The FitzOsbornes in Exile

by Michelle Cooper

  “Quite an old family, the Stanley-Rosses, good breeding on both sides,” she said loftily. “But, my dear child, there’s hardly any money. I believe they’re thinking of selling that London house—too expensive to keep up and not much point now Julia’s married off—but regardless of all that, the boy’s a third son. He won’t inherit a scrap of land. You can do far better than that, Sophia.”

  Although she then gave me a rather dubious look, taking in my ink-stained fingers (my pen leaks) and bird’s nest hair (the hairdresser’s lacquer spray from yesterday proved very difficult to wash out, and hanks of my hair are still sticking out at odd angles).

  I couldn’t think of anything to say in my or Rupert’s defense, it was all too idiotic. The situation wasn’t helped any by Simon coming in halfway through with some letters to be signed, realizing what was going on, trying to back out, then being ordered by Aunt Charlotte to sit down and find that address she’d been looking for. He gave me a sympathetic grimace, then rustled noisily through the papers on the desk, feigning deafness but clearly trying not to laugh. The moment I could get away, I rushed upstairs to my room, to the comfort of my journal—although now I’m far too irritated to write any more. I think I’ll go and have a very long soak in the bath, using the rose-scented bath salts I bought with my first month’s allowance. They’re supposed to be soothing. Besides, they might help dissolve some of this hair lacquer.

  7th June 1937

  I was still indignant about Aunt Charlotte this morning and spent half an hour unburdening myself to Veronica, who was very sympathetic.

  “She’s given up on me, you see,” Veronica said, nodding. “I’m causing far too many problems. She thinks you’ll be easier to marry off.”

  “But I’m sixteen!” I said. “I don’t want to get married! Well, not at the moment, anyway. In about ten years’ time would be perfect … And poor Rupert! We were just sitting there, talking about dormice! Something embarrassing happens every single time I see him. He’ll probably run away and hide the next time he catches sight of me.”

  “I’m sure he won’t,” said Veronica. “He seems very sensible—and he’s excellent in a crisis, isn’t he? I mean, look at how he was at the wedding. And if he isn’t already used to mothers and aunts inspecting him as possible husband material, he soon will be.”

  “ ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife,’ ” I said, sighing.

  “Is it?” said Veronica, looking surprised. “Universally acknowledged? Surely that presupposes life similar to human societies beyond this planet, and besides—”

  “No, no, it’s a quote from … Never mind,” I said. “Anyway, Rupert’s not in possession of a good fortune.”

  “Well, he’s more likely to earn one than either of us,” said Veronica, scowling. She jumped up from my bed and began pacing the room. “We’ve received no education to speak of, no training for anything but marriage—and not even much training for that. It’s appalling the way sex is treated as some sort of dark, mystical secret.”

  “I know,” I said. I wondered if Julia could be persuaded to tell whatever she knew when she got back from her honeymoon.

  “Discouraged from attending university, kept out of the professions, paid half a man’s wages if we do take a menial job,” Veronica went on, her voice rising. “Expected to be grateful that women have finally been given the vote, then criticized when we take an interest in politics, because we can’t possibly understand what we read in the newspapers. Forbidden from doing anything because we’re such fragile little creatures—”

  Veronica is confined to Montmaray House until her would-be assassin is caught, so she’s behaving a bit like a bear in a zoo. I’m sure bears are quite good-natured if allowed to wander round the mountains, doing as they please—but even the nicest bear would soon become very cross if locked in a cage and bombarded with stones by small boys.

  “And now this!” growled Veronica, brandishing the latest stone, otherwise known as The Times, which was the reason she’d come in to see me in the first place. The newspaper contained a letter written by Lord Elchester, who complained that the refugees at Stoneham Camp were thieving little hooligans and ought to be shipped straight back home.

  “How would he know if they were? He doesn’t live anywhere near Southampton!” Veronica exclaimed. “He’s just using it as an excuse to proclaim his despicable political opinions!”

  “Do you think some of the children are behaving badly?” I asked anxiously. After all, two dozen of them were about to arrive in Milford.

  “With their experiences in the war, I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Veronica. “Although I doubt any of them are worse than Henry.”

  At that point, Phoebe sidled into the room, for no apparent reason. Perhaps she’d been told to keep a close eye on us, in case assassins started climbing through the windows and concealing themselves in the wardrobe or under the bed. If they do, I can’t think of anyone less likely to deter them than Phoebe, especially at the moment—she’s even paler and thinner than usual.

  “Are you ill?” asked Veronica, not unsympathetically. But Phoebe only shook her head and trembled even more. (She finds Veronica rather intimidating.) Looking round, she caught sight of a crumpled handkerchief under my dressing table, scooped it up, and vanished as quickly as she’d appeared. I wondered if she’d been hoping to have a word with me alone, so I cornered her later in the bathroom. She was laden with a stack of towels, so I knew she wouldn’t be able to make an easy escape.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked. “You’re not worried that an assassin will attack us, are you? Because there’s no way anyone could get inside this house, and even if they did, Harkness was in the war—he’d soon sort them out.”

  “I know, Your Highness,” she said, setting the towels on a chair. “He’s got his old pistol out of its case and polished it up.” She looked even more miserable at this.

  “Then, is your family all right?” I said. “Your mother’s not, er …” She couldn’t possibly have had another baby, could she?

  “Oh, no, Your Highness. I mean, she’s well, Your Highness.”

  “And your sister, the one who’s just gone into service in Salisbury?”

  “She’s … she’s all right, thank you, Your Highness.”

  If I went on enquiring about every member of Phoebe’s family, we’d be there for hours. I pondered for a moment as she hung up the towels. Perhaps she just needed a holiday. She’d had every second Sunday off since we’d arrived in London, but it would take a whole day to travel to her village by train and bus. She’d no sooner get there than she’d have to leave, and even then, she’d be late coming back.

  “Do you need a week off?” I ventured. “To go and see your family?”

  Her whole face lit up, but she demurred. “Oh, but I couldn’t, Your Highness,” she said. “I haven’t any leave due to me. I’ve not worked long enough.”

  “Never mind about that,” I said, making a mental note to get Toby to ask the housekeeper (as she, like everyone else, adores him and indulges his every whim). “If you could, would you like to go and see your family?”

  “Ye-es, Your Highness,” she said—very reluctantly, as though I were dragging a confession of murder out of her. Then I understood. She wouldn’t be paid for the week if she didn’t work, and there’d be the train ticket and the bus fares, and I knew she sent most of her earnings home. Poor Phoebe! It made me want to join Daniel’s next march in support of Fair Working Conditions for All—but as that’s impossible, I made a silent vow to use my allowance, and Veronica’s and Toby’s, too, if necessary, so that Phoebe could have a proper holiday.

  “If it’s what you want, I can try to arrange it,” I said. “And don’t worry about the train fares or anything. Of course, if you don’t want to go, that’s all right, too.”

  “Well,” she said, wringing her hands. I stood there a bit longer, smiling encouragingly,
but eventually gave up and turned to go. Then the dam burst. Oh, she would like to go home, please, because her favorite brother—the one who’d been in trouble in Liverpool—was back, having lost his job up north.

  “What sort of trouble?” I asked, madly curious.

  “It weren’t his fault,” cried Phoebe, in full flow by then. “It’s the police—they’ve got it in for Blackshirts …” Her eyes widened and she clapped her hand over her mouth.

  “Your brother’s joined the Blackshirts?” I said, goggling at her.

  “You won’t tell Her Highness, will you?” she begged.

  I assumed she meant Veronica rather than Aunt Charlotte. But before I could say anything to reassure her, Barnes came in to see why Phoebe was taking so long with the towels, and it was probably only my presence that saved Phoebe from a tongue-lashing. Phoebe shot off downstairs and I walked back to my room, my thoughts whirling.

  A Blackshirt! No wonder Phoebe gets into such a fluster whenever Veronica starts railing against the Fascists! But why would a nice village boy (I assume he’s nice if he’s Phoebe’s favorite brother) want to dedicate himself to someone like Mosley—especially if it caused the poor boy to lose his job? Why would anyone want to be a Fascist? I thought of asking Veronica, but she’d only tell me he must be a complete idiot. She is not very balanced on the subject of Fascism. Although, I must admit, she thinks fanatical Communists are idiots, too. Actually, anyone who blindly follows any form of dogma, whether written by Marx, Hitler, or God, is regarded by Veronica as a complete idiot.

  So I decided to go and ask Simon. I’d been eager to learn more about his political views, anyway. Sometimes he appeared to agree with Chamberlain, the Conservative Prime Minister, and other times he favored Winston Churchill (also a Conservative, although Churchill seems to be Chamberlain’s sworn enemy these days). Then, on other issues, Simon supported the Labour Party. Of course, mostly Simon argued the opposite of whatever Veronica had just said. I waited till Aunt Charlotte had left for one of Lady Bosworth’s interminable luncheon parties and Toby had gone for a walk in Kensington Gardens with Rupert. Then I went looking for Simon, eventually finding him in an armchair in the library, engrossed in a thick leather-bound volume. I tilted my head sideways to read the gold lettering on the spine.

  “What’s ‘tort’?” I asked.

  “Aarrgh!” he said, jolting upright. “Oh, it’s you.” He started to shove the book under a cushion, realized I’d already seen the cover, and blushed.

  “Is it something scandalous?” I asked, intrigued.

  “It’s perfectly proper,” he said. “Oh—here you are, then, if you don’t believe me.” And he held out a page, which consisted of a lot of complicated legal language, quite unintelligible to me.

  “Hmm,” I said. “So why did you try to hide it?”

  “Are you going to pester me until I tell you?”

  I pulled a footstool closer, sat on it, and stared up into his face. “Perhaps,” I said.

  He sighed.

  “Or I could just ask Toby,” I said.

  “No, don’t!” he said quickly. “All right, then. If you promise not to tell anyone.”

  “I can’t promise till I know what it is,” I said. “But I won’t tell if there’s a good reason to keep it secret.”

  It was destined to be a Day of Astonishing Revelations. It turns out that Simon has enrolled in night classes, to study law.

  “But why would you want to keep that a secret?” I asked, bemused.

  “For one thing, I doubt the Princess Royal would approve. She prefers me to spend every waking moment engaged in official duties.”

  “Oh. Yes, I see what you mean. But Toby wouldn’t mind.”

  Simon fiddled with the cover of the book. “I don’t want him to know, Sophia, in case …” He took a deep breath, then spoke in a rush. “In case I don’t do very well. I haven’t been to school before, I’m not used to working for examinations, and you know Toby doesn’t take any kind of study seriously.”

  Gazing into Simon’s face, I was filled with an intense but confused emotion. Admiration mixed with pity might be the closest way to describe it. I thought of how Simon must have felt, watching Toby open that acceptance letter from Christ Church, knowing how little Toby valued it …

  “I swear, I won’t tell anyone,” I said fiercely—perhaps a little too fiercely, because Simon looked surprised, then slightly worried. I hastened to change the subject. “But, Simon, you distracted me. I came down to ask you a question.”

  Simon seemed relieved when he realized all I wanted to know was why people became Fascists. First he explained about German Fascism—how Hitler had taken advantage of the terrible conditions in Germany after they lost the Great War, how he’d ruthlessly eliminated other political parties and the free press, had set up storm-trooper armies and secret police and propaganda units and youth societies, so that now it was difficult and dangerous for a German to choose not to be a Fascist.

  “Yes, I know about that,” I said. “But why do English people become Fascists? Why would they want a Fascist dictator instead of a Parliament they could elect?”

  Simon looked down at the book in his lap and drew his brows together. “You know, I once heard Mosley speak, years ago, in Trafalgar Square. It wasn’t so much what he said but how he said it. He really knew how to use his voice. All that practice in the House of Commons, I suppose. And then there were his men in their black uniforms, flinging their arms up in salutes and waving their banners. It seemed so impressive.” Simon glanced at me, giving me his half smile. “And he’s said to be very good-looking, by those who care about such things. There are quite a few lady Fascists, you know.”

  “Ugh! I think he’s creepy,” I said with a shudder. (Mosley personifies the word “cad” to me. The words “scoundrel” and “rake” and “knave” also come to mind. Well, perhaps not “knave,” that’s a bit too medieval. Mosley is a thoroughly modern villain.) “So, it’s just having a charismatic leader, that’s all there is to their popularity?”

  “It’s also what he promises. Everything will become perfect the moment he takes over. Industry will be more efficient, there’ll be jobs for all, workers will get paid more for working less, education and health care will be freely available. It’s all a lot of nonsense, of course. None of his ideas would actually work, and half of them contradict the other half. But for people without much education, with badly paid, backbreaking jobs—or no jobs at all—it must sound wonderful. And he’s careful to say exactly what his audience wants to hear. He promises to get rid of the idle rich when he’s talking to unemployed miners up north, then he vows to abolish the Communists and trade unions when he’s talking to his fellow idle rich. But the main thing is that he claims he’s the only one who can save Britain from war.”

  “By letting Hitler do whatever he wants,” I said, disgusted.

  “Well, it’s not that different from Chamberlain’s policy of appeasement,” Simon pointed out. “And who wants to go to war? You know how terrible it was last time. Imagine how much worse it’d be with modern armies, with aeroplanes able to bomb entire cities to rubble.”

  I felt sick, thinking of Guernica, of Montmaray.

  “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to … And anyway, there won’t be a war, Sophia, everyone hates the idea of it, here and everywhere else. Besides, Hitler can’t possibly think he could attack the rest of Europe and win. That would be crazy.”

  “Yes,” I said, trying to get dreadful images of broken buildings out of my head. Then I asked Simon whether he thought a Blackshirt had shot Veronica.

  “It’s as likely as anything else,” he said grimly. “So you haven’t recalled where you saw him before?”

  “No,” I said. “And not for want of trying. Simon, you don’t think he’ll have another go at it, do you?”

  “Let’s see if he sends any more letters.”

  “If he was the one who sent those letters,” I said. It’s a sad day when
we sit around hoping Veronica will receive threatening letters—but they’re the only clue we have.

  “Oh, and speaking of letters,” said Simon, getting up and going over to the desk, “I had one from Alice in Cornwall—the Montmaravians are all well, and they send their regards.”

  I think Alice finds it easier to stay in contact via Simon—she always was very old-fashioned when it came to her dealings with us “Royal Highnesses.” Her son Jimmy works on his uncle’s fishing boat now, and Alice and her sister Mary seem to have settled comfortably into their new life—not that surprising, I suppose, when half the villagers either came from Montmaray originally or married Montmaravians or have Montmaravian relatives. Most of them consider themselves Cornish now, just as their ancestors were, and they’re probably all British citizens, anyway, after all these years.

  Simon was still shuffling through the papers on the desk. “Unfortunately,” he continued, “I also had one from your sister’s governess, threatening to resign. I haven’t shown the Princess Royal—I’m still trying to figure out what to do about it. It won’t be easy finding another governess at this time of year.”

  He picked up the letter and handed it to me.

  “It sounds as though she’s hoping for a raise in her wages,” I said, scanning it. “Otherwise she wouldn’t bother threatening to leave—she’d just go. Although it could be that she’s worried what Aunt Charlotte will say once Aunt Charlotte gets back to Milford Park and sees Henry running wild and still practically illiterate. Miss Bullock might just want to be out of the way before that happens, and feels guilty enough to give us a few weeks’ notice.”

  I gave the letter back to Simon.