The FitzOsbornes in Exile

by Michelle Cooper

  Oh! I forgot something else—that Daniel gave Veronica a clipping from Action, the Fascist newspaper. (Daniel keeps a close eye on the enemy’s propaganda, ever since the Blackshirts hurled a brick through his office window.) And the paper had a whole paragraph about Veronica in it! As she points out, Mosley couldn’t decide whether to attack her for being a dangerous foreign Bolshevik trying to stir up trouble or to poke fun at her for being a silly debutante, parroting ideas she didn’t understand. So the whole thing was rather incoherent—but definitely offensive in tone. That hateful man! I gather Daniel suggested to Veronica that she refrain from denouncing Fascism in public, for her own protection—but Daniel ought to know that this would just make her want to give weekly lectures about it on top of a soapbox in Hyde Park.

  I have to stop there, the dinner gong has sounded. I do resolve to make more of an effort with my writing, though …

  17th March 1937

  Well, so much for my resolution to write more—although the following account of my activities might provide some excuse. In the past three weeks, I have:

  —attended seven debutante teas and had my palm read twice by Madame Zelda (the first time, I was told I’d marry a lord and have three children; the second, that I would overcome my “tragic past” to find true happiness in love, which Veronica said showed Madame had finally got around to doing some research on us)

  —been to five fork luncheons (which turns out to mean standing in an overheated drawing room eating creamed chicken with a fork)

  —learned how to curtsey without falling over and worked without much success on the waltz, the polka, and the fox-trot

  —attended numerous fittings for my Court dress; also ordered three evening gowns and three pairs of satin shoes, dyed to match

  —had my hair cut and shaped into a style that instantly made me look five years older (Julia was right, Monsieur Raymond is a magician), although the sophisticated effect only lasted till the next time I washed it

  —been shopping with Julia three times

  —watched Romeo and Juliet with Toby at the Odeon (Aunt Charlotte wouldn’t let us see Camille, because apparently Greta Garbo is “not at all ladylike” in it) and

  —visited the British Museum with Veronica, Simon, and Toby, where we were followed around the Roman Gallery by a party of American tourists who mistook Veronica for a guide.

  Toby and Aunt Charlotte also managed to reach a compromise about his birthday celebrations. We ended up having a nice quiet dinner at the Savoy with Lady Astley, Julia, and Anthony—although Aunt Charlotte, who always has to have the last word, then presented Toby with the keys to a crimson Lagonda coupé, which is so sleek and stylish and speedy that Anthony wants to buy one now. Toby’s not allowed to drive it till he gets his license, though.

  I must say, London is just as impressive as I’d always imagined. So vast, so important! So full of history, yet so bustling and modern. I adore the shops and the cinema, I long to explore all the museums and art galleries …

  Except there are days when I step out into the street and step right back inside again, cringing away from the blaring horns and sharp lights, the stampeding pedestrians, the taxis and buses and lorries hurtling past at inhuman speeds. Some days, I can scarcely breathe, the air is so dense and gray and evil-smelling. London stops being exciting then, and turns cold and menacing—“an ever-muttering prisoned storm,” as John Davidson called it.

  Then, at other times, sliding through the city in the motorcar, gazing up at the buildings through a thick pane of glass, I can’t help but think that the tall facades are mere sets on a stage, flat sections of painted plywood, that one good shove would send them clattering backwards to reveal … What? Nothingness? At those moments, London simply doesn’t feel real—not compared to Montmaray. It doesn’t help that returning to Montmaray House is like walking into a museum, or perhaps a very grand hotel in its declining years. There are a lot of dim, cavernous drawing rooms filled with antique furniture and portraits of long-forgotten statesmen, then some dark little offices decorated in a manner that was probably very fashionable when Queen Victoria was a young bride, topped by a couple of floors of vast, icy bedrooms redolent of camphor and old velvet. Montmaray House has been owned, if not always occupied, by the FitzOsborne family for hundreds of years, so it ought to feel more like home—but I really think I prefer Milford Park. Perhaps it’s just that I’m more a country girl than a city girl.

  Or perhaps I feel so disconnected from this place because I haven’t made a single new friend, despite all our frantic social activity. Who would have thought it was possible to feel lonely in the midst of hundreds of people? But all the other debutantes seem to know one another and move in noisy packs, like hounds. Either they’ve been to the same finishing school in Paris or they’ve hunted together or their fathers sit next to one another in the House of Lords. And their conversation! Whenever I summon up the nerve to walk across the room and introduce myself, they’re talking about clothes. I’ve as much interest in clothes as the next girl (far more, if the next girl happens to be Veronica), but there’s only so much one can say about them. If it isn’t fashion, it’s horses or hunting, neither of which I know anything about. No one appears to read anything except Tatler or The Queen. And those who aren’t standoffish or silly are downright spiteful. Last week, I was sitting in a window seat, half hidden in the folds of the curtain (which happened to be the same color as my dress), trying to work out how to dispose of my horrible creamed chicken, when I overheard a girl sneeringly describe Veronica as “clever.”

  “Yes, but she’s awfully good-looking, don’t you think?” said another.

  “No, no, far too tall,” said the first. “Don’t you know, men much prefer the petite, dainty ones.”

  “Like us!” They shrieked for a bit.

  “Yes, but have you seen the King of Montmaray? Too divine! He was at Eton with my brother.”

  “Mmm. How did he end up with such a mousy sister?”

  I wanted to sneak into the cloakroom and pour my creamed chicken into the pockets of their coats, but I didn’t know their names or what their coats looked like. What was worse was that they came up to me later and pretended to be friendly, asking me all sorts of questions. What a sweet frock—had I made it myself? Did I have any brothers? Would he be at my coming-out dance? I was so furious, I spluttered at them, which no doubt gave them more things to be catty about afterwards (“mousy and a half-wit”). Unfortunately, it was only hours later, back in my bedroom at Montmaray House, that I thought up a lot of brilliantly cutting responses.

  Veronica finds these events equally unpleasant now that Aunt Charlotte has forbidden her from wandering off to the library (if it’s at a private house) or going down to the lobby to scrounge a newspaper (if it’s in a hotel, and many of them are). She isn’t as shy as I am, but she’s bored and that makes her irritable—and she’d rather avoid people altogether than snap at them.

  “It’s most ungrateful of you girls,” Aunt Charlotte said in the car home yesterday after Veronica and I had spent yet another afternoon skulking around the walls of a Belgravia drawing room. “I bring you to London, get you invited to these things—not everyone has the chance to take tea with the Marchioness of Elchester, you know—and what do you do? Mope. I’ll say this for your mother, Veronica—she may be feckless and disloyal, but at least when she was eighteen, she could walk into a room and turn every head.”

  If the car hadn’t been moving, Veronica would probably have been out the door in an instant and stomping down Sloane Street; as it was, she merely scowled ferociously.

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” said Aunt Charlotte. “What a face! What girl is going to invite you to her dance, or her next house party, when you look at her like that? And then how are you going to meet her brothers or her male cousins or even her widowed uncles?”

  I do feel for Aunt Charlotte. Here she is, three recalcitrant nieces having been dropped on her doorstep (well, two recal
citrant nieces, plus a well-intentioned but awkward one), and it’s not as though our aunt adores young people. With the exception of Toby, I really think she much prefers horses. But she honestly does try—introducing us to the crème de la crème of London Society, buying us lovely clothes, instructing us in the rules of ladylike behavior. For example:

  “A lady always wears a smart hat when lunching at a restaurant.”

  “A lady never powders her nose or applies lipstick when in a public place.”

  “Young ladies do not drink or smoke, and they are certainly never seen in nightclubs.”

  “Never permit a gentleman to kiss one anywhere except upon the back of the hand, unless one is engaged to him and the notice has appeared in The Times—and even then, never allow a kiss to last for more than a minute, and always keep both feet firmly on the floor.”

  “Why?” asked Veronica.

  “Because,” said Aunt Charlotte darkly, “men—even gentlemen—have urges. And it is the lady’s responsibility to restrain those urges.”

  “If men are at the constant mercy of their uncontrollable urges,” said Veronica, “why are they allowed to run the country? Don’t they get distracted awfully easily?”

  “Please try not to be so contrary, Veronica. Young ladies do not argue with their elders and betters.”

  When we got back to Montmaray House yesterday, Veronica stormed straight up to her bedroom, although she managed to stop herself from slamming the door. I went to unburden myself to Toby, who was playing Chopin in the largest of the drawing rooms.

  “I feel so horrible,” I said, slumping beside him on the piano bench. “Poor Aunt Charlotte, she’s spent all this money and made such an effort, and we’re complete failures before the Season’s even officially begun! I haven’t made one single acquaintance. I can’t even find anything to talk to them about.”

  “I can’t say I’m surprised,” he said. “Whenever I’ve gone to house parties, the debutantes have always seemed so silly and giggly—or perhaps they’re just that way around me. But look on the bright side, at least you don’t have to go to school with them. And in a few years, they’ll probably be much improved.”

  “That’s no help to me now,” I sighed.

  “Do you know what it is?” he said thoughtfully. “It’s that they haven’t had anything really awful happen to them. No wonder they seem so superficial and unfeeling.”

  It was certainly an interesting theory. But some of them must have had tragedies in their pasts—a brother who’d died in infancy, or a house that burnt to the ground, or a father who’d gambled away the family fortune (well, probably not the last, because it costs such a lot of money to make one’s debut). And in any case, surely one didn’t need to have suffered in order to possess empathy for those who had? All it required was a bit of imagination and a well-stocked library. Where were all the quiet, sensible girls who loved books? Perhaps they were hiding behind curtains. Or were too sensible to allow themselves to be drawn into the froth and frivolity of the Season in the first place.

  I was also surprised to hear Toby sounding so philosophical—for him to acknowledge that human suffering even exists is bizarre in the extreme. But then, as if reading my mind, he launched into a loud rendition of “Yes, We Have No Bananas.” So the universe was restored to normal.

  Luckily, we’re in regular contact with Henry, and she always manages to cheer me up. She is conducting a battle of wills with Miss Bullock, the score currently standing at something like nineteen to seven in Henry’s favor. Today, Henry was very excited because she’d sneaked off to the Home Farm to watch Cleopatra have her piglets, all fifteen of them.

  “And Mr. Wilkin says I can have the runt, and bring her up and show her if she turns out a good’un!” Henry cried down the telephone. “Oh, wait till you see them! They’re so lovely and pink, and they squeal and squeal! I’m going to call mine Julia.”

  “Er … I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” I said. “Some people prefer not to have pigs named after them.”

  “Really?” said Henry, surprised. “I’d love it. The other name I thought of was Antonia, but I suppose that’s out, too. Sophie, could you think of a really excellent name? You’ll have to meet her first, though, so you can get an idea of her character.”

  I promised to consider the matter carefully, said goodbye to Henry and Carlos (he always leans against her to listen in during her calls—I can hear him snuffling), and handed the telephone receiver to Aunt Charlotte. Then I went to join Veronica and Toby, who were sitting by the fire in the little drawing room, opening their post.

  “Rupert sends his regards,” said Toby, looking up as I came in. “And—”

  Veronica suddenly crumpled up the letter she’d been reading and hurled it into the fire.

  “Ooh!” said Toby. “Lovers’ quarrel?”

  “It wasn’t from Dan—Oh, very clever,” she said as Toby smirked. “No, it was just some rubbish. I’ve no idea where it comes from.”

  “I wish people would send me letters,” I said wistfully. “Although I suppose I can’t expect to receive them when I never write any.”

  “You could write to Rupert,” said Toby. “He always asks after you. And I’d write to you—if I were away at school, that is.”

  “When are you going back to school?” asked Veronica, because he had his leg cast taken off on Friday.

  “Never, hopefully. I’m sure I can talk Aunt C into letting me stay at home. Anyway, I’m getting through far more work here with you than I ever did at school,” he said. “Ouch!” he added, because the fire had just spat at him. He leaned over to push a singed bit of paper back into the flames, then frowned and picked it up. “What the … Veronica, is this your letter?” She glanced up. “Oh, yes. Throw it away.”

  “But … it’s dreadful! Who sent it?”

  I peered over his shoulder. The paper was scorched, but I could still make out a few typewritten words—“traitor” and “harlot” and “get what’s coming.” Veronica snatched it out of Toby’s hand and tossed it back into the fireplace, where it was devoured in a flash of red. “Oh, really, Toby,” she said as he continued to protest. “They’re simply not worth thinking about.”

  “Wait, they?” I said. “You’ve had more than one?”

  It took a while, but eventually we got it out of her. She’d received at least three that she could remember, all addressed to “HRH Princess Veronica,” all filled with offensive epithets and vague threats.

  “And you didn’t think to mention this to anyone?” said Toby incredulously. “Or call the police?”

  “The police!” she scoffed. “It’s just some madman who picks names at random out of the Society pages of The Times—or else it’s schoolboys playing a prank. If it were anything serious, he’d have attacked me by now.”

  I wasn’t entirely convinced, and we kept arguing about it until Aunt Charlotte came in for tea, at which point the whole subject was dropped by instant consensus. Aunt Charlotte won’t even let us go shopping without a chaperone, so this would probably give her a heart attack.

  It’s all very tedious, especially for Veronica, who’s longing to go and visit Daniel’s newspaper office. So am I, actually. He sounds just as nice as ever, from the bits of his letters that Veronica reads to me, and he seems to have a very interesting job. I don’t think Veronica is in love with him, though, which is probably a good thing, because he’s what Aunt Charlotte would regard as “completely beyond the pale.” Apart from being poor and a Socialist and our former tutor, I think he might be Jewish. Although he doesn’t believe in God—and is it possible to be a Jewish atheist? I don’t know very much about it, but perhaps being Jewish has more to do with race or ancestors than with one’s personal religious beliefs? That’s what the Nazis seem to think—which probably means it’s complete rubbish. Anyway, Daniel’s grandparents came here from Vienna decades before he was born, so he’s far more English than we are …

  Well! Just as I was pondering Ver
onica’s love life, or lack of it, she knocked on my door, wanting to talk about Toby’s love life. Or lack of it.

  “Aunt Charlotte had me trapped in the drawing room for what felt like hours,” she said crossly. “Apparently, Lady Bosworth is demanding to know why Toby hasn’t proposed to her daughter yet, or at least fallen head over heels in love with the girl.”

  “Toby thinks she looks like a horse,” I said.

  “Yes, I said that. So then Aunt Charlotte wanted to know if he was enamored of some other young lady, and who she was, and how much her father’s estate was worth! Why ask me? Well, of course I know why—Toby’s been evading all her questions on the subject, and I can’t say I blame him. Whenever she starts up with me, I get the strongest urge to run away and join a nunnery—and I don’t even believe in God.”

  “Just like Daniel,” I said.

  “What?” she said, giving me a distracted look. “No, but, Sophie, listen. It did set me wondering. Don’t you think it’s a bit odd? A friendly, handsome boy like Toby, showing not the slightest bit of interest in all these females who keep throwing themselves at him? Of course, most of the girls are completely idiotic, but do men really mind about that?” She sat down beside me. “I know he’s always flirting with Julia, but neither of them takes that seriously, of course—even Anthony just laughs about it. Still, there are other women Julia’s age—smart, attractive ones. At least, Simon Chester seems to find them attractive. Is Toby just being contrary because Aunt Charlotte keeps badgering him? Or do you think he’s harboring a secret passion for one of the scullery maids?”