite us to one?”
“We’ve got eleven invitations to tea parties,” I said, counting. “One of them promising consultations with ‘Madame Zelda, the famous fortune-teller.’ ”
“She can’t be all that famous if they need to explain who she is,” said Veronica.
“Everyone’s hoping for invitations to your coming-out ball,” explained Toby. “There haven’t been any big parties at Montmaray House since before the war—probably not since the last Montmaravian Ambassador lived here, decades ago—so they’re all wondering what it looks like inside. And I bet they’re madly curious about you two.”
“They’re more interested in you, Toby,” said Simon. “Wondering if you’ll do for their daughters. Here, Sophia, give me those.” He began sorting the invitations into two piles. “Definitely not Mrs. Dawson-Hughes—her husband’s about to be declared bankrupt. Yes to the Marchioness of Elchester, yes to the Fortescues …”
“I suppose Lady Redesdale’s youngest girl is out this Season, too,” mused Aunt Charlotte. “Poor child, I don’t suppose she can help having such scandalous sisters. One divorced and now one run off to Spain with that awful Romilly boy … Is that in the newspapers yet, Simon?”
“Not this morning’s, ma’am,” said Simon.
“Lady Bosworth told me all the details yesterday. Dreadful thing. Well, girls, what are you doing today? Do you need the car?”
“Julia’s coming over at eleven to take us shopping, then there’s dress fittings and a Court class in the afternoon,” I said. “Theater this evening?” asked Toby.
“Can’t, I don’t have any proper evening shoes yet,” I said. “Ask me again in a week’s time.”
“Glad I was born a boy,” said Toby. “Aren’t you, Simon?”
“Very,” said Simon.
I was very happy to be a girl, though, when Julia swept us into Harrods and showed us all the beautiful things girls could wear. Chiffon scarves and exquisite little straw hats and strings of pearls and bright silk tea dresses and silver evening sandals …
“Right,” said Julia. “Gloves first.” And we bought three pairs each of long white kid gloves for evenings (“because you need to have them cleaned each time you wear them, and they stretch and split so quickly”) as well as black leather gloves for everyday, with clutch purses to match. Then we bought silk stockings and lipstick, and looked at hats. I fell in love with an elegant black pillbox with dotted veil, but I knew it would look ridiculous perched on my frizz of hair. Julia pronounced the frocks “tedious” and “far too expensive” and whisked us off to Peter Jones, where we bought a couple of silk afternoon frocks for “only” nineteen shillings each. I didn’t dare calculate how much we’d already spent—pounds and pounds, I was sure, but it all got charged to Aunt Charlotte’s account. Phoebe, laden with bags and boxes, staggered off to the car and was driven back to the house by Parker while Julia took us to Claridge’s for luncheon.
“Ant’s mother’s arriving from New York this afternoon, so now I have to go and meet her, but I promise I’ll be back tomorrow to help you look for evening shoes—remember to get fabric samples at your dress fittings—and oh, Sophie, I must introduce you to the man who does my hair, he’s an absolute magician.”
“He’d need to be, to make something of my bird’s nest,” I said.
“Nonsense, it just needs a trim! Now, long hair is terribly old-fashioned, but if anyone can get away with it, it’s you, Veronica—just pile it up and stick a tiara on top.”
“Yes, Julia,” said Veronica, who finds Julia highly amusing, although too frivolous for words.
After that, we went to order evening dresses, and the designer went into raptures over Veronica’s face and figure. His enthusiasm was dimmed somewhat when Veronica insisted on wearing mourning dress for her presentation at Court, but he rallied quickly. “Simple, yet elegant,” he cried, holding up lengths of black satin against her. “Nothing to distract from the natural beauty. No frills, no frippery, no furbelows.” (He actually said that, “furbelows”—one of those words that make less and less sense the more one repeats it, until finally one starts to wonder if it is a word.) For me, though, it was felt that frills and furbelows would be a very good idea. After much frowning and tongue-clucking, he decided on a gathered bodice with thin straps and a full skirt, in a shimmering silk that was halfway between violet and pale blue. We were meant to choose two more evening dresses each, but even I’d had enough by that stage, and besides, we were due at the Vacani School of Dancing, just around the corner.
“Oh, I’m not going,” said Veronica. “I’ve already arranged to meet Daniel for tea.”
I stared at her, horrified. “You can’t go wandering off into the East End by yourself!”
“No, he’s meeting me at Lyons Corner House, near Marble Arch. You can come, too, if you’d like.”
“But we’ve got to practice curtseying! And Parker will have a fit if he comes to pick us up and you’re not here! And what if Aunt Charlotte—”
“Oh, look, there’s the bus! Meet you at quarter to five in the Harrods car park,” she said, and she dashed off, swinging herself up the stairs of a tall red bus as though she’d been doing it all her life.
My first class with Miss Betty went very badly, which I’d like to blame on anxiety about Veronica, although I suspect it was simply my innate lack of coordination. We had to line up against a wall, holding the barre with our right hand, place our right foot (or was it our left?) against the wall and the other foot behind that, sink almost to the floor, then rise without wobbling or falling over sideways. I got my left and right confused, my knees cracked, I plunged downwards too fast and too far, and couldn’t get up again. The other girls tittered behind my back. Then Miss Betty had one of them demonstrate the procedure at Court, while Miss Betty sat in a chair, pretending to be the King.
“To be presented, Miss Lucinda Adams-Smythe.” And Miss Adams-Smythe, a curtain pinned to her shoulders to simulate her train, descended gracefully, bowed her head, and rose, beaming throughout.
“Keep your eyes
on the King, kick your dress out of the way, three steps sideways, smile at the Queen, curtsey again … Excellent!”
If she was so excellent at it, what was she doing in this class? I stomped out as soon as we were dismissed and was further irritated to find Veronica calmly reading The Evening Standard, right where she said she’d be.
“You’ve no idea how worried I’ve been,” I said crossly. “Running off by yourself, anything could have happened! You could have been abducted by white slavers and shipped off to the Argentine!”
“What, in the middle of Mayfair?” she said.
“Yes! Phoebe was saying she’d heard that women disguised as nurses wander round London injecting young women with morphine. And taxi drivers are in on it, too. A quarter of taxis have no handles on the inside doors, so the victims can’t—”
“How was your lesson?” she asked, folding up the newspaper.
“Awful,” I said. “How was Daniel?”
“Very well, though rather thin,” she said. “He sends his fondest regards to you and wanted to know how your writing was going.”
My writing! Imagine him remembering those earnest little stories I used to labor over when I was twelve! (I fancied myself a budding Brontë.) Now the only thing I write is my journal, and I haven’t even managed to do that for weeks. I haven’t done a very thorough job of today’s entry, either—I forgot to mention all the arguments over Toby’s eighteenth birthday. Aunt Charlotte yearns for a grand ball in London to celebrate, as well as a party in the village (with fireworks) for the Milford tenants, whereas Toby just wants a quiet family tea.
I also meant to note down my first impressions of London. Ponderous buses swaying round Piccadilly Circus, looming shopfronts plastered with flashing advertising signs, rows of houses in Park Lane jostling against one another, each trying to look taller and more impressive than its neighbors … And so many people! Bowler-hatted businessmen who never seem to unfurl their black umbrellas, not even when it’s pouring; slender young ladies in sable coats stepping out of Rolls-Royces, and stout old ones in plaid shawls selling bunches of violets on the footpath; nannies stuffing red-faced infants back into their perambulators; footmen walking poodles; deliverymen balancing crates of fish on their heads; cloth-capped newspaper sellers shouting the day’s headlines …
The FitzOsbornes in Exile Page 8
