The FitzOsbornes in Exile

  “I do not wish to argue about it,” Aunt Charlotte said, “and stop contradicting me, Veronica. It’s most disrespectful of you. Besides, you’re distracting me from my point—which is that this situation is entirely your fault. I told you last year that Billy Hartington was perfect for you. You really ought to have done something about it, saved the poor Devonshires all this worry …”

  Our aunt might seem sane and sensible in comparison to her elder brother most of the time, but a distinct streak of lunacy becomes apparent whenever she contemplates Veronica’s or my marriage prospects. Still, I’d rather she occupy herself with us than with Toby, who is showing his own streak of FitzOsborne contrariness at the moment. Thank heavens Aunt Charlotte hasn’t yet discovered that he won’t be going back to Oxford in the autumn. He got the letter from Christ Church on Tuesday.

  “You’ve been sent down?” cried Veronica, snatching the letter from his hand.

  “No, I have not,” Toby said calmly. “I’ve simply decided I’m not suited to an academic—”

  “You didn’t even turn up to your examinations?” Veronica said faintly, her head bent over the paper.

  “No point. Waste of time for me, for the invigilator, for the poor don who’d have to mark the exam—”

  “Aunt Charlotte is going to have a fit,” I said, looking over Veronica’s shoulder. “Although … No, it’s not as bad as it seems. They’re offering you a second chance, Toby. You just need to work really, really hard next term.”

  “I don’t want a second chance,” Toby said. “I didn’t even want a first chance. I oughtn’t to be there. It should be Simon, or you, Veronica—”

  Veronica threw the letter onto my bed and walked out of the room.

  “You really are the absolute limit, Toby!” I said, turning on him in a fury. I could just imagine how Veronica felt. “Tossing this opportunity away when you know how much it would mean to Simon or Veronica!”

  “But that’s why I’m doing it!” he said, blinking. “So that one of them can—”

  “How can you be so stupid?” I shouted, almost stamping my foot. “Aunt Charlotte isn’t going to let either one of them take your place!”

  “We’ll see about that,” he said, setting his jaw in that stubborn way that Henry does. “Anyway, I’m just doing what you told me to do. I’ve stopped wallowing in misery. I’m taking charge of my life.”

  “I didn’t tell you to, to …” I was going to say “ruin your life,” but of course, it wouldn’t ruin Toby’s life. Plenty of gentlemen leave Oxford without taking a degree. It wasn’t as though he’d planned to become a doctor or an engineer or a professor. The really infuriating thing was that I knew Aunt Charlotte would forgive Toby, sooner or later—probably sooner. It was possible he might actually succeed in coaxing her into funding Simon’s higher education … but no, that was surely beyond even Toby’s powers of persuasion. I scowled at my brother. “Well, what on earth are you going to do with yourself now?”

  “Do?” he said. “I’m the King of Montmaray, isn’t that enough? And I’m sure it’ll be easier to rule Montmaray from here, compared to being cloistered away in Oxford. I can help you with the campaign.”

  I knew perfectly well that he just wanted to be closer to Simon, so I continued to glare.

  “Oh, Soph,” Toby said, in his most cajoling voice. It seemed to bend through the air and beckon me closer—but I resisted. “Now, don’t look like that, darling. I really do want to help.”

  I suddenly remembered Rupert and asked what he thought of all this.

  “He’s a bit cross about it,” Toby conceded. “But he’ll come round eventually, he always does. He’s so sweet, he’s just like you. Now, you’ll go and talk to Veronica, won’t you, help her understand?”

  “If I do discuss this with her,” I said, “it’ll be to make her feel better, not you!”

  I sometimes feel like a one-person League of Nations, trying to mediate between all the feuding members of this family.

  Then I went to visit Julia at her newly finished house in Belgravia this afternoon, and she’d just had a tiff with Anthony.

  “He tells me it’s counter-revolutionary to be presented at Court, even though absolutely everyone gets presented again once they’re married—Mummy would’ve been mortified if I hadn’t gone ahead with it—and besides, he’s a viscount, for heaven’s sake! What does he think Marx would have to say about that? Oh, darling, don’t let anyone tell you that men are more logical than women, it’s utter rubbish! Now, I thought I’d use this as my sitting room. Oh, do you like that carved screen? Isn’t it gorgeous, it’s my favorite thing in the whole room! It’s Indian, and so are the miniatures over the desk. I had the chairs covered in that cerise silk to complement the curtains, and look, I found this carpet in the attics at Ant’s family place, isn’t it perfect in here? Let me show you the bedrooms …”

  The house was a beautiful mixture of antique furniture and modern art, original oak paneling and bright silk curtains, freshly painted cream walls and lovely faded Persian rugs. I told Julia that if she ever grew bored or lost all her money, she could have a very successful career as an interior decorator.

  “Aren’t you sweet to say so! Do you really like it? I thought the house would never be done, but here it is, finally—only, of course, Ant complains the place is too big and cost far too much, and he hates my dear little Picasso sketch, says it doesn’t look anything like a face. He’s about as cultured as a football—my husband, that is, not Picasso, he’s an absolute genius. You’re staying for tea, aren’t you, darling? Oh, don’t worry about that, I’ll telephone your aunt, and I can drive you home afterwards. We haven’t had a proper chat for ages, and I need to find out all about your current admirers … Nonsense, darling, I’m sure there are dozens of them! Well, I do know at least one of them, but you can do far better than my awkward little brother—”

  My face coloring to match the curtains, I protested that Rupert was neither awkward nor interested in me, and tried to change the subject. But Julia was, as usual, unstoppable.

  “Frankly, it’s a relief to find out he’s interested in human beings. We were starting to think he’d end up marrying a badger or a tufted owl or something. Thank God Toby’s at Christ Church, too, otherwise Rupert would stay locked away in his room with his books and his animals and never go out at all. Now, Sophie, tell me whom you’re in love with. Then I can invite him over and keep throwing you two together … I know! We’ll have a dinner party and play Sardines! I’ll shove you both into a cupboard, and he’ll be proposing in no time at all.”

  Given that Julia hadn’t been sounding very enthusiastic about matrimony, I couldn’t understand why she was so keen to marry me off, and I said as much to her.

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t advise marrying my husband,” she said. “Although perhaps you’d be more suited to—No, he needs someone like Veronica, bossy and interested in politics. I’m just bossy. Veronica’s far too clever for him, though, she wouldn’t have the patience to … Hmm, whom can we find for her? It’s a pity Anthony Eden’s still married—which reminds me!” Julia suddenly looked stern. “I hear you’re at the American Embassy all the time these days!”

  “Please, don’t you start,” I said. “Just because Kick’s a Catholic—”

  “Never mind about that. I’m talking about her brother. The eldest one, Joe. Stay away from him. No, I’m serious.” Julia leaned in, a rare frown creasing her perfect brow. “I’m warning you, he’s NST.”

  “He’s what?”

  “Not Safe in Taxis. A friend of mine had to fight him off the other night, he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Ripped her new Vionnet evening gown, too, she was furious … Oh, don’t look so shocked, Soph, you need to know about this sort of thing! I don’t suppose your aunt’s told you anything useful. If only I’d understood the Facts of Life as a debutante, all the peculiar things that boys do might have made more sense … Tell me, is there anything you’ve been wondering about?”
br />   Well! Thanks to Julia, I now know exactly how married women avoid having babies. Suffice to say it requires a round rubber object that one has to obtain from a doctor, except doctors refuse to hand them over or even discuss the issue till immediately before one’s wedding day. The whole business sounds horribly messy, not at all romantic … although I suppose having a baby would be even more messy and unromantic. Anyway, it was very fortunate that Julia had finished her explanation by the time the footman came in to announce Simon had arrived.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Whittingham,” Simon said, giving Julia an unsmiling nod.

  “Oh, Simon, don’t be so stuffy,” said Julia. “Call me Julia, for heaven’s sake, and sit down, I’ll ring for more tea—”

  “I’m afraid we can’t stay, my lady,” he said. “The Princess Royal asked me to collect Her Highness, as the family has an early dinner engagement this evening. Your Highness? I have your umbrella here.”

  “What was that all about?” I asked Simon once we were outside. “What early dinner engagement?”

  “Why isn’t Veronica with you?” he said.

  “She had to look up something in the Reading Room at the British Museum. Parker dropped her off on the way. She said she’d take a taxi home—”

  Simon opened the door of the Lagonda for me.

  “Why do you ask?” I added. “Isn’t she home yet?”

  He went around to the driver’s side and slammed his own door shut.

  “Simon?”

  “I don’t think you ought to be visiting Julia Whittingham by yourself,” he said, starting the engine. I stared at him. “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t think she’s a suitable companion for unchaperoned young ladies,” he said very stiffly.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I exclaimed. “Julia’s our friend! Our family’s known the Stanley-Rosses for years!”

  “I have nothing against the Stanley-Rosses,” he said. “I’m merely pointing out that she’s … Well, let’s just say I wouldn’t want my younger sister associating with her.”

  “I’m not your younger sister, so it’s none of your business whom I associate with!” I snapped. “And how dare you insinuate awful things about Julia! She’s a respectable married lady—”

  “Really? So why were you the color of a beetroot when I walked in?”

  “That’s—What were you doing, listening at the keyhole?” I spluttered. “Anyway, who are you to talk about reputations? I’m sick of the way everyone talks about girls when boys do much worse and no one says a word about them!”

  Simon opened his mouth to respond, then pressed his lips together. He looked over his shoulder at the traffic and jerked the car out into the street, and we drove back to Montmaray House in heated silence.

  Veronica was in the library, staring at a fresh pile of notes, when I stomped upstairs. I’d been bursting to tell her what a hypocritical, infuriating busybody Simon had become, but looking at her, I had second thoughts. She’d certainly agree with me, but what I really wanted was someone to argue me out of my bad mood. There was no point increasing the general level of hostility in our household. So, instead, I told her what I’d learned about avoiding having babies. She put down her pen and listened with interest.

  “Yes, I thought it must be something like that,” she said after I’d finished. “What’s it called again? A Dutch cap? Why do the English persist in naming anything connected with sex after other countries? Like French letters—although did you know Casanova called them ‘English overcoats’?”

  “Of course I didn’t know that,” I said. “I’m not even sure what they look like, and aren’t they meant to be … well, not very reliable? But anyway, Veronica, doesn’t the whole thing sound too disgusting? I mean, it makes me wonder whether Aunt Charlotte’s right when she’s so disapproving about the physical side of married life. It’d have to be utterly blissful to make up for all that mess.” I thought for a moment. “Of course, novels do seem to suggest it is blissful. Otherwise why would Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary have bothered with adultery?”

  “Weren’t both those characters invented by men? It could just be propaganda, to make girls want to get married—or make them want to have affairs.”

  “Mmm. Well, it doesn’t make me want to have affairs, look at what happened to poor them. Although if one believes romantic novels, a mere kiss is the height of ecstasy—”

  “When, of course, it isn’t anything of the sort.”

  “How would you know?” I asked. Then I looked at her more closely. “Veronica! Who … Oh, not Geoffrey Pemberton!”

  “Ugh, no!” said Veronica. “Not that he didn’t try.”

  “Then, who?” I demanded. “Daniel?”

  “Er …,” said Veronica, checking to make sure the door was closed. “Yes.”

  “When?” I gasped.

  “Well … today, actually. He met me at the British Museum. He had some books he wanted to give me, and he was near there, anyway, had a meeting at the University of London.”

  “And?” I prompted when she didn’t say anything more.

  “And … it just seemed to happen, when we were saying goodbye.”

  “But what was it like? What did you feel?”

  She frowned. “Certainly not the heights of ecstasy. It wasn’t unpleasant, though. I think I was too surprised to feel much. He looked a bit shocked, too. He did apologize afterwards.”

  “Well, he shouldn’t have done that,” I said.

  “No, not in the middle of Montague Place,” she agreed.

  “I meant, shouldn’t have apologized! But gosh, kissing in the street! Did anyone see?”

  “Probably,” she said, not looking very concerned about that. I consoled myself with the thought that she was wearing her oldest skirt and jersey rather than one of her smart, expensive outfits—less chance she might have been recognized.

  “So,” I said. “It seems he’s serious about you.”

  “Do you really think so?” she said. “It might just have been the result of some temporary, physical urge—”

  “Veronica,” I said firmly, “I’ve been saying that he likes you—is in love with you—for absolute ages. And Daniel doesn’t seem the sort to go around kissing girls without meaning it.”

  “I suppose not,” she acknowledged.

  “So you don’t … you don’t love him, then? Not even a little bit?”

  “I was wondering about that,” she said, in the tones she might use when pondering, say, the causes of the Franco-Prussian War. “How does one tell? I certainly like him more than anyone outside the family. He’s so interesting to talk with, never boastful or patronizing the way men usually are. He’s about a hundred times more intelligent and amusing than any of the eligible bachelors Aunt Charlotte keeps pushing at me.”

  “And he’s a good person,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said with a little smile. “Yes, he is, isn’t he? And that’s the important thing, isn’t it?”

  Daniel’s appearance—his unremarkable features, his shabby clothes, the surface of him—wasn’t even the smallest part of her considerations, and I wished my feelings were as unaffected by masculine beauty as hers. She made me feel rather superficial.

  “Would you marry him?” I said. “If he asked you, I mean.”

  “Sophie!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening. “He doesn’t want to marry me! He probably regards the very concept of marriage as an evil, bourgeois, capitalist plot! And in the event he did decide to marry, I’m sure his mother already has a nice Jewish girl picked out for him.”

  “But … doesn’t that bother you?”

  “What, you’re saying I should marry him?” She started to laugh. “Perhaps I ought to propose to him?”

  I wasn’t quite sure what I was saying. Obviously, Veronica marrying Daniel was out of the question—yet I couldn’t help thinking he’d be perfect for her. If only he were the son of a viscount, had a bit more money (or was less opposed to money in general), had been b
orn Christian rather than Jewish … that is, if he were a totally different person. In which case, he wouldn’t be perfect for her—in fact, probably wouldn’t even have met her.

  “You know, I’m tempted to invite him round for tea and introduce him to Aunt Charlotte as my fiancé,” Veronica went on, still chortling. “Just to see her expression …”

  I ought to be glad Veronica isn’t heartbroken about it, but I couldn’t help wishing that she felt more and thought less. I sincerely hope my first kiss is more exciting than hers. I’m not holding out for the heights of ecstasy, but a sensation other than surprise would be good. Somewhere less public than directly outside the British Museum would be nice, too.

  Anyway, at least the conversation distracted me from my fury at Simon—for an hour or so. Toby noticed us both fuming throughout dinner and asked me what was going on. I refused to say anything, though, because I knew Toby would take Simon’s side, despite it being ALL SIMON’S FAULT!

  9th August 1938

  Another Season comes to an end, and neither Veronica nor I is engaged to be married. Nor is Toby. What a surprise. Everybody has scattered—Julia and Anthony to visit friends at Cap d’Antibes, the Kennedys to a rented villa in Cannes, and Rupert to stay with a Scotch uncle who breeds border collies. Aunt Charlotte also decided to remain in Sussex for another week or two after the Goodwood race meetings were over.

  Meanwhile, Toby, Veronica, and I arrived back at Milford Park to discover that Henry had grown another two inches and driven her poor governess to the verge of physical and mental collapse. (Miss Bullock is now on her way to a well-deserved holiday in the Lake District.) Estella had also grown considerably, mostly because she’d taught herself how to open gates and unlatch kitchen doors. She was discovered last week in the pantry making her way through a basket of summer berries, having already polished off a pile of freshly picked lettuce. The cook threatened to turn her into bacon, so Estella has been banished to the Home Farm for her own protection. We thought Carlos might be upset about it—the two of them had been inseparable—but it seems he’s been making friends in the village. Henry reported that Mr. Herbert’s housekeeper’s dalmatian recently produced half a dozen puppies, all of them suspiciously jet-black and curly-haired.