“Do you mean a token?” asked Veronica, pushing her hair off her forehead and leaving a smudge of charcoal. “A token is a symbol or a sign, whereas a totem is an animal used in primitive cultures to represent a particular—”
“Yes, one of those,” cried Henry gleefully. “’Cause he’s in love with you!”
It’s true that we always seem to get a better trade for the mussels when Veronica goes out in the rowboat, and it doesn’t surprise me that men would be attracted to her. After all, her mother was a Celebrated Beauty (according to an old Tatler I found, which had a whole page about Isabella’s engagement in it) and Veronica looks more and more like Isabella each day. Except that Veronica doesn’t always bother about brushing her hair or that sort of thing, because she generally has more important matters on her mind.
Anyway, she was far more delighted by the newspapers than the sweets—Veronica likes facts, especially fresh ones. (Oh, there’s an idea—could Veronica be lured to England by the promise of unlimited supplies of newspapers?) Actually, it’s a pity Veronica didn’t go out in the boat today—she could have asked the Basque captain for candles or some paraffin for the lamps, as she’s the only one of us who speaks Spanish. Still, the supply ship is due next week, so we will just have to do without until then. In the meantime, I suppose I should confine my writing to daylight hours. And give Veronica her candle back.
2nd November 1936
This morning, I came downstairs in my threadbare nightgown in search of my hairbrush (Henry had borrowed it when I’d not been awake enough to object) and found Simon Chester sitting at the kitchen table.
“Simon!” I gasped. “What … how…?” Then I remembered that I’d outgrown my nightgown bodice some months back and hurriedly crossed my arms, meanwhile turning an unflattering shade of scarlet (I could even feel my elbows blushing). I wish I didn’t blush so easily. Veronica never blushes. This is because she has Poise, something I sadly lack.
“Good morning, Sophia,” said Simon, glancing up with his usual half smile. (I’ve yet to figure out whether this is because he’s never wholly happy or because he’s worried about displaying his slightly uneven teeth.) He politely ignored my embarrassment and began to explain how he’d got a ride on a steamship headed for Lisbon.
Halfway through his account, Veronica walked in with the egg basket. “And I don’t suppose you thought to bring any candles with you,” she said, as though they were continuing an argument, which they probably were.
“No,” said Simon, glaring at her. Veronica gave him a withering look in return and stalked over to the sink.
“But does Rebecca know you’re here?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “She’s just gone in there.” He nodded towards Uncle John’s room, glanced at Veronica’s rigid back, then lowered his voice. “And how is His Majesty?” Simon asked me.
“The same,” I said as Veronica smashed an egg with unnecessary force against the rim of the mixing bowl. (Veronica maintains that her father’s odd behavior is pure self-indulgence and attention-seeking, and that Rebecca just encourages him.) Simon nodded slowly.
“Well, I brought some papers that need his signature,” he said. Simon works as a clerk for Mr. Grenville, our family’s solicitor. “And Toby needs more pocket money. The account’s almost empty. I’m afraid the Princess Royal …” But he didn’t need to explain to us that Aunt Charlotte had paid for the bare essentials this term, and nothing else.
“How much?” asked Veronica, turning.
“Twenty-five pounds should do for the term,” he said. “With some left over for next.” Toby tries to be as thrifty as he can, but there are all sorts of things outside school fees to pay for—sweets and postage stamps and bootlaces and so on. Although he does spend most of it on presents for us, I must admit.
“I want to see the accounts,” Veronica said, swinging the cast-iron frying pan down from its hook in a rather threatening manner.
“Of course,” said Simon, and they glared at each other a bit more.
Meanwhile, I was wishing I could tidy my hair (it must have looked a complete fright), but my hairbrush, lying on the draining board, was matted with our dog Carlos’s black curls. So I switched to thinking about what we could sell next. All the good china and crystal went a long time ago, along with the small, valuable bits of French furniture and the coin collection and the Ming vases. Despite the various antiques cluttering the Great Hall, I couldn’t think of anything that a stranger, or even a FitzOsborne, would pay good money for. But then I remembered Great-aunt Elizabeth’s Russian suitor.
“What about the egg?” I wondered aloud. Veronica frowned down at her mixing bowl. “The Fabergé egg,” I added quickly.
“Oh, yes,” said Veronica. “I’d forgotten about that.”
“What are you talking about?” said Simon.
So I took Simon into the Great Hall to show him, snatching up Rebecca’s shawl to wrap around my top half as we passed her chair. I have to say that the Great Hall is probably my least favorite part of the castle. The portraits all seem to glare, and there is simultaneously too much cold empty space and too much clutter, most of it ugly. There are moth-eaten bear rugs, five enormous clocks (none of which work properly), an elephant’s foot bristling with walking sticks and broken umbrellas, dozens of uncomfortable chairs, a Steinway grand badly in need of tuning, and a vast collection of battle-stained halberds and maces (and I don’t care what Veronica says, it’s blood, not rust, on that dented mace over the chapel door).
It’s such a chore keeping the place tidy, too. Rebecca has been making us tackle it bit by bit over the past week, and yesterday we had to do the flagstones. Henry sat on a rag and tried to get Carlos to pull her up and down on the section of floor she was waxing, but Carlos got overexcited and ran into the suit of armor. After we put it back together again, we found we had a bit left over, but Henry hid it inside the piano before Rebecca could find out. Not that it would be any of Rebecca’s business if we decided to toss the entire thing off South Head at high tide, but she does get rather worked up about certain family possessions—generally souvenirs of that time, long past, when we were rich and powerful. One would think Rebecca was a FitzOsborne herself, the way she fusses about the family heritage.
Anyway, I knew exactly where the egg was—in the big glassfronted cabinet, tucked away behind Montmaray’s only Olympic medal (fencing, Paris, 1900) and an old silver hurling ball engraved with the words GUARE WHEAG YU GUARE TEAG (“Gentle play is handsome play,” according to George, who can remember the hurling matches that used to be held each Shrove Tuesday, Castle versus Village, and were anything but gentle). I opened the cabinet, plucked out the egg, and held it up for Simon’s inspection. It was the size and shape of a hen’s egg, but enameled red, green, and blue, studded with a swirling pattern of tiny rubies and emeralds.
“Great-aunt Elizabeth always thought it was rather vulgar,” I told Simon. I flicked the catch at the side and the top swung open, revealing a hollow lined with blue velvet. “There used to be a miniature portrait of her in here, on a little gold easel, but I don’t know where it’s got to. What do you think it’s worth?”
Simon peered at it, sunlight glinting off the gems and streaking his black hair gaudy colors. His eyelashes, as long and thick as Veronica’s, were a terrible distraction. “Who did you say gave it to her?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Some Russian nobleman. Veronica will know.”
“If he were one of the Romanovs, it might be worth more,” he said. “The Bolsheviks sold some Imperial eggs a few years ago and the Americans paid a couple of hundred pounds each.”
“Really? A couple of hundred pounds?.” I said, looking at the egg with new respect even though I couldn’t help agreeing with Great-aunt Elizabeth’s opinion. Imagine all the dresses and shoes and things that two hundred pounds could buy! Then the loudest and ugliest of the clocks started to toll and kept on going till thirteen o’clock. “It’s a pity you can’t take one of
them to sell,” I sighed. I put the egg back on its gold stand for the time being and two of the other clocks started up. “Or all of them,” I added. Then Henry yelled that breakfast was ready and we went back to the kitchen.
Simon must find us terribly primitive after living in London for so long. He rides an underground train to his office, and his landlady has an electrical machine for making toast. Watching him eat scrambled eggs with one of the bent forks, I was painfully aware that our windowpane, broken last Christmas, still hadn’t been mended, and that one of the cats had been sick on the doorstep again.
Not that Simon gave any indication that he disapproved, or had even noticed. Although this may have been because he was too busy dealing with Rebecca’s questioning. Was his landlady giving him meat at every meal? He was so pale, was he sure he wasn’t anemic? Had he been taking his tonic? Was his room well aired and his mattress turned weekly? And on and on until Veronica couldn’t bear to hear another word and asked for the latest news on the war in Spain. The newspapers the Basque captain had given us had turned out to be mostly in Portuguese, and Veronica was still trying to decipher them. At any rate, Simon said, how could anyone expect Portuguese newspapers to tell the unvarnished truth when everyone knew that Salazar supported Franco? Then he went on to inform us that Madrid was under attack, the Nationalists had closed Spain’s border with France, and the Basques had established an autonomous government in the north.
This meant almost nothing to me, but Veronica started chewing on her lip.
“There’s an international committee been set up in London to discuss the situation,” he added. “No one wants it turning into another Great War. And if there’s a non-intervention agreement signed, as there will be, then I believe …” He cleared his throat. “I believe that Montmaray should be part of it.”
Veronica’s expression went from thoughtful to scathing in an instant.
“As one of Spain’s closest neighbors,” Simon continued, squaring his shoulders but unable to prevent a faint (and, in my opinion, rather attractive) flush creeping into his cheeks, “if any nation has an interest in avoiding an international conflict, then surely Montmaray—”
“And how exactly is Montmaray going to contribute to this international effort?” Veronica asked. “Send George out in the rowboat to stop German submarines from smuggling arms to Franco? For that matter, whom do you propose to send to these diplomatic meetings in London?”
Simon shifted in his seat. “Well, Toby is heir to the throne…”
My brother Toby is the dearest person in the world, but I’m certain he has even less of an idea about Spanish politics than I do.
“With you as his advisor, I suppose,” scoffed Veronica.
“And why not?” said Rebecca indignantly, turning from the stove. “Henry, run and fetch some of that blackberry jam Simon likes from the pantry, and mind you don’t let the jar slip this time.” Henry dropped her napkin in her egg and dashed out, not wanting to miss any more of the argument than she could help. “And anyhow,” said Rebecca, setting a fresh pile of egg and chives in front of Simon, “there’s only one who can decide on matters of state.”
Simon half smiled at Veronica. “And it isn’t you,” he said as his mother gave Uncle John’s closed door a reverent look.
“And it isn’t you, either,” said Veronica in an equally sweet tone, and I got the impression that I was witnessing the opening round of yet another of their epic battles, one that would probably still be in progress long after the dust had settled on the Spanish war. I resolved to ask Veronica to explain the whole Spanish situation to me as soon as possible, so I could sit through at least one meal while Simon was here without feeling a complete idiot.
I managed to catch up with her in the library after luncheon.
“We’re going to have to do something about Simon Chester,” Veronica announced before I’d even settled myself on the chaise longue.
“Er … what?” I said, feeling a little thrill of pleasure at the very sound of his name—even though I knew Veronica would have nothing good to say about him. “I mean, why?”
“Because,” she said, “he has Ambitions.” She began pacing the floor and waited for me to ask what she meant, which I did at once. “It was a mistake to allow him that job in the first place,” she said over one shoulder. “A few months of carrying files between offices and he fancies himself capable of taking over diplomatic duties for Montmaray! How he ever managed to talk my father into letting him … All Rebecca’s influence, of course…”
Watching her was making me dizzy, so I concentrated on poking some of the horsehair stuffing back into the chaise longue.
“But it’s too late now,” Veronica said. She whirled around. “What’s important is that we keep a careful eye on him. And the accounts.”
“Are you saying that Simon is … taking money from us?” I said, trying to keep up.
“Perhaps not,” Veronica admitted. “I’m not sure he wants money, as such. No, no—he wants to be important.” Her lip curled. “He wants to join committees and dine with Cabinet ministers and be interviewed by newspapermen, that sort of thing.”
Which all sounded terribly boring to me, and it wasn’t as though any of us could do it instead. Veronica and I are girls, Toby is still at school, and Uncle John is out of the question, even if he is King. As far as I was concerned, Simon was welcome to it, and I said so.
“But he’s not a FitzOsborne!” cried Veronica. “He doesn’t have the best interests of Montmaray at heart, the way we do. He doesn’t even live here! And that’s another thing. He has far too much influence over Toby. It’ll be even worse now that Toby is at school in London—he’s barely two miles from Simon Chester’s doorstep. Who knows what Simon’s capable of talking poor Toby into? And you know how sweet and trusting Toby is …”
I wasn’t so sure about that. I think Toby might be far stronger-willed than he appears. For example, look at how he managed to get himself thrown out of Eton. He’d hated everything about it (except Rupert Stanley-Ross, his best friend from their very first day), but Aunt Charlotte was determined Toby should stay. All the FitzOsborne men had gone there; he would be breaking a tradition that had lasted hundreds of years; he ought to think of all the important social connections he would make … But Toby had his way in the end. He generally does; it’s just that he’s so charming about it that no one minds or even notices. Also, it seems perfectly natural to me that Toby would look up to Simon a bit, Simon being five years older and rather charming himself.
But I can’t expect Veronica to be swayed on this particular subject, especially not by someone as useless at arguing as me. I had also hoped I might be able to bring up the topic of our going to England, but I couldn’t think of any convincing arguments for that, either. All I could come up with was that moving there would enable her to keep a closer eye on Simon. Except that they’re both happiest when they’re as far away from each other as possible. So instead, I asked Veronica to explain the Spanish situation to me, and while I succeeded in getting her off the dangerous topic of Simon, I’m not sure I actually understood much of what she said. Perhaps writing it down will make it clearer.
Firstly, the things I already knew. I know the King of Spain, Alfonso the Thirteenth, was forced into exile a few years ago. I remember having a discussion about it with Daniel, our tutor at the time, who said that the Spanish people had blamed the King when they lost the Moroccan war. He also said the King had done some terrible things—executed people who didn’t agree with him, for example—and that when the Spanish people finally had the chance to vote in democratic elections in 1931, they voted for a Republic and King Alfonso was forced to leave and Good Riddance to Bad Rubbish. That’s what Daniel said (Daniel may have been a tiny bit Communist, now that I think back on it).
What Daniel didn’t realize is that Veronica is related to King Alfonso through her mother (I think Alfonso and Isabella are second cousins or something). Poor Daniel was very embarrassed whe
n he realized. But Veronica didn’t mind, partly because Daniel was so nice, but mostly because she despised anything to do with her mother, who had left a few years earlier and not bothered to send us so much as a postcard. Anyway, once King Alfonso was out of the way, the Spanish government made lots of liberal reforms, allowing divorce and letting women vote and that sort of thing, which made some people upset.
That was the bit I already knew. What happened earlier this year is that there were more elections and the Popular Front won narrowly. The Popular Front, according to Veronica, is mostly Communists and Socialists, but there are also some Basque separatists from the north, who of course are not Spanish at all and have a language of their own (I know this because of the Basque captain, as well as all the Basque fishermen we see around here).
This new Popular Front government made certain people—the military, the Fascist Party, people who supported the King—rather unhappy, so a couple of months ago, General Franco started his rebellion against the government. And this is where I started to get lost. Apparently the Germans and the Italians are helping Franco, because they are all Fascists and hate the Communists. The Russians are helping the Popular Front government, because they are Communists and hate the Fascists. The Basques have set up their own separate government in the north. And Britain and France don’t want anyone but the Spanish to be involved in the conflict, because it might lead to another Great War. And now I have an enormous headache from trying to make sense of all this. There is more, but I will have to write it down later. First I have to go and make some betony tea for my poor head.
3rd November 1936
I didn’t have time to finish all I wanted to say yesterday, but will try to do so now. It’s been a very unsettling morning, though. A keening wind blew up before dawn, rattling windows and slamming doors and startling me out of that dream (which had just started to turn nightmarish, so it was a relief to be awake, however early it was). Then Henry came into the kitchen before breakfast and announced that the hens were behaving very strangely.