The FitzOsbornes in Exile

  “Ah, there you are, Your Highness,” said Lady Bosworth, pouncing on me a few minutes later. “Where has everyone disappeared to? Well, you’ll show this young lady around, won’t you, while I find—Darling! Where have the boys gone? The billiards room? Oh, for heaven’s sake!” And Lady Bosworth stalked off, leaving me to entertain the American Ambassador’s daughter, Kathleen. I looked at her with interest because I hadn’t met any Americans before (apart from Anthony’s mother, and her only briefly, in the chaos of Julia’s wedding). At first glance, this girl appeared much like anyone else, except for having more teeth, all of them very large and straight and white. They were noticeable because she smiled so often—indeed, I’d never before met a girl of my own age who was so friendly and relaxed. I liked her at once.

  “Call me Kick,” she said, demonstrating her nickname by kicking off her shoes and curling her feet beneath her on the sofa. “All my friends do. Are you really a princess? Gosh! So, are you making your debut this Season? I’m being presented at Court next week, and boy, you should see my Court dress! It’s gorgeous! White tulle with silver threads, from Lelong in Paris. My sister got hers from Molyneux.”

  I asked about her sister.

  “Rosemary’s two years older, and then I’ve got three younger sisters, but they’re all still at school, and four brothers.” She laughed at my expression. “Don’t you have proper-sized families here in England, then?” she teased. She went on to tell me all about her life, which sounded fascinating—a father on first-name terms with Hollywood stars and the American President; a couple of dashing older brothers at Harvard; her own convent education in Connecticut and then France; holidays spent winning tennis trophies and sailing her own boat and dancing to swing records. She even chewed gum! I had to refuse, though, when she offered me some from a little paper packet—I was afraid Lady Bosworth would see and report me to Aunt Charlotte for unladylike behavior.

  The morning’s riders and walkers eventually straggled in, damp and dirty, and made straight for the fire, followed shortly by the billiards players. It was, as Lord Bosworth predicted, all fun and games from then on. The boys were entranced by Kick, even though she wasn’t beautiful, or even very pretty. She was sturdily built rather than ethereal, her face was square and freckled, her hair was even wilder than mine—but she was so lively and confident that none of that mattered. (There’s probably a lesson somewhere in there for me. What a pity it’s as difficult to change one’s personality as one’s looks.) Kick sprawled on the floor and poured out a stream of gossip and politics and bad jokes in her slangy, enticing American accent, and the boys laughed and argued and teased her back. The girls were equally impressed—they didn’t even try to compete. It was amusing to see the two horrible girls become instant longtime friends of mine once they realized Kick liked me. (“Oh, but you should have seen Sophie’s Court dress!” they cried. “Sophie, do tell Kick about that wonderful speech your brother gave at your coming-out ball!”) The only one to ignore Kick was Geoffrey, who seemed to have fallen head over heels for Veronica.

  “You’re being very patient with him,” I said to Veronica that evening as we dressed for dinner. “It must be such a bore for you, when he’s so dreadful.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind very much,” Veronica said. “If Simon can bear it, I expect I can.”

  “What do you mean?” I said, putting my hairbrush down.

  “Well, you know who Geoffrey is, don’t you?”

  “Yes, he’s Toby’s awful dorm-mate, the one who tried to get Toby to join the British Union of Fascists.”

  “Well, he seems to have lost interest in Fascism now, thank heavens for small mercies. If only he’d lost interest in hunting as well. Anyway, he’s Geoffrey Pemberton.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, Sophie! His father’s Sir Julius Pemberton, from the Foreign Office.”

  My mouth fell open. “Veronica FitzOsborne!” I gasped. “I can’t believe you’ve actually been, been …” I couldn’t even find the words. “Been encouraging that poor boy’s attentions, just to get access to his father!”

  “I haven’t been encouraging him,” she said. “I’ve simply refrained from discouraging him. I didn’t want to come to this stupid house party, but I’m not going to ignore an opportunity when it jumps up and down in front of me. Anyway, you didn’t think he was a ‘poor boy’ a moment ago—you said he was dreadful.”

  “I am absolutely appalled,” I said, deciding to ignore that last remark. “I just want you to know that I thoroughly disapprove. And I suppose that’s why you’re wearing that dress.”

  “I’m wearing it because, firstly, you and Julia made me buy it, and, secondly, it’s the one Phoebe laid out for me tonight. She spilled talcum powder on my black silk, and I wore the blue gown last night. Why, do you think it’s a bit much?”

  “You’re practically falling out the top of it,” I said, which was only a slight exaggeration. “Geoffrey will be struck deaf and dumb at the sight—or is that your intention, so you’ll be spared another hunting monologue?”

  “One can only hope,” Veronica said, peering in the looking glass and trying to tug up the neckline of her dress. “Isn’t it odd, the way males react to what are, after all, simply bits of flesh designed for feeding infants? I’ve had whole conversations in which men have spoken directly to my chest—as though they expected it to answer. But it’s just biological determinism, I suppose, in which any sign of female fertility acts as a—”

  “Please don’t mention biology or fertility in Geoffrey Pemberton’s presence,” I begged her. “I can’t bear to think of what the consequences might be. And here, take my wrap. You need it more than I do.”

  I kept a wary eye on Veronica all evening. However, I have to admit that her behavior was entirely proper and her dress no more revealing than the other girls’, so it’s probably just bad luck that Geoffrey has invited us to his country house for—

  The ink blot obscuring my previous sentence was the result of a startling interruption. I’d decided to update my journal, and the Long Gallery proved to be much warmer than my bedroom (Lady Bosworth doesn’t believe in fires being lit in guests’ rooms; she thinks it encourages hibernation). I was perfectly safe in the Long Gallery, I’d thought, as everyone else was off riding or playing tennis or working on the vast jigsaw in the music room. So there I was, scribbling away in what I’d imagined was an empty room, when I suddenly heard a voice say, “Ah! Kernetin, I presume.”

  My head jerked up and I stared with astonishment at the middle-aged gentleman who’d appeared directly in front of me. He tilted his head, examining my page with interest. His gaze was so intelligent that I slammed my journal shut at once, for fear he might actually be decoding what I’d written (even though I knew that was impossible). But how could a complete stranger have known it was called Kernetin? How, for that matter, had he been able to approach me so silently? Was he a stranger, after all? Now that I came to look at him more closely, there was something familiar about that faded hair slanted across his forehead, those sharp hazel eyes …

  I held out my hand. “Colonel Stanley-Ross,” I said. “How do you do? I’m Sophia FitzOsborne.”

  He beamed at me, showing nice crinkles around his eyes, and shook my hand. “And you’re just as clever as I’d heard! May I sit down? I’d ask to have a closer look at that marvelous book of yours, but I fear that really would be presumptuous. However, I cannot resist one enquiry—is that an abbreviated form of Kernetin that you were using?”

  I acknowledged that it was. “I suppose you’ve seen Toby with the proper version.”

  “Yes, and that hard-hearted boy refused to teach it to me, on the grounds I was both a grown-up and a non-FitzOsborne. But now I see it’s boustrophedonic—most ingenious!”

  “I expect you come across quite a few codes in your line of work,” I said, hoping to find out what exactly he did.

  He twinkled at me. “Oh, it’s a fascinating area,” he said, giving nothing away. “A
nd speaking of interesting communications”—he fished around in the pocket of his tweed jacket—“I’ve just come from Oxford and happened to drop in on my favorite nephew. He asked me to give you this.” The Colonel handed over an envelope, my name written on the front in Rupert’s careful, rounded script. “He was reluctant to send it to your aunt’s house when you weren’t there, seemed to imagine she might open it herself. What a suspicious boy he is! I wonder where he gets it from? And no, I haven’t peeked, I promise.”

  “Did you see Toby at Oxford, too?” I asked, sliding the envelope inside my journal.

  “I’m afraid not,” said the Colonel. “It was quite early in the morning when I visited, about a quarter to eleven. He was still in bed.”

  “He claims to be working very hard,” I said.

  “Burning the midnight oil, I’m sure,” said the Colonel. “But do you hear that? Tea approaches! Such a civilized custom, I do miss it whenever I’m away from England. But first, tell me—I’ve been absent such a long while—what is happening with Montmaray?”

  I gave him a summary of our campaign activities thus far. “And the Foreign Office wanted to sweep the whole thing under the carpet!” I finished with great indignation.

  He nodded thoughtfully. “And you wrote directly to Alexander Cadogan?”

  “Well … I’m not entirely sure he received those letters,” I admitted. “They may have been lost.”

  “I think he’ll be amenable,” said the Colonel, gazing into the fire and tapping one long finger against his lips. “Of course, it’s the job of the Foreign Office to carry out government policy—which happens to include appeasement of Germany, at the moment—but there are a few dissenters … By the way, would that have been your cousin I saw in the music room, talking to Julius Pemberton’s son?”

  I said glumly that it was very likely.

  “She’s probably wasting her time with Sir Julius, although I’ve heard your cousin has exceptional debating skills. And the Pemberton men do have a well-known weakness for statuesque beauties …”

  I gave the Colonel my Appalled Look, and he chuckled. “Well, I won’t encourage her. Have you approached any Defence people?”

  “Simon Chester’s just starting on that,” I said. I assumed the Colonel had met Simon at some stage, and he had.

  “I can give him some names,” the Colonel said. “I’ve already had a word with a couple of colleagues. Tiny cogs in the depths of Whitehall are being oiled as we speak, and soon they will begin to turn, and who knows what might happen … But where is Simon now? Oh, London. I’m driving up there myself this evening.”

  The Colonel seemed to lead an extraordinarily busy life. I wondered why he’d chosen to stop off at Lady Bosworth’s for tea. Surely it couldn’t have just been to deliver Rupert’s letter and have a chat with me? But as soon as we arrived in the drawing room, he sauntered over to Kick and casually engaged her in a conversation that resulted in him being invited to the American Embassy for drinks the next week. Mission accomplished, I thought. He went over to have a brief talk with Veronica, nodded goodbye to me from the doorway, then clapped his trilby on his head and departed. It was odd, I realized, that I’d spoken with him so easily. I’d never even met him before. But then, he looked so much like Rupert. They both have very trustworthy faces.

  Speaking of Rupert, I ought to copy in his letter—but that will have to wait. It is nearly one in the morning, and my fingers are too cold to move anymore.

  7th June 1938

  One would think that Aunt Charlotte would have been impressed with Veronica’s and my behavior at the Bosworth house party. Veronica had captured the heart (or something) of a titled gentleman’s eldest son; I’d made friends with the daughter of the American Ambassador; neither of us had mortally offended anyone, as far as we knew. But still Aunt Charlotte grumbled.

  “A baronet’s son!” she said. “When I keep introducing you to the heirs of dukes and marquesses! Well, I suppose Sir Julius is respectable enough, but they’ve such a tiny little place, barely a hundred acres. And really, Sophia, of all the ambassadors for you to get mixed up with! Kennedy—what sort of a name is that? Irish, I suppose, and Catholic! All those dozens of children, they sound most unsuitable.”

  The newspapers don’t agree. They can’t get enough of the Kennedys, especially Kick, whom they’ve now labeled “Most Exciting Debutante of 1938.” And even Aunt Charlotte acknowledged it was a social triumph for us to be invited to the Kennedy girls’ debutante dance, held at the American Embassy. I thought I’d become jaded about fancy balls, but my goodness! Such luxury! I’d never experienced anything like it. Flowers and food and entertainers flown in from around the world—and enough crown princes, dukes, and counts to satisfy even Aunt Charlotte.

  “If only Tobias could have been there,” she sighed afterwards. “Lord Dorset’s niece looked most disappointed when she realized he wasn’t with us—and was that the Spanish Infanta I saw talking to the Ambassador? What a missed opportunity for Tobias! Of course, I’m pleased he’s taken my advice to settle down, but I do hope he isn’t working too hard.”

  Well, that’s one thing she doesn’t have to worry about. He isn’t. Rupert wrote and told me so. I shan’t copy out all his letter, but here’s the relevant bit:

  As for Toby, he’s doing no work whatsoever and is drinking too much, which isn’t unusual—however, he’s also stopped going out, appears to have given up eating, and seems completely miserable. I’m sure you know what (that is, who) is causing all this. Is there any chance you could come up to luncheon one day and talk some sense into him? Of course, I know how difficult it would be for you to get away. Please don’t mention anything about this to your aunt—Toby said her last lecture was dreadful, and he really thinks she might take away his allowance if he gets into any more trouble.

  Of course, you are very welcome to come to luncheon any day, regardless of whether your brother comes to his senses or not …

  Then the rest of the letter was about how Rupert had released the dormouse back into the woods where he’d found her as an orphaned baby, and how he hoped she was managing to gather enough food and keep out of the way of owls.

  Well, of course, I had to go up to Oxford, but how was I to get there without attracting the notice of Aunt Charlotte? And should I ask Veronica to come with me or not? Because I wasn’t sure if she knew (or wanted to know) about Toby and Simon—or if she’d recovered from her intense envy of lady undergraduates.

  Then, just as I was pondering this, Aunt Charlotte and Veronica were invited to luncheon at Sir Julius Pemberton’s, and he said he’d send his car for them. And Parker revealed that his cousin had recently taken over the lease on an Oxford pub and that he, Parker, wouldn’t be at all averse to catching up with his relative … It must have been Fate. At any rate, today Parker dropped me off outside Christ Church, where I found Rupert waiting with a stack of books and a one-eared cat.

  “I hammered on Toby’s door when I went off to my morning lecture,” Rupert explained as the cat led us through a shadowed archway. “And then I asked his scout to make certain Toby was awake and dressed by luncheon, so it should be all right …”

  We came out into a beautiful Gothic quadrangle with a sparkling fountain at the center. Veronica would have loved the architectural details, I thought—all the battlements, the turrets, the niches crammed with statues. She certainly wouldn’t have been troubled by the sight of lady undergraduates, because every single person I saw was male, from the young gentleman in white flannels striding past swinging his tennis racket to a pair of withered-looking dons in billowing black gowns. Even the servants were men. We came upon one of them as we emerged from a staircase into a dim corridor.

  “Ah, Mr. Stanley-Ross,” he said. “Well then, you’ll find His Majesty dressed, as per orders, but don’t expect much more.” He gave me a disapproving look that seemed to extend to the whole of womankind, then clanked off downstairs with his bucket.

  Rupert sighed, pushed
open a door, and ushered me into a set of large, cheerful rooms. Mild sunlight filtered through the windows, casting a gentle glow upon the plaster walls, the dark leather armchair, the invitation cards propped along the chimneypiece, and the empty wine bottles on the desk. Toby himself lay flat on his back on the rug, looking like a martyred saint—Saint Lawrence, perhaps, but without the scorch marks.

  “Don’t ask me to move yet,” he murmured, his eyes closed. “There’s an enormous lead ball inside my skull, and I’ve only just got it to stop rolling about.”

  “Well, what do you expect when you drink an entire bottle of champagne?” said Rupert.

  “It wasn’t the champagne,” said Toby. “I never get a sore head with champagne. It must have been the brandy. Or that bottle of crème de menthe someone gave me—awful stuff, tasted like toothpaste …”

  “Aren’t you even going to say hello to your sister?”

  “Oh! Sorry,” said Toby, turning his head a bit and squinting at me. “Hello, Soph. Veronica isn’t on her way up, is she? Please say she isn’t.”

  Rupert offered me the armchair, having removed the cat from it, then leaned against the desk. We both crossed our arms and scrutinized Toby.

  “You’re extremely fortunate,” I told Toby, “that Veronica had a prior luncheon engagement.”

  “What, with Daniel?” asked Toby.

  “No, Geoffrey Pemberton,” I said. “He invited her to meet his family.”

  “Pemberton!” cried Toby, lurching up, then clutching his head. “Ow!” He hurriedly lay down again. “Soph, I warned you about him! How could you let her? He’s revolting!”

  “Who’s Pemberton?” asked Rupert, so I related the story.

  “Your uncle thought it would probably be a waste of time, though,” I said to Rupert. “Is he really in the Secret Service?”

  “No one knows,” said Rupert. “Sometimes we wonder if he’s actually just a Foreign Office clerk with a vivid imagination. Toby, do get up.”