“Veronica, do put that appalling newspaper away. It’s very ill-mannered to read at the tea table, anyway, and now you’ve knocked over the sugar.”
Veronica only leans forward eagerly, her elbow narrowly missing the butter. “But he is, isn’t he? The King is the executive authority throughout Britain! That’s why it’s called His Majesty’s government.”
“Of course it is,” Aunt Charlotte says irritably.
Simon catches on before I do. “That’s just a name,” he says. “The reigning British monarch hasn’t any real power.”
“Nonsense!” says Veronica. “He opens Parliament, he needs to approve each bill passed, he’s the only one who can declare the country at war with another.”
Aunt Charlotte looks thoroughly bewildered at this turn of the conversation.
“Only on the advice of his ministers,” says Simon.
“Whom he has the right to warn and encourage!” says Veronica.
“Even so,” says Simon, “there’s no reason for him to help us.”
Veronica beams. “Oh, yes, there is!” she says triumphantly. “There’s Queen Elizabeth the First’s promise to send her navy to Montmaray’s aid whenever we need it!”
“You mean that letter written after we helped them defeat the Spanish Armada?” says Toby incredulously. “That no one could read because her handwriting was so awful?”
“A letter that is no longer in existence!” adds Simon heatedly.
Aunt Charlotte gives up, shakes her head, and goes off to telephone Lady Astley, to see when she’s coming up to London …
Evening, written in bed. I am getting very speedy with my abbreviated Kernetin, but not quite speedy enough to keep up with an argument between Simon and Veronica, particularly if I want to contribute to it.
So, to summarize the rest of this afternoon’s discussion: Veronica wants to direct our campaign towards King George. Simon thinks this will be a waste of time, as Queen Elizabeth’s letter pledging England’s assistance is now buried under a pile of rubble at Montmaray. Veronica is certain there must be some mention of Montmaray’s contribution to the defeat of the Spanish Armada in other texts and is planning a visit to the British Museum’s Reading Room tomorrow. She also notes that a hundred and fifty-eight Montmaravian soldiers gave their lives for the Allied side in the Great War a mere twenty years ago, and that ought to count for something. Simon says that she’s ignoring the fact that King George is of German descent and no doubt in favor of appeasement. Simon also repeated that the King has no real legal power in this country. Veronica asked when Simon had become an expert on British constitutional law, whereupon I gave Simon a very pointed look, but he stubbornly withheld the fact that he’s taking classes in law (and came top of his class in his last exam). Then Toby tried to talk us all into sneaking out to a nightclub this evening, but Veronica said she needed to spend the evening in the Montmaray House library, and I didn’t want to risk the wrath of Aunt Charlotte, even though I’m wildly curious about what goes on at a nightclub. Besides, I don’t think I have any suitably decadent clothes. Oh, Veronica has just come in …
Veronica wants me to use my visit to Buckingham Palace on Wednesday to convert King George to our cause.
“What?” I said, not certain I’d heard correctly.
“You may need to give him some background information before you get to the bit about the Nazis. I’m not sure how familiar he is with the Kingdom of Montmaray. Try to avoid any mention of King Henry the Eighth if you can possibly help it—his family might still be a bit sensitive about Catherine Howard having an affair with our ancestor. And make sure you tell the King how Montmaray fired upon Napoleon, he ought to approve of that—”
“Veronica!” I said. “Do you honestly think I’m going to start lecturing King George about Montmaravian history at a garden party? Why on earth would he listen to a word I said?”
“Why wouldn’t he?” she said. “You’re at least as articulate as I am, and certainly more charming. And you don’t need to convince him beyond reasonable doubt—just soften him up a bit, then we’ll hit him with a couple of letters. Next thing you know, he’ll be telephoning Downing Street, urging the Prime Minister to take action!”
I stared at her. “Have you gone completely mad?”
“All right, it may not happen quite as smoothly as that. But it’s a step in the right direction, don’t you think?”
She gave me a pleading look that I found difficult to resist.
“But … but is doing something that’s bound to fail really better than doing nothing?” I asked weakly.
“Oh, Sophie!” She grasped my hand. “Listen. I admit, I was thrown into despair when I got that awful Foreign Office letter. Especially as Simon kept saying ‘I told you so’ in that infuriating manner of his. But then I decided to take a leaf out of your book. And do you know what I did?”
I shook my head, dumbfounded.
“I turned to the poets and the playwrights,” she said. “I went to the library and took down that big volume of Shakespeare, and I opened it to a random page in search of inspiration and hope.”
I was thrilled. “And what did it say?” I breathed.
“Well, it fell open at that idiotic Romeo and Juliet. And then to the even more idiotic Taming of the Shrew. So I kept flipping pages until I came to something based on actual history.”
“It’s not supposed to work like that,” I protested. “You’re meant to leave it up to Fate!”
“Funny you should say that!” she said. “Because you know what I came to? ‘Men at some time are masters of their fates!’ Cassius, urging Brutus to take action!”
“Urging Brutus to kill someone,” I pointed out. “An action that Brutus bitterly regretted for the brief remainder of his life.”
“All right,” Veronica said. “How about this, then? ‘The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power.’ That’s Hitler, obviously, and that Nazi officer, Gebhardt, as well—all power and no remorse. ‘Think him as a serpent’s egg … and kill him in the shell.’ ”
I wasn’t sure how that applied to us—unless Veronica and Daniel were secretly plotting to assassinate Hitler, which wouldn’t actually surprise me. However, I agreed aloud that Julius Caesar was full of powerful phrases.
Veronica nodded thoughtfully. “Mind you, I did keep getting distracted by all the historical inaccuracies in that play. Clocks striking the hour, when the ancient Romans didn’t have clocks! And people reading books rather than scrolls—”
We had a short discussion in which we failed to agree about poetic license, then Veronica said she had to get back to the library. At the doorway, she turned and added, “Anyway, you’re not bound to fail. I have complete confidence in you.”
Well, she might, but I haven’t.
Still, what’s the likelihood of King George attending a garden party for Girl Guides? Extremely low, I hope.
6th May 1938
Well, I didn’t get to talk to King George, because he didn’t make an appearance at the Buckingham Palace tea party. However, His Majesty is now very aware of the FitzOsbornes of Montmaray. Just not in any positive sort of way.
This, I must emphasize, is not my fault. It’s not even Henry’s fault—well, not entirely. She was provoked from the very start by little Princess Margaret, who spilled her milk on Henry’s shoes, scoffed at Henry’s name and the name of our Girl Guide patrol, refused to believe any such place as Montmaray existed, and (worst of all, in Henry’s opinion) laughed at the notion that Henry’s brother might be King. Then, while I was caught up in conversation with a Guiding Lady, Henry explained to Princess Elizabeth in graphic detail how London would be annihilated by German bombers once war was declared, which made a dozen Guides cry and no doubt condemned them to weeks of screaming nightmares.
“How dare you upset the little ones with such lies!” cried one of the mothers, clutching her weeping child. “The Germans are our friends!” Whereupon Henry (in her usual strident tones) repl
ied that that was a load of rubbish, all Germans were bloody Fascists, weren’t they, Sophie? At which point, everyone realized Queen Elizabeth, resplendent in feathery pink, surrounded by ladies-in-waiting, was standing, horrified, in the doorway of the summerhouse, having dropped in unexpectedly on what was supposed to be a decorous tea party for the crème de la crème of junior Society.
The row that followed our misadventures at Buckingham Palace was the worst yet. Aunt Charlotte even threatened Henry with boarding school (an indication of just how upset our aunt was, because she believes sending a girl to school is like trying to teach a monkey to cook—not only a waste of time, money, and effort but extremely dangerous). Henry and Miss Bullock were packed off back to Milford Park at once, as if they needed to be quarantined. In fact, one of Julia’s stuffier aunts reported that Henry is now blacklisted in the nursery rooms of at least seven aristocratic families, although I’m not sure this is solely due to Henry’s outburst at Buckingham Palace. It may also be connected with an incident that same morning when she took Estella and Carlos for a walk in Kensington Gardens. We only found out about that later. Estella dug up a nasturtium plant and ate it, and Carlos went for a splashy swim in the Round Pond, overturning someone’s valuable toy yacht and then shaking himself dry beside a couple of venerable nannies and their infant charges, one of whom was the granddaughter of a duke.
Veronica and I are also in disgrace, Veronica for inciting Henry to misbehave, with all her talk of Fascists and bombs, and I for not supervising Henry more closely at the garden party. Suitably chastened, we are now putting on very good impressions of dutiful and well-bred nieces. We attended the opening of the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition and then, without a word of complaint, a cocktail party hosted by Lord Elchester’s vile nephew (Toby was also invited but claimed to be working so hard towards his examinations that he was unable to leave Oxford). We have also gone to three tea parties, five luncheons, and a dance in Berkeley Square, and behaved impeccably at each event. Veronica even agreed to accompany Aunt Charlotte, Lady Astley, Julia, and me to a charity fashion show this morning, where she made polite (that is, nonpolitical) conversation with several ladies. Then, as the mannequins stalked along the stage, I saw her jotting something on the gilt-edged cards they give out, on which ladies are supposed to mark down which outfits they wish to purchase. Of course, when I leaned over, I saw she was writing, Letters to: Secretary of State for Air; First Sea Lord; W. Churchill …
I probably don’t need to add that the letter we sent to King George did not bear any fruit—or rather, the fruit it produced was so shriveled and bitter that Veronica wanted to throw it straight into the fire, except Simon made her keep it for our records. Simon has won quite a few battles with her lately. In particular, Veronica has come round to his view that we need to convince the government that Montmaray’s invasion poses a genuine military threat to Britain.
“After all, Montmaray’s right next to France, their main ally,” said Simon. “And not far from the Channel Islands, either, and they’re British crown dependencies. It’s in Britain’s military interest to help us.”
“But where’s our evidence?” asked Veronica. “How do we know the Germans have armed forces stationed at Montmaray? We don’t even know for certain that they used it in the raids against Guernica.”
“What we need are some contacts in the British navy and air force,” said Simon, frowning at his papers. “They’d have some idea of what’s going on at Montmaray, surely.”
“There’s Julia’s uncle,” I said. “Isn’t he something in intelligence?”
“Colonel Stanley-Ross is still overseas—I checked,” said Simon. “I can’t even find out what he does. It must be something terribly important, but that’s no help if we can’t get hold of him. Anyway, as I was saying, the navy and air force are both overseen by the Ministry for Coordination of Defence. So, in theory, we ought to start working away at the Minister, Thomas Inskip—”
“You mean, Caligula’s horse,” Veronica said.
“I said, in theory,” said Simon. “But I do know a young lady whose father’s a senior civil servant, rather high up in Defence. I may be able to convince her to put in a good word for us.”
“What, using your legendary Lotharian charms?” said Veronica with a snort.
And I couldn’t help adding, “Really, Simon, it doesn’t sound very … gentlemanly.”
He just smirked.
Then I found out via Julia that this particular young lady has Quite a Reputation—which made the whole thing even more distasteful. Toby also disapproves heartily, not that I told him. He had a loud fight with Simon about it over the telephone. Still, perhaps I won’t mind too much if it produces results …
Oh, yes, I will—the end never justifies the means! But the whole thing is too repugnant to consider further, and besides, I need to go and pack (that is, watch Phoebe pack) for this Bosworth house party to which Veronica and I have inexplicably been invited. I’m certain it will be dire. Oh dear, I wish Toby were coming, too, at least we’d have someone friendly to talk to, but he claims he cannot tear himself away from his textbooks …
8th May 1938
How wrong can one be? All the way to the Bosworths on Friday afternoon, Veronica and I were moaning about how awkward and tedious and pointless the whole thing would be, and wondering whether there’d be any way we could escape before Monday morning.
“They don’t even have a decent library,” said Veronica. “All the books are about horses.”
“And Lady Bosworth loathes us,” I said.
“Well, no, she only loathes me,” Veronica said.
“She ignores me,” I said. “Which is almost as bad. I bet she only invited us because she thought Toby would come. Or else she’s invited some Americans and she wants to impress them with a bit of royalty. Oh … I just had a terrible thought! Cynthia will probably make us go riding!”
“Perhaps we could escape on horseback,” said Veronica. “How far is it to Milford, do you think, cross-country?”
Unfortunately, Simon had taken the Lagonda in order to promote his nefarious schemes—I think he was planning to whisk the Girl with the Reputation away on a picnic—so Parker had to drop us off, having arranged to collect us again on Monday morning. I suppose the Lagonda would have been a bit of a squash, anyway, what with Veronica and me, two big trunks, several hatboxes, and Phoebe. (Phoebe was the only one who was thrilled by the idea of staying with the Bosworths. I think she’s in love with one of their footmen.)
It was even worse than I’d imagined, walking into the Bosworths’ drawing room for tea that afternoon. Over by the table was a loud, tomato-faced baronet, who’d danced with me at my coming-out ball (if one could call jerking my arms about and stomping on my feet “dancing”). He was being shrieked at by two horrible girls who’d once spent an entire luncheon party sneering at Veronica. Blocking all the warmth of the fire was a very broad Elchester cousin, who was arguing about rugby with a former dorm-mate of Toby’s (Toby had pointed him out at a dance last year and warned me away from him). To top it all off, there by the window, leafing through Vogue, was Penelope Stanley-Ross, Julia’s snooty sister-in-law.
“At least Oswald Mosley’s not coming,” muttered Veronica. “I asked the butler.”
We gazed into the room like swimmers contemplating an ice-encrusted pool in the middle of winter. Then, with a couple of deep breaths, we plunged in. Veronica was immediately snagged by Toby’s dorm-mate, but I floundered alone in the deep end for quite a while. Lord Bosworth eventually took pity on me and “introduced” me to the two horrible girls, whose names I pretended to have forgotten. We made desultory conversation for a quarter of an hour, then Cynthia stomped in, brushing mud off her jodhpurs. She asked if Simon was with us, scowled when I replied in the negative, and proceeded to ignore me. Meanwhile, Lady Bosworth was in a flap, because she’d just discovered her son was bringing his party of young gentlemen the next morning instead of that afternoon, which m
eant an excess of females at the dinner table that evening. Horrors! For a moment, I thought she was going to make me have supper upstairs on a tray to balance out the numbers, but in the end, the vicar and an ancient bachelor neighbor came to her rescue.
Dinner was interminable, although at least there wasn’t any discussion of politics this time. Afterwards, I sat and watched the older couples play bridge while the Elchester cousin plinked out some “music” of his own composition on the grand piano. Beside me, the two girls flirted with the red-faced baronet, Cynthia flipped through Horse & Hound, and Toby’s dorm-mate, Geoffrey, described his hunting exploits to Veronica in excruciating detail.
“No doubt you’ll find it more lively tomorrow, when the rest of the boys arrive,” Lord Bosworth said to me in kindly tones as we went upstairs. “Fun and games! Or, as you young people say, high jinks!”
He really is a dear old thing. I just hoped he hadn’t overheard Veronica telling me how she’d coped with Geoffrey’s monologue.
“I simply recited to myself the names of all the British kings and queens, in chronological order, starting with Egbert,” she said. “Whenever I came to a new dynasty, I’d say out loud, ‘Gosh!’ or ‘Really?’ When I reached the House of Windsor, Geoffrey was still going on about a five-mile point, whatever that is, so I did them all again, backwards, with the dates of their reigns.”
“I thought you looked a bit too absorbed for it to be real,” I said.
“It’s all those Ethelbalds and Ethelberts that are tricky,” she mused. “The Tudors are so much easier, only six of them.”
The next morning, I managed to avoid being included in Cynthia’s riding party by hiding in the loo for half an hour. Veronica wasn’t as lucky—she was forced into a two-mile walk to the Roman ruins (a couple of fragments of mosaic floor she’d already seen) with Geoffrey, Penelope, and the Elchester cousin. I waited till everyone had gone, then crept up to the Long Gallery. I was happily ensconced there by the fire with Persuasion when a commotion downstairs announced that the party from London had arrived.