The FitzOsbornes in Exile (20 page)

“Oh, Daniel, I didn’t know that!” said Veronica, letting her fork fall with a clatter. She stared at him with an expression that seemed, to me, far graver than Daniel’s information warranted. “Are they in immediate danger, do you think, now the Nazis have taken over Austria?”

“Why?” I asked, looking from Veronica to Daniel. “Are your relatives involved in politics, too? Are they Communists?”

“They’re Jewish, Sophie,” said Daniel gently.

“Oh. But …” A dozen questions were twittering around inside my head, but I didn’t want to sound a complete bird-brain.

“No, no, go on,” said Daniel in his encouraging tutor’s voice.

“Well, I know the Nazis—all the Fascists, really—keep saying horrible things about Jews,” I said slowly. “Like in that disgusting German newspaper Unity Mitford wrote to, the one where she said she wanted everyone to know she was a Jew hater. But when you talk about
danger
, I’m not sure … I mean, why would the Nazis care about an elderly gentleman? Or even your cousins?”

“Why?” Daniel said. “I’m not sure I understand it myself. Is it just the personal mania of a dictator? Combined with the political expediency of using a small and historically despised group of people as a scapegoat for all the country’s problems? As for
how
, that’s much easier to answer. By banning Jews from working in the civil service—not just in government departments but schools, universities, clinics, even the State Opera. By boycotting Jewish businesses, by banning Jews from parks and restaurants, by passing a law that makes it a crime for a non-Jew to marry a Jew. And when anti-Semitism is not just a normal part of everyday life but actually
encouraged
by the government … well, there are always young men with a tendency towards violence. So, why
wouldn’t
they take the opportunity to enjoy themselves, to deface the walls of a synagogue, or smash up a store owned by Jews, or attack a family walking along the street—”

He suddenly seemed to become aware that his hand had clenched itself on the tabletop.

“Sorry, I’ll climb back down from my soapbox now,” he said, loosening his fingers and making an effort to smile.

“Why do the Jews stay?” I asked softly. “Why wouldn’t they all … well, go somewhere safe, somewhere they’re welcome?”

“And where’s
that
?” he said. “No, of course you’re right, Sophie. That may even be the aim of the Nazis, to make all the Jews want to leave. And quite a few
have
moved here, or gone to America. But it takes money and contacts, and not everyone has those. And some, like my uncle, will never leave. He refuses to believe there’s any real threat to
him
, a gentleman of culture and education. How could a change of government be enough to make him abandon everything—his apartment and his French poodles, his friends, his daily walk in his favorite park, his evenings at the opera? So … But my mother has hopes of convincing her cousins to come here.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “About your relatives—and for asking. I honestly didn’t know it was that bad. I thought it was just the Nazis
saying
terrible things—not that that’s all right, either,” I added hurriedly.

“You mustn’t ever apologize for asking questions,” Daniel said firmly. “Why
should
you know? How else can you find out? You’ve never visited Germany, you don’t have family in Europe writing to you about it—and it’s not exactly making huge headlines in
The Times.
”

The waitress brought our pot of tea, and Veronica ordered treacle pudding for Daniel, because he still looked hungry. She asked if I wanted anything, but I shook my head. My stomach was weighed down with an uncomfortable lump that was half Irish stew and half guilt. Daniel was
wrong
when he said I had an excuse for being ignorant. The harassment of German Jews may not have been in the center pages of all the newspapers, but
I
had Veronica, better than any newspaper. The fact was, I’d not
wanted
to hear awful things. I had enough nightmares about German soldiers as it was. I’d deliberately clapped my hands over my ears and squeezed my eyes shut …

I brooded over this while my tea went cold, and when I next looked up, Daniel and Veronica’s discussion had moved on.

“—Czechoslovakia?” Veronica was saying.

“Yes, I’m afraid that’s next. With that riot in the Sudetenland last year—”

“Well, they are actually
Germans
, aren’t they, most of those Sudeten people? Czechoslovakia didn’t even exist until 1918.”

Daniel nodded. “The question is, will Hitler be satisfied taking over just the Sudeten part of Czechoslovakia?”

“Where
is
the Sudetenland?” asked Veronica. “Is it that bit north of Prague?”

“Yes, on the border of Germany and Poland. Here—” Daniel moved the mustard pot into the middle of the table. “Look, this is Germany. And the sugar bowl is Czechoslovakia, and this spoon can be the Sudetens—”

Soon the saltcellar, sauce bottle, two empty teacups, and a milk jug were jostling for European domination on our tabletop.

“But you’re leaving out France, aren’t you?” said the man at the next table, leaning across. “Don’t tell me that’s not in Herr Hitler’s sights! And just you wait, we’ll be going over there to rescue them French, just like before.”

“Ooh, don’t say that,” sighed the waitress, who’d come over to see if we wanted more tea. “That were awful, that was. My mum lost her three brothers over there, and her fiancé. Hang about, where’s Belgium? I met a gentleman from there just last week—ever so nice, he was.”

The man at the next table donated his saltcellar to stand in for Belgium.

“But you haven’t taken into account the Maginot Line!” huffed a beefy, red-faced man who’d been on his way to the cashier. “The Huns won’t be getting past
that
in a hurry, let me tell you! I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Huge concrete forts and lookout posts and barbed wire—”

“No, see, that’s my fork,” said Veronica, indicating the bit of cutlery guarding France from Germany.

“And great, big underground chambers—why, the French army could live down there for months!”

“But … doesn’t that Maginot Line stop at the border with Belgium?” I asked. “I mean, couldn’t the Germans just go round the top of it if they wanted to attack France?”

There was silence as half a dozen people stared at the fork.

“Let’s hope there aren’t any Germans listening in right now,” remarked Daniel after a moment.

“Course there aren’t,” said the Maginot Line expert heartily. “Besides, there’s no need for you young ladies to worry your pretty little heads about all
this
business, is there?” Veronica began to bristle, so Daniel hurriedly asked for our bill. The man lumbered off, and Veronica and Daniel had a brief scuffle over the bill. Veronica won.

“I invited
you
to luncheon,” she said. “Anyway, I’ve got money and you haven’t. Just think of it as an equitable redistribution of wealth. Marx would approve.”

We went outside and Daniel was surprised, and slightly worried, to discover that Parker wasn’t waiting for us, so he offered to see us home. However, as he was going east and we were going west, we declined firmly. He waited with us till our bus came, then shook hands with each of us, lingering noticeably over Veronica’s, then waving till we were out of sight.

He is
definitely
in love with Veronica.

“What a productive day!” she said, taking her notebook out of her bag as soon as we’d found a seat and examining her list of names with great satisfaction. Then she produced a pencil and began drafting a letter to Sir Julius Pemberton, without even a backwards glance through the window.

She is definitely
not
in love with Daniel.

11th April 1938

I sit here in the drawing room, surrounded by my family, and consider what a lovely picture this would present to a stranger peeping through the window (assuming the stranger were able to hover outside the second floor of Montmaray House and had managed to clear a space in the grimy windowpane). Observe, then, stranger: the dignified aunt, presiding over the embossed silver teapot; the handsome blond nephew, down from Oxford for a few days; two genteel young ladies, one reading, the other writing in her journal; the family’s loyal retainer, a good-looking young man in his early twenties, handing round a plate of pastries; and an innocent, curly-haired child, sitting on the rug with her faithful pets.

Of course, the stranger might be
slightly
surprised to observe that one of the pets is a large pink pig. If very attentive, he might also notice that the more attractive of the young ladies is reading not
Tatler
or
Vogue
but a crumpled left-wing newspaper she has just fished out of the wastepaper bin, and that the nephew is gazing glumly at the tablecloth while the aunt delivers a blistering lecture.

“I have better things to do, Tobias,” she thunders, “than correspond with your tutor, who claims you’ve failed to attend a single meeting with him all term! Now,
I
don’t mind if you’re not the academic sort—your dear father wasn’t, God rest his soul—but what, may I ask, are you
doing
with your time? Pamela Bosworth’s nephew reports you haven’t joined
any
of the right clubs at Oxford, that you’re never seen at the Union, that when you appear in public, it’s with a
most
disreputable crowd—”

Toby accepts a pastry from Simon and shreds it on his plate; Veronica frowns at
The Manchester Guardian;
and Henry scratches vigorously behind Estella’s ears. The pig’s eyes are squeezed shut with pleasure, and she leans into Henry so heavily that Henry is in danger of tumbling over backwards.

“And now I discover you’ve exceeded your allowance yet again!” Aunt Charlotte continues with rising indignation. “What
do
you spend it on? Champagne, I suppose, and cigars, and extravagant dinners with unsuitable young ladies!”

It’s a measure of how cross she is that she’s berating Toby, her favorite, in front of the rest of us. In her defense, she’s just back from a long luncheon with Lady Bosworth, who was overflowing with “helpful advice” on the subject of disobedient nephews. Toby would usually have said something placatory by this stage, but perhaps he feels it’s better that Aunt Charlotte wear herself out, and she
does
appear to be running out of steam …

No, she’s merely switched topic.

“As for you, Henrietta, I thought I told you to take those animals downstairs.
How
your governess didn’t notice you loading them into the luggage car is quite beyond me … Henrietta! Do not walk away while I’m speaking to you! Where are your manners? Remember, you are a FitzOsborne, not a peasant! What
will
they think at Buckingham Palace?”

For Henry, improbable as it seems, has been asked to tea at Buckingham Palace on Wednesday, hence her presence in London. A dozen Girl Guide patrol leaders from across the country will gather with Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret for a stroll through the Palace grounds and a picnic tea, weather permitting.

“If
only
they’d asked us a couple of months ago,” Henry sighed when the invitation arrived at Milford Park. “I could have brought the others. Carmelita would have
loved
to see London.”

“You are sadly mistaken if you believe the Palace would ever invite a rabble of Communist refugees to a garden party,” said Aunt Charlotte coldly. “Simon, who else will be attending?”

“I’m afraid the letter doesn’t specify, ma’am,” said Simon.

“Only girls from titled families, one would
hope
,” said Aunt Charlotte. “Wouldn’t you agree, Simon? One can’t imagine the King and Queen would want their daughters associating with, well …”

“Riffraff, ma’am?” suggested Simon blandly.

“The
lower classes
,” said Aunt Charlotte, giving Simon a suspicious look. Then she turned on Veronica. “You, I am saddened to report, are not invited. Only Sophia is mentioned. Perhaps if you’d made yourself more agreeable last Season—or if you’d helped supervise the little girls, as Sophia charitably did—then you, too, would have been included in this gathering at the Palace.”

“How
will
I endure the torment of being overlooked?” murmured Veronica, busy opening her own post, which consisted of a single official-looking envelope.

“Then perhaps this will teach you a lesson,” said Aunt Charlotte, her mind too fixed on the dazzling prospect of Buckingham Palace to perceive Veronica’s sarcasm. “Perhaps you will learn that there are
rewards
for young ladies who behave in a manner—”

“Damn,” said Veronica, staring at her letter.

“
What
did you say?” cried Aunt Charlotte.

“Oh, sorry,” said Veronica, looking up with a frown. “It’s just—”

“Damn,” muttered Simon, peering over her shoulder—although, fortunately for him, his utterance was lost in Aunt Charlotte’s outraged exclamations.

“Veronica FitzOsborne! Such unladylike language! And in front of your little cousin!”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Henry said earnestly. “My friend Jocko says much worse things.
He
says—”

“I do not want to hear it!” said Aunt Charlotte, drawing herself up to her full and rather imposing height. “I do not want to hear whatever vulgar expressions are employed by
Jocko
, whoever he may be!”

“You don’t know who Jocko is?” said Henry. “He lives in the village. His father’s the pigman.” Which prompted another explosion from Aunt Charlotte. Veronica went to Henry’s rescue, and Simon passed the letter to me. It was, at last, a response from the Foreign Office. Alas, it was not encouraging.

“But it’s not completely awful,” I said to Simon in a low voice. “Look, it says they’re referring the matter to a review committee.”

“That’s civil service code for ‘We are going to file this away in a cabinet in the basement and hope that you forget all about it.’ See the signature? I doubt our letters got anywhere near an official with real authority.”

“Oh,” I said, crestfallen. “Now what?”

“Well, I did say right from the start that I thought the Ministry for Coordination of Defence would be more helpful than the Foreign Office,” began Simon, but then Aunt Charlotte ordered him to go off and locate Miss Bullock and find out why the governess had been permitting Henry to consort with the offspring of pigmen. Aunt Charlotte then went back to chastising Veronica for her unladylike conduct, although Veronica was so disheartened about the Foreign Office letter that she barely listened to a word, which made Aunt Charlotte even more annoyed.

“I don’t know,” Aunt Charlotte says now. “I
do not know
what I am to do with you children. Unruly, undisciplined, unmannerly—”

Her rant does appear to be winding down, though. Toby quickly pushes the plate of pastries closer (he stopped in at her favorite patisserie on his way here), and, eventually, she sighs and takes an éclair.

“So, Veronica!” Toby says, judging it safe to speak once Aunt Charlotte’s mouth is full of pastry, cream, and chocolate. “What’s in the news? Anything interesting?”

Veronica looks up. “Well, Unity Mitford turned up at a Labour Party rally in Hyde Park wearing her swastika badge, assaulted a couple of people, and nearly got tossed in the Serpentine.”

“There,” says Toby cheerfully. “See, Aunt Charlotte, how much worse it might be for you? You could be poor old Lady Redesdale.”

“Oh,
yes
, all those dreadful daughters of hers,” muses Aunt Charlotte, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “At least
you
children manage to keep out of the headlines. Unity’s the enormous blonde one, isn’t she? Most peculiar girl. I remember seeing her at a debutante dance with a white rat on her shoulder. And then, after her Court presentation, she apparently wrote to a lot of people on Buckingham Palace stationery. Stolen! As a
joke
!”

“You needn’t worry Henry will do that,” Toby reassures Aunt Charlotte. “She’s quite illiterate.”

“Imagine, purloining His Majesty’s stationery as a
prank
,” Aunt Charlotte says, shaking her head. “Such an act of disrespect! When one considers the King is the ultimate authority in this land—”

Veronica’s teacup clatters in its saucer, and Aunt Charlotte frowns at her.

“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.”