Also by Michelle Cooper
A Brief History of Montmaray
Book I of the Montmaray Journals
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in
Australia by Random House Australia Pty Ltd., North Sydney, NSW, in 2010.
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cooper, Michelle.
The FitzOsbornes in exile / Michelle Cooper. — 1st American ed.
p. cm.
Sequel to: A brief history of Montmaray.
Summary: In January 1937, as Sophia FitzOsborne continues to record in her journal, the members of Montmaray’s royal family are living in luxurious exile in England but, even as they participate in the social whirl of London parties and balls, they remain determined to save their island home from the occupying Germans despite growing rumors of a coming war that might doom their country forever.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89802-0
[1. Exiles—Fiction. 2. Families—Fiction. 3. Great Britain—History—George VI, 1936–1952—Fiction. 4. War—Fiction. 5. Diaries—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.C78748Fi 2011
[Fic]—dc22
2010034706
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
The FitzOsbornes of Montmaray
16th January 1937
19th January 1937
22nd January 1937
23rd January 1937
26th January 1937
25th February 1937
17th March 1937
29th April 1937
18th May 1937
27th May 1937
6th June 1937
7th June 1937
21st June 1937
6th August 1937
23rd October 1937
20th December 1937
12th January 1938
21st February 1938
15th March 1938
11th April 1938
6th May 1938
8th May 1938
7th June 1938
21st July 1938
9th August 1938
22nd September 1938
28th September 1938
2nd October 1938
14th November 1938
30th November 1938
20th December 1938
10th January 1939
15th February 1939
17th March 1939
27th April 1939
25th May 1939
17th July 1939
21st August 1939
22nd August 1939
23rd August 1939
Author’s Note
The FitzOsbornes of Montmaray
1850–1939
Selected excerpts from the journals of
Her Royal Highness Princess Sophia of Montmaray,
1937–1939
These journals document the royal family’s first years in exile following the tragic events of 1936 and 1937 when His Majesty King John the Seventh died, German planes attacked the Kingdom of Montmaray, and the FitzOsbornes were forced to flee their home.
16th January 1937
I write this sitting at an exquisite little Louis the Fifteenth secretaire in the White Drawing Room, using a gold fountain pen borrowed from the King of Montmaray and a bottle of ink provided by one of the footmen. Fortunately, the paper is just a sixpenny exercise book that I bought in the village this morning—otherwise I’d be too intimidated to write a word.
It’s interesting, though, how quickly one becomes accustomed to small luxuries—having an invisible maid whisk away one’s clothes in the night and return them freshly laundered and mended the next morning, for instance. Of course, if she hadn’t, I wouldn’t have had a stitch to wear today, other than the flannel pajamas my brother, Toby, lent me. But Aunt Charlotte did order us some things from London, and they’re supposed to be delivered soon. Is it too dreadful of me to rejoice in the prospect of brand-new clothes—for once not handed down by older relatives? When the reason I no longer have any possessions is so tragic? Probably. But as I can’t do anything about the tragedy, I will continue to be quietly thrilled about the clothes.
Anyway. Here I sit, scribbling away in my journal on this first full day of my new life (writing in Kernetin, of course, our secret code, in case any grown-ups get hold of my book). I awoke at dawn, jolted out of a nightmare—or perhaps just a memory—in which I was running for my life as the world collapsed around me. As I stared up at the canopied bed and silk-paneled walls, it took me a moment to work out where I was. But then I remembered. Aunt Charlotte’s house! Milford Park! England! I scrambled out of bed and rushed over to the window, but all I could see was a dense white mist, as though the house were swaddled in cotton wool each night and the servants hadn’t got round to unwrapping it yet. This didn’t help at all with the uneasy, dislocated feeling left over from my nightmare. I then decided to go and see Veronica—merely to check that she was all right, of course.
Her room, two doors down from mine, is more austere, decorated with bleak-looking landscapes and a cheerless charcoal study of Nelson’s final moments at the Battle of Trafalgar. There is a vast marble fireplace, but all it contained early this morning was a mound of ashes. I was shivering in the doorway, peering at Veronica’s half-drawn bed hangings and wondering whether I’d wake her if I moved any closer, when a sepulchral voice announced,
“She’s not dead. She’s still breathing.”
I whirled about, hand at my throat.
“Henry!” I gasped. “Don’t creep up on me like that!”
My little sister stood by my elbow, looking deceptively demure in a cardigan and pleated skirt. “I checked,” Henry went on in her inexorable way. “Her chest was going up and down.”
“Well, of course Veronica’s not dead,” I snapped, but I felt ashamed of myself at once. Poor Henry, stuck here for the past few days not knowing what had happened to us, the grown-ups rushing about in a panic and no one explaining anything to her. And then our dramatic arrival yesterday, Veronica being half carried out of the motorcar, her arm wrapped in bloodstained bandages. No wonder Henry was feeling anxious. “Now don’t disturb her,” I whispered, in what I hoped was a soothing manner. “Come back to my room and let me get dressed, then we can …”
But I wasn’t sure what was expected of us. Were we supposed to gather in that immense dining room downstairs, or wait for breakfast trays to be sent up, or what? I had a hasty wash in the pink-and-white bathroom between my room and Veronica’s (admiring yet again the fluffiness of the towels and the frothiness of the soap), then pulled on my old skirt and jersey. Meanwhile, Henry oc
cupied herself opening and closing every drawer in my room, running her fingers over the wall panels, and fiddling with the window latch.
“Your room’s bigger than mine,” she declared as I searched in vain for a hairbrush. “And Veronica’s is bigger than yours. But Toby’s is absolutely enormous! It’s got three windows and its own bathroom and a dressing room!”
“Well, he does have the highest rank of all of us,” I pointed out, repressing a sigh. I could already tell that life here was going to be far more formal than at Montmaray. I hoped there wouldn’t be too many mysterious forks and spoons at breakfast, before I’d had a chance to revise my dining etiquette. “I don’t suppose you know where everyone has breakfast?” I asked, grimacing at my bird’s nest hair in the looking glass.
“In the breakfast room, of course,” said Henry. “At eight o’clock. But hurry up, I’ve got something to show you first.” Then she bounded out of the room and down the corridor.
As my hair was a lost cause, and I was keen to start learning my way around the house, I hurried after her, towards the wide gallery that surrounded the Grand Staircase. There were a lot of heavily varnished gold-framed portraits here, as well as glass cabinets and statues on pedestals and Chinese vases large enough for a person to hide inside, all of which gleamed richly in the dim light. Past the staircase, Henry explained, were Toby’s rooms and Aunt Charlotte’s suite. Upstairs, apparently, were still more bedrooms, and above that were the servants’ quarters.
But we went downstairs, leaving a trail of shoe-shaped indentations in the thick red carpet. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to glance over my shoulder and find a silent housemaid following us with a carpet sweeper. Everything was immaculate, and the scent of potpourri and lemon furniture polish hung heavily in the air. At the bottom of the staircase was about an acre of marble floor, with fluted columns running along either side, and massive brass doors leading off the hall to a myriad of drawing rooms. But Henry tugged me into an oak-paneled corridor behind the staircase. We plunged down a narrow flight of steps and into a room that made me feel instantly at home. There were macintoshes and straw hats in various states of disrepair dangling from pegs near the door, stacks of yellow newspaper tied up with string, walking sticks and wicker baskets and old brooms, and, best of all, a pile of blankets upon which lay a big black dog. He jumped up when we came in and flung himself at Henry.
“Darling Carlos!” said Henry, hugging him. “Did you miss me? Mean Aunt Charlotte, making you sleep down here! Never mind, I’ll sneak you up to my room tonight.”
But I didn’t think our dog had minded the arrangements too much. He’d been curled up next to the boiler, and someone had already served him a hearty breakfast, judging by the bowl encrusted with gravy and the enormous bone he’d been gnawing. He demanded a pat from me, then went over to stick his nose inside the Wellington boots Henry was trying to tug on. I’d thought that Carlos was the thing Henry had wanted me to see, but apparently “it” was “just down the drive.”
The mist had lifted, I noticed, replaced with a gentle rain that fell without sound upon the gravel path. However, this obligingly stopped before we’d walked ten yards.
“Even the weather’s polite here,” said Henry, giving the sky a contemptuous glance.
I gathered Aunt Charlotte had already Had Words with Henry about her manners.
“At Montmaray, it’d be bucketing down,” Henry went on wistfully, “and there’d be a howling gale. Probably a thunderstorm as well.”
“They’ll have thunderstorms here, too,” I assured her. “You’ve only been here five days.”
“Is that all?” she exclaimed. “It feels like weeks and weeks! Gosh, I hope Veronica gets better soon so we can all go home.”
I stopped so abruptly that Carlos ran into the back of my legs. “Oh, Henry,” I said.
“What?” she said, turning.
“We … we can’t go home.”
Henry stared at me, her blue eyes getting wider and wider. “But then …” Her lower lip trembled. “Then Veronica is dying, after all!”
“Don’t be silly!” I said. “Of course she isn’t.” I reached out and folded Henry into an embrace (she was so thin, so tense, it was like hugging a bundle of twigs). “Veronica will be fine after she’s rested in bed a bit longer. It’s just … well, you heard us talking yesterday, about the Germans bombing the island. The castle was hit. The drawbridge was destroyed. Even the boats are gone.”
“But the castle’s not flattened, is it?” she said. “Even if it is, we can camp in the armory—and they couldn’t have wrecked everything in the village! What about Alice’s cottage?”
“The roof was damaged, and … Henry, you don’t understand! It’s too dangerous! The walls could collapse, there’ll be unexploded bombs all over the place, the Germans could come back at any moment. That’s if they’re not already there—”
“But why?” she burst out, jerking away from me. “Why did they do it? Is it because that German soldier disappeared? And that horrible officer Gebhardt blamed us? That’s stupid!”
Veronica and I hadn’t told her the awful truth about Hans Brandt’s death, and I had no desire to burden her with it then, or ever. So I bent over Carlos, who’d just emerged from a hedge, and busied myself brushing twigs out of his fur.
“But they can’t take over Montmaray like that!” Henry cried. “They just can’t!”
There was a pause.
“Can they, Sophie?”
I looked up.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
She turned on one foot and marched off down the drive.
“Henry! Wait! Where are you going?” I ran after her, but she went faster and faster, a furious whirl of limbs. She disappeared round a bend in the drive, and I didn’t catch up with her till we’d both passed through a small stand of oaks and then a wooden gate.
“This is the Home Farm,” Henry announced in a tight voice, not looking at me as I tried to recover my breath. “You have to close the gate behind you so dogs don’t get in.”
“Henry—” I started, but she turned away and pointed at a field.
“All the milk comes from those cows. There are three Jerseys and two Friesians. I thought the milk tasted strange at first, but that’s just because it’s from cows, not goats. They don’t have any goats here.”
“Henry, about Montmaray—”
She raised her voice. “The hens are in that shed, and there are ducks and geese, too. A goose attacked my leg yesterday, but I had Wellingtons on, so it didn’t matter.”
I’d never seen her face so guarded and still. My little sister had started to grow up, had begun to bury her thoughts and feelings deep down, out of reach, taking care to smooth over the surface afterwards. It made me feel terribly sad—and old. I bit my lip and followed her across the farmyard, Henry pointing out various features of interest.
“—and that’s the milking shed, and over this way is—” Her voice brightened at last. “Oh, hello, Mr. Wilkin! This is my sister, Sophie.”
A stout man took off his cloth cap and looked inside it. “Your Highness,” he said.
I would have told him not to bother with the “Your Highness” bit, but I suspected this would get both of us in trouble with Aunt Charlotte, so I just said, “How do you do?”
“Have you already finished the milking?” asked Henry. “Has Mrs. Wilkin got the eggs in? Are the geese let out?”
“I hope Henry hasn’t been bothering you, Mr. Wilkin, while you’re working,” I said.
“No bother,” said Mr. Wilkin. “Been helping with …” And his wide face reddened.
“I’ve been helping feed Cleopatra,” said Henry. “And scratching her back, because she can’t reach.”
“You have, at that,” said Mr. Wilkin. Then he mumbled something about the butter churn and went off. I hoped I hadn’t said anything to offend him.
“Come on, she’s in here.” Henry dragged me into a low building and leaned over a railing
. “There! Isn’t she beautiful?”
Lying in a pile of straw was the most enormous sow. I had no idea they could grow that large.
“She’s going to have piglets in a month or so,” said Henry. “Only, Mr. Wilkin thinks it’s rude to talk about that sort of thing in front of ladies.”
“Aren’t you a lady?” I asked.
“No,” said Henry. “And I hope I never turn into one. Cleopatra’s won five blue ribbons and a silver trophy at the Agricultural Show.”
We gazed at her, and she gazed back. She had small, intelligent eyes and alert ears. I’d always read that pigs were dirty, but she was creamy white all over, except for where her pink skin shone through. She was really rather sweet, although I wouldn’t have climbed in that pen for anything. I’d have been squashed flatter than a pancake if she’d accidentally sat on me.
This reminded me that I was starving, so we went back to the house for breakfast. It wasn’t nearly as complicated as I’d feared. The cutlery was the usual sort, and we just helped ourselves from the sideboard. But, my goodness, what a lot of food! There were scrambled eggs, fried mushrooms, and grilled tomatoes, all in covered silver dishes kept warm over spirit lamps. There was game pie, cut into thick wedges, and a platter of cold chicken sprigged with parsley. There was an urn of porridge and a long silver rack with triangles of toast slotted into it. Then there were pots of jam and marmalade and honey and relish and mustard, and jugs of cream and treacle for the porridge. I ate and ate, and so did Henry. Aunt Charlotte sat at the head of the table, perusing the Court Circular of The Times while continuing to denounce the unfortunate policeman who’d turned up yesterday afternoon and tried to put Carlos in quarantine.
“The very idea,” said Aunt Charlotte indignantly, “when Montmaray is free of every known canine disease and most of the human ones, too! They ought to be thanking me for bringing such an unblemished specimen of dog to this country. I shall certainly be having words with the Home Secretary about it when next I see him. Henrietta, elbows off the table. Ah, I see the Morland girl has finally announced her engagement. A baronet’s son—and only a second son! Is that the best they can do, with all her father’s money? He has factories, you know, makes hairpins or some such thing. Poor girl, she’s been out at least three Seasons, and not even a proper title to show for it at the end!”