This is the journal of
Sophia Margaret Elizabeth Jane Clementine FitzOsborne,
begun this twenty-third day of October 1936,
on the occasion of her sixteenth birthday.
23rd October 1936
Dear Sophie,
Happy birthday to my favorite little sister! I’ve been trying to recollect the day you were born so I can gush about it in an appropriately sentimental fashion, but I’m afraid it’s all a blank. I must have been too busy pulling Veronica’s hair or smearing stewed apple over my smock to notice you popping into existence. I do remember Henry’s arrival ten years ago, and if you were anything like her, you were a most unattractive baby—wrinkled, red-faced, loud, and rather smelly. Lucky for all of us that you’ve improved somewhat with age.
Now, did the presents arrive safely? I had to go all the way to Knightsbridge for the journal, and then I got detention for sneaking off from Games, so I hope you appreciate it. You can use it to write down your thoughts. You must have plenty of them at the moment, given Aunt Charlotte’s letter—I assume you’ve read it by now. Are you thrilled? Terrified? Well, it’s all your fault for turning sixteen—you gave Aunt Charlotte quite a shock when she realized how old you’d suddenly become. She had to sit down and have an extra-large sherry to recover.
As for me, this new school is almost as ghastly as the old one. I suppose I’d been hoping Rupert would come too when I was thrown out of Eton, but his parents keep saying no, worse luck. The House Masters have finally sorted out dormitories, and now I share with three boys. Two are in the Rugby First XV, ugh. The other has noxious feet and learns the bagpipes, so is nearly as bad. I have already had two detentions, one for missing Games on Saturday and one for not doing Latin prep. The Latin prep wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know there was any prep because the Latin Master told us about it in Latin and I didn’t understand a word he said.
Remember, I am in MarchHare House, so please make sure you put that on the address when you write, otherwise the letters might get lost. It’s a good House to be in because it inevitably comes last in the House Cup, so no one cares much when I lose House points. The other good thing about MarchHare is that we can climb out the top-story windows onto the roof and look into the hospital next door, which is very educational. Also, sometimes the nurses come out onto a balcony to smoke, and they throw us a cigarette if we beg nicely.
It’s almost lights-out, so I’d better finish. Tell Veronica to come and live in my trunk so she can secretly do my Latin prep for me. She could write my History essay as well, it is on the Restoration. And ask her to bring Carlos with her so he can eat the bagpipes.
Love from your wonderful brother,
Toby
As usual, Toby’s letter was coded in Kernetin, which Toby and my cousin Veronica and I invented years ago so we could write notes to each other without the grown-ups being able to read them. Kernetin is based on Cornish and Latin, with some Greek letters and random meaningless squiggles thrown in to be extra-confusing. Also, it is boustrophedonic (I adore that word and try to say it as often as possible, but unfortunately it hasn’t many everyday uses). “Boustrophedonic” means you read one line left to right, then the next right to left. Veronica can translate Kernetin straight off the page into English, but I find it easier to write it out, so there it is, my first entry in my new journal. It has a hundred blank pages thick as parchment, and a morocco binding, and is almost too lovely to write in.
I did get some superb birthday presents this year. Veronica gave me a pen with my initials on it. From my little sister, Henry, came a new Pride and Prejudice, because I dropped my old one in the bath and it hasn’t been the same since. (Henry, who wishes she’d been born a boy, looked quite disappointed when I opened the journal from Toby—she’d probably told him to get me one of those pocketknives with attached magnifying glass, screwdriver, and fish-scaler, hoping that I’d then lend it to her.) The villagers presented me with a honey-spice cake, a lavender pillow, and a beautiful comb carved out of driftwood. Uncle John doesn’t even know what year it is, let alone the date, so I never expect so much as a “Happy birthday” from him, but Rebecca, our housekeeper, gave me the day off from washing up the breakfast dishes. Even Carlos, our Portuguese water dog, managed a birthday card, signed with an inky paw-print (now I understand why Henry was being so secretive yesterday and how the bathtub ended up with all those black streaks).
And then there was Aunt Charlotte! I opened her letter long after breakfast was over because I couldn’t imagine her approving of anything as indulgent as birthdays, but that turned out to be the most exciting part of the whole morning. I won’t copy it all out, most of it being her usual scoldings about our idle, extravagant lives here on Montmaray, and do we think she’s made of money, and so on. But here is the important part:
… and now that you are sixteen, Sophia, I am reminded yet again of the sad burden I have been forced to bear since my youngest brother and his wife were so cruelly torn from this world, God rest their souls. My only comfort is knowing how grateful Robert and Jane would be if they could see all that I have done for you children.
However, my responsibilities are not yet complete, and your mother in particular, Sophia, would have wanted you to be given the same social opportunities she had. As for Veronica, it is not her fault that her feckless mother is who-knows-where and quite unable to make appropriate arrangements regarding a matrimonial match. I feel it is my duty, then, to sponsor your debuts into Society. We cannot postpone this event much longer, in light of your advancing ages.
I expect early in the new year would be the best time for both of you to travel to England. I leave it to Veronica to write to Mr. Grenville regarding steamer passage and railway tickets. In the meantime, I shall begin perusing the Almanach de Gotha for eligible prospects…
I took a moment to savor that glorious phrase “your debuts into Society,” then raced off to the library tower, at the far end of the courtyard, in search of Veronica. She had locked the little black cat out and it was crying with rage on the doorstep. The door was barred from the inside, too, not just closed. I had to hammer at it for ages before she peered out.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, opening the door wider. “I thought it was Henry being annoying again. No, you can’t come in,” she told the cat, but it had already shot past my legs and launched itself at Veronica. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she huffed, but the cat only curled its claws into her skirt and wailed harder. (All the castle cats are a bit mad; I’m not sure why. The ones down in the village seem quite normal.)
I thrust the letter at Veronica, threw myself upon the shredded-looking chaise longue, and glanced around while I waited for her to read it. Behind me were the tower stairs, winding their way up through five stories of books, most of which are bound in royal blue and stamped with the FitzOsborne crest. Veronica’s domain, on the ground floor, is a large, square room that could be handsome if it tried. However, Veronica would rather it be serviceable, and so the desk is an old wooden door set on trestles; the papers on it are weighed down with stones; the walls that aren’t hidden behind bookshelves are papered with navigation charts and genealogy lists; and everything reeks of tansy, which smolders in a little clay pot to ward off insects.
“Well?” I burst out as she refolded the letter with her usual precision and prepared to hand it back to me. “We can make our debuts next Season, can’t we? Do say yes!”
“Why are you asking me?” Veronica plucked the cat off her skirt and deposited the wild-eyed creature next to me; it had stopped yowling by then. It immediately began sharpening its claws on the armrest. “Aunt Charlotte’s the one who’d do the presenting at Court. I can’t remember all the
rules, but she was married to a British subject, so I’m sure that’s all right.”
“Yes, yes, she was presented after her wedding, but—”
“We’ll find the money for dresses and shoes and things somehow, if that’s what you’re worried about,” said Veronica. She hesitated, gnawing at her bottom lip. “We could always sell the King James Bible…”
“Veronica, no!” I said at once. Veronica may be an avowed atheist, but that Bible is her pride and joy. It’s a first edition, first printing, said to have been owned by King James himself, and it’s been in our family for more than three hundred years. “Absolutely not.”
She smiled at me crookedly. “Well, I don’t think we have anything else of value left to sell.”
I shook my head. “The whole thing needn’t be too expensive, and Aunt Charlotte will pay for it, she’ll have to. I’ll get Toby to ask her—she dotes on him.”
“She ought to regard it as an investment,” said Veronica wryly. “Once you’ve made your debut, you’ll be invited to all those parties, where you’ll meet a very rich banker and marry him and restore the FitzOsborne family fortune.”
“As though any man would even glance at me with you in the room,” I scoffed.
“Me?” said Veronica. “I’m not going.”
“What?” I said, jumping to my feet.
“Well, someone needs to stay here to look after Henry and make sure Father doesn’t go on a rampage,” Veronica said. Then she caught sight of my face. “Now, Sophie. You surely didn’t think I’d want to spend an evening curtseying to some foreign king, then having to make polite conversation at endless parties.”
“But I can’t do it by myself!” I cried. “I wouldn’t even consider going to England without you!”
“Don’t be silly, you’d be fine,” she said. “Anyway, Toby will be there.”
And so will Simon Chester, said a little voice in my head, but I brushed it away. “Veronica, I couldn’t possibly—”
“Well, I’m not leaving Montmaray,” she said. It’s nearly impossible to shift Veronica once she’s made up her mind. That didn’t stop me trying, though.
“You’ll have to leave at some stage,” I pointed out. “How else will you get married?”
“Why would I need to?” she said. “Toby is the heir to the Montmaravian throne, he can have lots of children to carry on the family name. And you’ll marry someone rich.” She smiled. “It’s a pity girls can’t inherit in our family. ‘Queen Veronica’ has quite a nice ring to it, don’t you think? But one can’t argue with tradition. Oh well, Henry and I shall be spinsters, then. I’ll be the dry, bookish sort and Henry will be the mad, adventuring sort.”
“I’m being serious!” I protested. “What if you fall in love?”
“I won’t,” she said. “I’ll just have lots of affairs with good-looking young men.” Then she laughed at the expression on my face.
It’s all very well for Veronica to joke about falling in love. She doesn’t have the slightest idea how miserable it can make one feel, especially when the object of one’s affection barely knows one exists. And even if he did realize I existed, even if he returned some of my feelings, it would be utterly, utterly impossible…
“Anyway, what did Toby have to say?” asked Veronica. I fished around in my pocket for his letter, then sat back down and frowned at the stone floor, trying to gather my thoughts into some sort of coherent argument. I knew that moving Veronica closer to my point of view would require all my mental resources, and then some. But I got distracted, as I tend to do, and started thinking about the herringbone pattern in which the stones were set and whether herrings really did have their bones arranged in that particular manner.
Then Rebecca started shrieking for Veronica and I went to see what she wanted, because poor Veronica gets so little time to work on her Brief History as it is. But it turned out that the upstairs loo had flooded again, and Veronica’s the only one who can fix it. By the time we’d mopped up and washed the towels and hung them on the line, it was luncheon. And then the kitchen garden needed weeding, and one of the hens got her leg stuck in a loose bit of the cucumber frames, and one thing led to another, and before I knew it, the day was over.
And now here I am, sitting up in bed, scribbling away in my new journal by the light of the half-moon, Henry having borrowed my candle to visit the downstairs loo (she claims the upstairs one is too pink). It would be an ideal time to set down my thoughts about Aunt Charlotte’s letter, but they are in such a muddle. On the one hand, it is, as Toby said, utterly thrilling. Oh, I can just picture the perfect debutante dress—chiffon of palest blue, with layer upon layer of floating skirt. Lovely new shoes with high heels, and silk stockings, and long white gloves. A necklace studded with sapphires, matching earrings, and—most gorgeous of all—a glittering diamond tiara…
Although I expect all the FitzOsborne jewels have been sold by now. And if Aunt Charlotte, as Princess Royal, firstborn daughter of the late King, has any of her own to lend us, Veronica ought to get first pick; she’s the eldest. A tiara would look ridiculous on me anyway, with my colorless, frizzy hair (Toby and Henry got the blond curls, lucky things) and my bumpy nose (Toby accidentally threw a croquet mallet at me when I was three).
Besides, Veronica has refused to go—and I can’t even contemplate the idea of being separated from her. We’ve shared a room ever since I was born. We’re closer than even sisters could be. And then, the thought of leaving Montmaray is so horrible…
And yet how can we possibly ignore Aunt Charlotte’s orders? We have to do as she says; she’s the only proper grown-up left to look after us, even if she is all the way over there in England. Officially, the head of our household is Uncle John, who is Aunt Charlotte’s brother and Veronica’s father (and the King of Montmaray), but he’s rather distracted on his good days, and downright alarming on his bad ones (though we do our best to keep that quiet). Besides, Aunt Charlotte’s the only one with any money—she married an elderly coal magnate named Sir Arthur Marlowe, who promptly died and left her a fortune—so we rely on her to pay for Toby’s schooling and just about everything else. I’ve never met her, but based on her letters and Toby’s reports, I can’t imagine anyone actually saying no to her. Except Veronica, of course.
It’s at moments such as these that I almost wish I were religious—then I could pray for guidance, leaving the decision in heavenly hands. But even though I’m fond of many bits of the Bible—the Garden of Eden, baby Moses in the bulrushes, the Nativity—I find it hard to believe that a real God is behind them. Isn’t it enough that they’re beautiful stories? Besides, religious people can be so unpleasant. Rebecca this morning, for example, screaming that Henry was the spawn of the Devil and swiping at her with the rolling pin, just because Henry chalked a hopscotch grid on the chapel’s flagstones. One can’t blame Henry—those flagstones are exactly the right size, and there’s lots of room now the pews are gone (we used up the last of them two winters ago when we ran out of firewood during a tremendous storm). The rest of us were just relieved Henry had found a way to use up some of that excess energy of hers.
And speaking of Henry, where on earth is she with my candle? She’s been gone half an hour. Either she’s fallen down the loo and drowned, or she’s gone fishing with her friend Jimmy from the village. It really is too bad of her. Why can’t she use her own candle if she’s going to go wandering across the island in the middle of the night? She’d better not drop the candlestick holder—it’s the last silver one we own. (I’m not concerned about Henry; she’s pretty much indestructible. She fell off a cliff once and didn’t do anything but scrape her elbow a bit.) She always runs wild once Toby leaves for school each year—not that she’s much better-behaved when he’s here at Montmaray. Here is my New Year’s resolution, then, ten months late—I resolve to be firmer with Henry.
And now the moon has shrunk behind a cloud and it really is much too dark to see. I’m going to lie under the blanket and have a good thin
k, and if I think anything particularly profound, I’ll have to write it down tomorrow.
24th October 1936
I did have several thoughts last night after I put my book away, but they were pathetic rather than profound. They were, I must admit, mostly about Simon Chester, Rebecca’s son. My thoughts have been wandering relentlessly in his direction ever since his last visit, at the start of summer. He is not exactly a visitor, having lived at Montmaray for all those years before he went off to London. However, that was so long ago that I can’t help imagining how he must see us now. Not that he does see me. And no wonder he barely notices I exist—I’m so dull, compared to the others. Veronica is clever (even Simon acknowledges that, and the two of them loathe each other). Toby is charming, funny, and handsome. Henry is like a Force of Nature. I am neither pretty nor strong-willed nor particularly talented at anything, which doesn’t usually bother me except when Simon is here. He makes me feel so dissatisfied with myself! Except I have no idea how to go about improving the situation, so I just berate myself silently, which makes it worse, like picking at a scab.
(Note: Whenever I feel like this, I must pretend to be Veronica and say firmly to myself, Who on earth cares what Simon Chester thinks, anyway? Then think very hard about some other subject.)
All right.
Lovely weather we’ve been having lately.
Oh, it’s no good. I might as well write it down—it’s not as though anyone else is going to read this (I’ve found an excellent hiding place for my book). I’m not sure that it’s love, exactly—what I feel for Simon. Perhaps it’s just a peculiar and embarrassing type of curiosity. During his last visit, for example, I found myself staring at his strong fingers curled around the saltcellar and admiring the precision of the comb furrows in his shiny hair. It could simply be that he’s the only young man I know who is not related to me, but it’s all very awkward. For one thing, Veronica would be horrified if she found out, and it’s awful not being able to speak with her about something important. Usually we talk about absolutely everything. Not that Simon’s really important—I mean, it’s not as though I’m planning to marry him. But I’ll have to marry someone, at some stage, and if I’m this inept at being charming and interesting around Simon, then my prospects of attracting anyone better are fairly dim.