“Wants to keep America from interfering in European arguments, he claims!” said Aunt Charlotte. “More likely, wants to avoid all those sons of his being drafted into the army! Isn’t that right, Sophia?”
“Oh,” I said feebly. “Well …”
“Either that or he wants to keep his European business interests safe!”
Not that Mr. Kennedy’s remarks are any worse than King George sending warm birthday wishes to Hitler last month. Still, it is becoming rather awkward, having conversations with Kick now. I try to avoid the subject of politics altogether, which isn’t easy these days. Not that I’ve seen much of her lately, she’s been so busy. She’s on several Society committees, including the one that organizes the Derby Ball. The Kennedys also had King George and Queen Elizabeth over for dinner a few weeks ago, which must have taken an awful lot of planning. Unsurprisingly, we weren’t invited to the royal dinner. I gathered Aunt Charlotte was still annoyed about this snub.
“And now Kennedy claims the Jews are complaining too much about Hitler,” Aunt Charlotte went on. “For heaven’s sake! It’s not the Jews who are causing all this trouble in Germany!”
If only Veronica had been there to hear that! But she was at the Foreign Office, looking up League of Nations records. Aunt Charlotte still doesn’t know much about our campaign, probably because we’ve been very careful to keep most of it a secret from her. Despite her newfound interest in politics, she’d vehemently disapprove of Veronica and me having any direct involvement in it, and she’d no doubt be able to find dozens of tasks for Simon to do if she realized he was “wasting his time” on the Montmaray campaign. Montmaray is something Aunt Charlotte has put firmly behind her.
“I have never been one to chase after rainbows,” she said very repressively when Henry once asked our aunt if she missed her childhood home. “And you, Henrietta, would do well to follow my example!”
“But I can’t just forget Montmaray,” Henry said indignantly. “And I wouldn’t want to, even if I could!”
“Of course you could,” snapped Aunt Charlotte (she was in a particularly bad mood that day). “One can do anything if one really applies one’s mind to it. In fact, one might say it is your duty to think in a sensible manner, as opposed to a foolish, sentimental, and futile one!”
This was one of the few times I was glad that Henry disregards most of what Aunt Charlotte says.
And this reminds me of another disconcerting thing—Aunt Charlotte keeps dragging me into embarrassing conversations about Toby and his duty.
“Now, what do you think of this Lady Helena?” my aunt said to me this morning after she’d finished tearing apart Mr. Kennedy. “The girl is absolutely besotted with Tobias, and I don’t wonder at it, he’s such a good-looking, charming boy. Her mother sounded thrilled about the whole thing when I sat next to her at Pamela Bosworth’s luncheon party last week. But I asked Tobias about it yesterday, and he said, ‘I’ve never really been attracted to blondes.’ What can he mean? What does the color of her hair matter when she’s the daughter of an earl and stands to inherit her mother’s fortune?”
Aunt Charlotte tossed her newspaper at the table.
“Oh, I know he’s still young, Sophia,” she said with a sigh. “But your father was only nineteen when he married your mother. Of course, there was a war on at the time—that always lends a sense of urgency to romance.”
My mother had been nineteen, too. When she was my age, she’d been engaged to be married. I can’t imagine getting engaged at my age. That is, if anyone were to propose to me now, which I admit is fairly unlikely, war or no war.
“I really do worry about Tobias,” continued Aunt Charlotte, shaking her head. “Not just about this ridiculous flying scheme of his—Oh, and I had some strong words with Mr. Chamberlain about that last night at Lady Londonderry’s, I can assure you! ‘Conscription is all very well for men with nothing better to do,’ I said to him. ‘The unemployed, the lower classes, and so on, but what about all those young gentlemen who have responsibilities towards their families? Have you thought about that?’ He didn’t have any reply, of course! Actually, he’s not looking very well, Neville Chamberlain. Gaunt, far too pale. I told his wife she ought to ensure he gets out more in the fresh air. But you’re distracting me, Sophia—we were discussing Tobias. Yes, I can’t help feeling concerned about him. Surely he’s fallen in love by now, once or twice? That’s natural, isn’t it, by his age? But no, he claims there isn’t any young lady in his thoughts! He confides in you, though, Sophia. So tell me—is he in love?”
“Well, I really couldn’t say …” I desperately searched for another topic of conversation. “Oh, look, Veronica’s left her gloves on the—”
“Or perhaps I ought to ask Simon Chester about it,” my aunt mused aloud. “Tobias seems to spend most of his time with Simon these days …”
I considered having a violent coughing fit, or fainting across the floor in a very histrionic manner.
“Not that it matters if he is infatuated with someone, of course,” she went on. “Love is all very well, but in the end, the most important thing is to do one’s duty.”
I couldn’t help protesting at that. “What, even if it makes one absolutely miserable?”
“Don’t be so melodramatic, Sophia,” sighed Aunt Charlotte. “Life is not a fairy tale. Love does not always lead to happiness ever after. And at least if one knows that one has done the correct thing, then one can hold up one’s head proudly during … well, the less pleasant times.”
I might have argued further, but poor Aunt Charlotte was looking rather sad, perhaps thinking of her own marriage, and I didn’t have the heart. Anyway, the footman came in at that moment to tell me I was wanted on the telephone. I followed him out into the corridor and turned towards the library, but he stopped me with a little cough.
“Excuse me, Your Highness,” he said very quietly. “I’m afraid the gentleman does not wish to speak to you on the telephone but in person. I took the liberty of asking him to wait downstairs, but if Your Highness does not wish to speak with him, I’ll ask him to leave immediately.”
“What gentleman?” I asked.
Bert glanced towards the open door of the drawing room and edged a little further away from it. “A Mr. Bloom, Your Highness.”
“Daniel!” I whispered. “Yes, of course I’ll see him! Oh, thank you, Bert! But won’t you get into terrible trouble if—”
“Mr. Harkness is visiting the dentist,” said Bert. “He’s due back at eleven. If Your Highness would follow me …”
So I hurried off after the footman into the unfamiliar depths of Montmaray House, down uncarpeted stairs, along a dimly lit stone passage, into a tiny room that smelled of candles and boot polish.
“Sophie!” cried Daniel, jumping to his feet when he saw me.
“Where’s Veronica?”
“At the Foreign Office. Is something wrong?” I said, although it was obvious that there was.
“I came straight over, I didn’t want to trust this to the post,” he said, holding out a scrap of newsprint. “It was sent to me from Berlin.”
It was in German, in that angular Gothic script that’s so difficult to decipher, but I recognized the first few words. “SS-Obersturmführer Otto Rahn … Oh, Daniel, what does it say?”
He hesitated. “Sophie, I’m so sorry. He’s dead.”
I stared at Daniel.
“He died in a snowstorm in March. It must have happened not long after he wrote to us, just after he resigned from the SS. They found his frozen body in the mountains.”
“No,” I said blankly. Otto Rahn couldn’t be dead. I could see him so clearly, telling me all about his Grail quest, the words tumbling out with such enthusiasm, such passion. He’d been so full of life. “No, I can’t understand it, that can’t be right,” I said, shaking my head.
“Perhaps … perhaps he went walking in the snow and got lost,” said Daniel. “The mountains can be treacherous—”
“Bu
t he was a healthy young man!” I burst out. “An experienced hiker! He knew the mountains well, he understood harsh weather, he’d gone on expeditions to Iceland! I can’t believe he’d … You don’t think it was an accident, do you?”
Daniel removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “Sophie, I don’t know who sent me this, but I think they must have discovered my address by going through his things. Perhaps it was a friend of his—but why would a friend send this anonymously? If it were a friend, surely he’d have included a note. And this page—it’s from Völkischer Beobachter. That’s a Nazi newspaper.”
Daniel fumbled his spectacles back into place. He looked very anxious.
“Think about it, Sophie. Rahn resigns from the SS. He agrees to help a family who’ve been victims of Nazi brutality, who are planning to complain to the League of Nations about a high-ranking Nazi official. Immediately afterwards, Rahn disappears in the mountains—”
There was a knock on the doorframe and Bert poked his head around it.
“Excuse me, Your Highness,” he said, glancing at the clock on the shelf above me.
“You have to go,” I said to Daniel. “The butler will be back any minute. You can’t be found here.”
“I’ll be in contact,” he said, snatching up his hat. “But please, tell Veronica she needs to be careful. She’ll listen to you. You all need to take care—”
“Yes, yes, of course,” I said. A door slammed somewhere close by. “Go! Hurry!”
Bert hustled Daniel off, and I ran back upstairs. As soon as Veronica returned, I dragged her into my bedroom, the words spilling out of me so fast that I had to explain everything again once we were sitting down. She took the newspaper clipping from me and studied it, her face tightening.
“Do you think the SS found out about Herr Rahn’s letter to us?” I asked her. “Could they have destroyed his statement, the one where he wrote down what happened to Montmaray?”
“It would certainly explain why we haven’t received it.”
“But do you think they …” I swallowed hard. “They couldn’t have followed him, could they? And, and—”
“Killed him in cold blood? I doubt Gebhardt’s conscience would bother him much, if he decided he needed to eliminate an enemy.” She chewed her bottom lip. “On the other hand, it’s possible that Herr Rahn decided he didn’t want to live anymore, not in a Germany ruled by Hitler.”
“You think he killed himself?”
“That’s far more likely than him getting caught in a snowstorm and accidentally freezing to death. The medieval Cathars didn’t have any objections to suicide, you know. They weren’t like the Christians—they thought it could be a heroic act in certain circumstances. And we know he followed their beliefs.”
“But even if he did choose to die, he only did it because the alternatives were so awful!” I cried. “To live under Nazi rule, to fight for the Nazis if war broke out—or else to be branded a traitor to his country. Oh, Veronica, we shouldn’t have written to him! We forced him to make a choice!”
“No, we didn’t!” she said sharply. “We don’t know that at all. Remember, he’d fallen out with the SS before he heard anything from us. Yes, perhaps he’d learned about the bombing of Montmaray prior to our letter, perhaps he made an ill-advised complaint regarding Gebhardt. But there are plenty of other possibilities. Maybe they found out he had a Jewish ancestor. Maybe he broke off an engagement to some favored Nazi official’s daughter. We just don’t know. What bothers me now is—”
“That the SS have Daniel’s address,” I said. “They know where he lives, and that he was helping with the campaign.”
She nodded. “But they can’t do much to him when they’re all the way over in Berlin and he’s here.”
“There’s his uncle, though,” I said. “The one who lives in Vienna.”
“The Nazis might not connect Daniel to him. I’m not even sure if he and Daniel have the same surname,” Veronica said, trying to sound reassuring but not entirely succeeding. She took a deep breath. “Still, at least Daniel’s not planning any visits to Germany. And the Germans are hardly likely to send over a Nazi assassin …”
We stared at each other, our eyes widening.
“No, no, she’s still locked up in Broadmoor,” Veronica said. “I’m certain she is.”
“I’d better get Simon to check on that,” I said. So I did, and the Crazed Assassin was still behind bars. But it didn’t make me feel much more secure.
17th July 1939
We used to have a little brass clock at Montmaray, on a shelf near the kitchen sink, and for many years it was our only reliable timepiece. One day, the goat barged into the kitchen and knocked the clock into the washing-up water, but until then, it worked beautifully. It was my job as a child to wind its key precisely seventeen times every Sunday evening—a number that had been calculated to keep the clock ticking for one week, thus far and no further. As I neared that magic number, the clock springs would squeak in protest, the cogs would groan, and it seemed that at any moment, the entire thing would fly apart, spraying the walls and ceiling with its sharp metal innards. That didn’t ever happen, but I always held my breath as I turned the key. Perhaps one day I’d lose count, perhaps one day I’d apply a fraction too much tension …
That’s how I feel now. The world has been wound up as far as it can go. The slightest pressure in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and everything will explode. We went to the Independence Day garden party at the American Embassy, and even the Kennedys were having difficulties maintaining their cheerful American outlook on life. Kick, uncharacteristically somber, told me that Billy Hartington had joined the Coldstream Guards, and Veronica had a long, gloomy discussion with Jack, who’s been touring the Continent for the past few months.
“He says Britain’s started its rearmament program far too late, that the Germans have twice as many aeroplanes and are churning out new ones twice as fast as Britain can. And do you know what else he said? That when it comes to winning wars, a totalitarian regime like Nazi Germany will always have the edge over a democracy! Because a dictator can force every citizen into the army or the factories, ban trade unions, outlaw strikes, take over the press, and flood the country with war propaganda.”
“And what did you say?”
“I told him I’d rather die in a democracy than live under a dictator. And I reminded him about the League of Nations! I still have faith in diplomacy, in rational, intelligent negotiation, if it’s backed by a strong commitment to sanctions and a powerful international defense force.”
“Then what did he say?”
“He asked me out to dinner at the Ritz.”
She turned him down, of course. Aunt Charlotte would’ve thrown a fit if she’d ever found out.
Well, I don’t want a war, no one does, but it’s hard to advocate for peace when people like Oswald Mosley have commandeered that side of the debate. He held a “Peace Rally” last night at Earls Court, and twenty thousand people turned up to listen to him rant about how “a million Britons shall never die in your Jews’ quarrel.” I’ve just finished reading the newspaper reports about it. Drumrolls, fanfares, waving banners, black uniforms, roving searchlights, howling spectators flinging up their arms in the Fascist salute—for a man who claims to love peace, Mosley certainly does a good job of using every military gesture and jingoistic cliché in the book (assuming the book was written by Hitler).
I wish I had Veronica’s firm faith in the power of reasoned, diplomatic discussion to solve international conflict, but I’m afraid I am full of doubts and worries. I went over to Julia’s yesterday, and she and her friend Daphne were trying to decide what to do if war does break out. Daphne favored enrolling in the Wrens, the Women’s Royal Naval Service, because they have the smartest uniforms, although she conceded that nurses have a better chance of meeting men.
“Nursing!” said Julia. “Ugh, all those bedpans and dressings.”
And blood, I thought with a shudder. I could
never be a nurse.
“No, I think I’d rather drive an ambulance or chauffeur generals around or something like that,” Julia went on.
“Girls used to work in factories in the last war, didn’t they?” mused Daphne. “Oh, but those ghastly overalls …”
Anthony has joined the Auxiliary Air Force. Rupert failed the medical for the army—he has a heart murmur, from being ill as a child—but his uncle is trying to find him a position somewhere. David, Julia’s eldest brother, is already a lieutenant in the Royal Wiltshire Yeomanry. They haven’t heard from Charlie, Julia’s other brother, in months, but they think he’s still in Canada, and that’s part of the British Empire, so he’d be drawn into a European war, too. (Poor Lady Astley, imagine how she must be feeling right now! Aunt Charlotte hasn’t much to complain about, in comparison.) Even Phoebe’s brother has swapped his Blackshirt breeches for khaki and is at an army training camp on the coast.
Oh, the afternoon post has arrived. Just a moment …
A leaflet from the ARP telling us how to put out a fire and explaining what all the different air-raid signals mean. Also, yet another letter from the League of Nations—we get one every other day now. It turns out we were voted in as a member of the League in 1920, even if no one paid much attention at the time, and they seem determined to make up for their two decades of neglect by bombarding us with paperwork. This latest invites our head of state to address the Council of the League of Nations, and it might even be quite soon if they hold an extraordinary meeting of the Council before the usual September one due to the current political situation. As the King of Montmaray is in Leicestershire doing an RAF-approved aerobatics course and the Lord Chancellor of Montmaray is very busy learning to fly in London, I’m not quite sure how we’re going to manage this, particularly as Aunt Charlotte is about to drag Veronica and me back to Milford. I think our aunt has finally given up on this year’s Season—most of the eligible young bachelors have been called up, anyway, and Toby is occupying all her energies at the moment. She is absolutely obsessed with him providing a family heir, sooner rather than later. I think she’s afraid there’ll be a war, and we’ll all be killed, and the FitzOsborne name will die out. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if the next time Toby gets leave, she locks him in a bedroom with one of his more determined admirers and a bottle of champagne, in the hope that it’ll force him into a hasty engagement …