Much, much later and nothing got written in the gatehouse after all. I noticed at once that the grit on the windowsill had been swept away and the basket attached to the pulley system was missing. Leaning out the window, I saw the basket balanced on a shelf of rock that vanishes at high tide. Beside it is a shallow cave where driftwood tends to collect in great piles—something to do with the ocean currents and the shape of the Chasm, I believe. It’s very convenient; it saves our having to go all the way to the cove for firewood.
Simon was down there, hacking away at what looked like the remains of a wooden crate. He swung the ax with neither grace nor skill (Henry could have done a better job), but there was something compelling about the determined set of his back and the sturdy plant of his feet upon the rock. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his blue shirt. I could see his forearms, see the muscles shifting under the London-pale skin. And all at once I was thrown into a rather embarrassing memory (and thank heavens Veronica is too honorable to read this journal without my permission) of the time I came across Toby and Simon bathing in the Great Pool. Not that I saw very much of Simon—he had his back to me and was thigh-deep in water—but still …
Isn’t it odd that something I barely registered at the time could have lurked in the shadows of my mind all those years? And then suddenly emerge with such force that as I sagged against the windowsill, I could actually smell the weedy pond water, feel the damp grass crushed under my feet and the sun burning into the back of my neck, hear Toby giggling as he sent a spray of water towards Simon. And then, just as my face heated up and I decided I really oughtn’t to be gawking out the gatehouse window at Simon, he turned to toss a chunk of wood into the basket and caught sight of me hanging half out the window with my face pink and my hair upside down. He tilted his head and gave me his half smile.
“Oh, hello!” I cried breathlessly. “Er, just… just wondering if you want me to pull up the basket yet!”
He looked at the basket and its meager contents.
“Or I could come down and help!” I said. “I’ll help load the wood, it’s much quicker with two people!”
I must have sounded an absolute fool. When flustered, I talk and talk instead of staying sensibly silent. But he was too polite to object, and I realized I’d been hoping for just such an excuse to spend time alone with him. So I climbed down the ladder to the courtyard and then descended the two dozen rusty iron spikes hammered into the Chasm wall below the drawbridge. It’s safer than it appears, but I was wearing my best (my only) dress, which I’d changed into once I realized everyone was staying for luncheon. I tied the hem in a knot on one side so it didn’t billow too much, but I probably showed far more leg than is decent. Not that Simon appeared to notice. Of course, for all I know, fashionable young ladies in London are wearing hemlines up around their knees this season. At least worrying about my dress stopped me thinking about the sheer drop to the waves below—there’s only a finite amount of worrying a person can do at any one time, as Veronica once pointed out to me. It was helpful to realize this, because there are so many things that terrify me—deep water, the dark, rats, blood, spiders, any kind of bones except fish bones, bees, enclosed spaces, and albino rabbits, just for a start.
Up close, Simon chopped wood even more badly than was apparent from above (he must be terribly out of practice), but I wasn’t quite foolish enough to offer to take over. Instead, I busied myself gathering up bits of wood, scraping off the seaweed and barnacles before tossing them in the basket, while trying not to trip over any of Henry’s rubbish (she and Jimmy have been building a raft in the cave) or drop anything on Simon’s jacket (which was folded on a rock with his rather nice gold watch sitting on top).
I couldn’t think of anything fascinating to say, so I concentrated on trying to decide whether Simon really is handsome or not. His face is all planes and sharp angles, with thick brows and deep, dark eyes. I noticed he had quite a lot of blue-black stubble along his jaw, even though he’d shaved only hours before. He’s taken to slicking his hair back with some sort of oil, too. It doesn’t suit him; it makes him look severe and much older, although I suppose that could be the effect he’s aiming for. He certainly hasn’t any of Toby’s golden-haired, blue-eyed good looks, but Toby is a completely different type of boy. Perhaps that’s it—that Toby is a boy and Simon is a man. A man of the world, I thought with a lovely shiver.
Then it occurred to me that Simon might have some advice regarding my dilemma. At any rate, it would be something to talk about. The silence was becoming awkward—for me, at least.
“Um,” I said. “Simon. Has … has Toby said anything to you about Veronica and me going to England?”
“Not to attend school, I presume,” he said, tossing a chunk of wood in the basket.
“No, to be presented at Court. It’s Aunt Charlotte’s idea. And after that—well, you know…”
“Society awaits,” he said dryly. He straightened and gave me an appraising look. I could feel myself starting to blush—again. “Well then, that’s very exciting news for you, Sophia. And, of course, for Her Highness.”
I’d asked him to call me by my first name years ago, but I can’t imagine Veronica ever extending him that courtesy. He does manage to infuse her royal title with such disdain that it turns the words meaningless. Mind you, she never calls him anything but Simon Chester, usually spat out as though they’re swearwords.
“Yes, but the thing is,” I continued, “Veronica refuses to leave Montmaray. She doesn’t have the slightest interest in Society. And I can’t possibly go without her. So I wondered if—well, if you might…” I trailed off, giving him a pleading look.
“Are you suggesting she’d listen to me?” He almost laughed, then caught himself.
“Well, no, but you could give me some ideas about how to persuade her,” I said. “I mean, I haven’t been to England. What might make Veronica want to visit?”
“Why do you want to go?”
I thought about it for a moment. I wasn’t entirely sure I did want to leave Montmaray, but there were certainly some things beckoning me towards England. “Dress shops. Parties. The cinema. But that’s not going to help. She’s so much more… I mean, she’s an intellectual.”
He narrowed his eyes, and I was reminded of the lessons the four of us—Toby, Simon, Veronica, and I—had shared before Toby went away to school. Veronica had always been clever, but Simon had focused so intensely, worked so doggedly, that he nearly always matched her in the tasks our tutors set us. It might seem nothing much to boast about, given that she’s five years his junior, but then he’d lived in the village, with hardly any access to books, until he was twelve. For him to have achieved as much as he had was evidence, I thought, of his innate intelligence. At any rate, I was sure he could solve any problem I might care to throw at him—provided I could persuade him it was in his interest to solve it.
“Aunt Charlotte would be so grateful if you could help me convince Veronica,” I said, putting on what I hoped was a winning expression. “There’s going to be an awful battle otherwise—you know how stubborn they both are.”
I could see that my pathetic attempt at scheming amused him. Still, if he was half as ambitious as Veronica claimed, he’d want to get on Aunt Charlotte’s good side. And regardless of anything else, at least he was looking at me for once.
“Very well,” he said, leaning on his ax. “I’ll give you some reasons why Her Highness might want to leave Montmaray for England. And in return, you’ll convince her that Montmaray needs to take part in those non-intervention talks regarding Spain.”
“But, but …,” I spluttered, “I don’t know anything about … and anyway, she doesn’t—”
“I’m aware she doesn’t trust me,” he said evenly. “But she ought to. I care about the same things she does. We all want the best for Montmaray.”
Had he been eavesdropping on Veronica and me in the library the day before? I was instantly ashamed of myself for ha
ving such an awful, suspicious thought. Meanwhile, Simon kept talking—about how Montmaray needed to regain its rightful place in Europe, about politics and diplomacy and the important role Montmaray played all those centuries ago during the War of the Spanish Succession, and then later, when Napoleon invaded the Peninsula…
Well, to be honest, I can’t remember his exact words, even though I was listening very hard to his voice (so deep and rich—a bit like treacle, if treacle were a sound) and watching his eyes lighten and darken, and his brows rise and narrow, and his hands wave around in elegant patterns.
“… a united front with Toby, don’t you agree?”
I blinked. What was I supposed to be agreeing to? “Yes?” I ventured.
He sighed, and I felt ashamed all over again.
“So you’ll talk to her,” he said with studied patience. “About the need for Montmaray to take part in these talks in London? She’ll listen to you.”
“I … All right,” I said.
“Excellent,” he said. “Now, as for your problem. What might appeal to Her Highness? The British Museum. Westminster Abbey. Debate in the Houses of Parliament. Exhibitions at the Royal Academy. The Tower of London. St. Paul’s Cathedral. Libraries. Bookshops. Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park. Dozens of daily newspapers. Radios that actually work and regular news broadcasts, in English.”
Of course, I could have figured most of that out by myself.
“Mind you,” he added, “if she’s determined to stay here, then let her. It shouldn’t stop you from going wherever you please.”
“She’s not stopping me!” I said. “I just… We do everything together and—”
“You pay far too much attention to her opinions and not enough to your own,” he said, taking up the ax again.
I gaped at him. “Well!” I said, because he was so wrong I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Of course I pay attention to Veronica’s opinion! That doesn’t mean I don’t have opinions of my own, just that hers are interesting and well thought out and…
Anyway, why shouldn’t she be the most important person in my life? I don’t have a mother or a sister (I can’t really count Henry), or neighbors my own age or school friends. Thank heavens I do have Veronica. I can’t picture my life without her—truly I can’t, because every significant memory of my life features her. I remember her hitting Toby after he threw the croquet mallet at me. I remember her sneaking into the Blue Room to read to me from The Magic Fish Bone when I was quarantined with measles and going mad from itching and boredom. I remember curling up in her bed each night for weeks on end after Mother and Father were killed—it was the only way I could get to sleep. She’s part of all the big memories—and all the little ones, too. She was the one who taught me how to tie my bootlaces, how to extract bee stings, how to light Vulcan without setting my eyebrows on fire. But how could I explain all this to Simon? And anyway, he’d already turned his attention back to the woodpile.
Oh, it’s just habit, his dislike of Veronica—he probably can’t help himself saying unfair things. He simply doesn’t know her as I do. I’m just going to ignore what he said.
Except I gave my word that I’d speak to Veronica about that non-intervention thing…
Bother.
4th November 1936
My attempt to discuss the Spanish situation with Veronica this morning was as unsuccessful as I’d feared. In fact, I didn’t even manage to get my first, carefully rehearsed sentence out. It was my fault—I interrupted her as she was going over the accounts.
“Are they very bad?” I asked. “I mean, worse than usual?”
I peered over her shoulder at the columns of numbers, but they might as well have been Ancient Greek to me—no, Ancient Greek I would’ve had more chance of understanding, thanks to all that practice decoding Kernetin.
“Ten pounds,” groaned Veronica, tapping her pencil on one of the red squiggles. “Why on earth would Toby have needed ten pounds before term had even started?”
“Didn’t his friend Rupert invite him to their country house then?” I wondered aloud. “Train fares? New shoes? Tips for the servants?”
Veronica started massaging her temples with her fingertips.
“Never mind,” I said. “We’ll sell the Fabergé egg. Simon thought he might get a couple of hundred pounds for it.”
“Oh, Simon Chester thought! Why hasn’t he left yet, anyway? He’s got his precious papers signed now. He could have gone back on the supply ship.”
“But it was headed for Santander,” I pointed out.
“He’s up to something,” she said, scowling at the accounts. “He and Rebecca.”
“I thought you said he wasn’t interested in money,” I protested. “Besides, we haven’t got any.”
“And why don’t we have any?” said Veronica, giving me a dark and meaningful look. Then she snatched all the papers up and went off to the library, muttering something under her breath about Uriah Heep.
It was this that made another nasty, suspicious thought pop into my mind. I suddenly remembered Simon’s watch, sitting on his folded-up jacket. I’d never seen him wearing a watch before, and it had looked so new and shiny. How had he been able to afford it on a clerk’s wages? Not that I have any idea how much a watch costs (or how much a clerk earns). It probably wasn’t real gold anyway—I expect it was brass or something. No doubt handed down from his father and he’s always worn it, and I haven’t noticed it before because it’s only been recently that I’ve paid much attention to him.
But why did it look so new?
Oh, but I know Simon would never take money from us. Especially as he understands far better than me how little we have. It hasn’t always been that way. In fact, at one stage the FitzOsbornes were very, very rich. For the record (I’m trying to be more ordered and objective about my writing, the way Veronica is, using proper footnotes and everything), this is how our family made its fortune:
1. Salvaging the cargo of ships wrecked off Montmaray (a lucrative business, given the perilous Montmaray coastline and the continuing refusal of Montmaray kings to construct a lighthouse or any other kind of warning system).1
2. Piracy (possibly).2
3. Smuggling rum and brandy into England (possibly).3
4. Selling salt to the English whenever they were at war with France and their regular suppliers were cut off.4
5. Whaling and fishing.5
6. Making anyone else who wanted to catch whales or fish in Montmaray waters pay license fees.6
7. Marrying coal magnates, etc.7
8. Buying and selling shares in the stock market.8
And this is how our family lost its fortune:
1. Invention of steamships and modern navigation equipment, which greatly decreased the frequency of shipwrecks.9
2. Scarcity of whales in Bay of Biscay due to overenthusiastic whalers; also, development of the petroleum industry, which decreased the demand for whale products.10
3. Spending a lot of money on rifles, cannons, military uniforms, etc. (the Great War, 1914—1918).11
And, most importantly,
4. The Stock Market Crash, 1929.12
I don’t think I’ll do footnotes anymore; it took me half an hour to look up those ones. Also, reading back over this, I realize I make it sound as though we are poor. Which of course we aren’t, not the way that orphans in Dickens are poor. Well, I suppose we are orphans (at least Toby, Henry, and I are, and Veronica might as well be for all the use her parents are), but it’s not as though we’re starving, or wearing rags, or forced to pick pockets or worse on the streets. Not that there are any streets in Montmaray. (As I wrote that last bit, Henry wandered through the kitchen wearing an ancient jersey of Toby’s that is more holes than wool, but that’s because she idolizes Toby, not because she is a Dickensian beggar child.)
Money, then—it would be nice to have more so Veronica doesn’t have to worry so much about it all the time, but we have enough at the moment, as long as Aunt Charlotte kee
ps paying Toby’s school fees. Although I must say, I think it’s quite unfair the way interest works at the bank—that the more money one has, the more one earns. The bank ought to give more to people without much money in their savings accounts; they’d appreciate it far more than rich people. And I’ve just had another thought! I wonder if there’s anything valuable left in the Solar that Simon could sell? Just a moment…
Well, no, as it turns out, unless one counts two very tarnished silver photograph frames, a broken music box, and a moth-ravaged hat, all of which I found under the bed. I must say it’s rather creepy in here—not in a lovely, shivery way, as it is inside the Blue Room when the ghost strokes her fingers down one’s neck and whistles in one’s ear, but in a sad, dusty, and abandoned way. Still, at least it’s quieter than the gatehouse (Henry and Jimmy are having sword fights along the top of the curtain wall) and the edge of the bedframe is quite comfortable now that I’ve padded it with the folded-up dust sheet.
I suppose I’d better describe where I am. If one were to climb the tower stairs from the kitchen and emerge at one end of the gallery, one would see … actually, one wouldn’t see much of anything, because the walls and floor and ceiling are black granite, two feet thick at the narrowest bits, and there are no windows in the gallery and hardly ever any oil to spare for the lamps hanging on the walls. The blackness swallows up the light of a candle, so if all the doors are closed, one has to grope along the wall, counting steps.
But let’s suppose one had a good strong torch. Then one would see, on the right, the door to the large bedroom Veronica and I share. Our room connects to the bathroom, which connects to the Solar (where I am currently sitting and in which Montmaravian kings and queens have slept for hundreds of years, until Uncle John started refusing to come upstairs). On the left side of the gallery, across from Veronica’s and my room, is Rebecca’s room, which connects to Henry’s room, which connects to the nursery. Next to that is the Blue Room, and then Toby’s room, which connects to the Gold Room, where my parents used to sleep. Most of the gold has flaked off its walls now, but Rebecca usually puts guests in there (on the rare occasion we have any), on account of the Blue Room being haunted.