The FitzOsbornes in Exile (25 page)

“Whose parents?” I said. I was utterly bewildered. “What are you talking about?”

Veronica blinked. “Don’t … don’t you recognize the writing? And the sketches?”

“No,” I said, tugging the journal away from her and peering again at the first page. “No, not really. Except—well, now that I think about it, this little picture of a bee reminds me of …” I put my hand over my mouth.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Sophie!” said Veronica, jumping up and coming over to put her arm round me. “I really am, but I thought you’d realized!”

“Are you saying … it’s my
mother’s
journal?” I stared at the book. “Is it
really
her handwriting? I don’t remember what it looked like! I don’t remember anything about her! Except this little picture of a bee, it’s just like one that she drew for me. Remember, when I got stung in the kitchen garden, and I started refusing to go outside? She said bees weren’t nearly as terrifying as I thought, and she sketched one with fuzzy legs and fat wings and an enormous grin …”

My eyes filled with tears. I’d kept the picture tucked into the frame of our bedroom’s looking glass for ages and ages, till the paper turned yellow and tattered, and someone (probably me) threw it out. I’d thought I’d forgotten it. I’d thought I’d forgotten everything about her.

“
Typical
of Simon, upsetting people like this!” Veronica was saying. “Just
wait
till I get hold of him!”

“But he didn’t know,” I said, wiping my eyes. “There’s no reason he’d recognize her writing. And we both thought the book was old, really old!”

“Store anything in a damp, rodent-infested basement for a couple of years, and it’ll look like that. But it wasn’t just the handwriting that told me.” Veronica dropped her arm from my shoulder and moved away. “It was the fact that it was in code.”

“What do you mean?”

“That was how Toby and I came up with the idea of Kernetin. Aunt Jane told us that when she was younger, she always wrote her journal in code—to stop her mother finding out things.”

I was stunned. “I don’t remember that at all,” I said.

“You were quite young. Toby and I were seven, I think, so you’d have been five or six. We couldn’t imagine
what
she might have wanted to hide from her parents! We dreamt up all sorts of dreadful crimes and kept hurling them at her, hoping to trick her into a confession. But she just laughed at us.”

I gazed at the book, at this startling evidence of the hidden life of my quiet, mild-mannered, fading-into-the-background mother.

“Of course, she was far too good to do anything wrong,” Veronica added hurriedly. “We knew that, really.”

“Nobody ever talks about her,” I said. “Toby never does. Simon and Aunt Charlotte barely knew her, so I wouldn’t expect them to. But
you
.” I twisted round to look at Veronica. “You were always so vague whenever I asked you about her. I thought you’d forgotten her. Or that she was so … so inconspicuous that no one ever noticed what she was like.”

Veronica was shaking her head.

“Oh, no!” she said. “No, Sophie! She was lovely. She was so kind and patient, everyone adored her.”

“But why didn’t you
talk
to me about her?”

“Well—it seemed to bother Toby so much, anyone mentioning either of your parents.” Then she sighed. “No, it wasn’t only that.
I
didn’t want to think about her, either.”

She crossed her arms and glanced away, towards the windows. There was a long silence.

“She was always much more of a mother to me than my own was,” Veronica said at last, very quietly. “When she died, I wished it’d been Isabella instead. Isabella and my father, both of them, I wished
they’d
been in that carriage when the bomb hit. They ought to have been—they were the ones invited to Seville. It was so unfair. Then I suppose … I suppose I was so horrified by it all, by what had happened, by the dreadful thing I’d wished …”

She shook her head again.

“It’s my fault that you don’t remember her, Sophie.
I
turned her into something dim and blurred. I tried to make her disappear.” Veronica lifted a hand to brush impatiently at her eyes, then gave me an unhappy smile. “There, what would Freud have said about that?”

“Probably that the whole lot of us are in dire need of psychoanalysis,” I said, getting up to hug her.

“Ah, but not you,” she said, pulling back after a moment. “You don’t need psychoanalysis, Sophie. You’ve got your journal. It must be the reason you’re the only normal one amongst us.”

“Normal!” I scoffed. As if I even know what “normal” is!

“The balanced one,” said Veronica, carefully disentangling her hair from where it had got caught in the clasp of my necklace. “The only calm, sensible FitzOsborne.”

Then a footman came in to say Aunt Charlotte was on the telephone, and Veronica hurried off, although not before promising to help me decipher the journal.

I sat back down and looked at the sketch of the bee.
Poor little thing
, I thought. All it had to defend itself was its sting—and if it used it, it would die. I remembered the meeting at the Foreign Office, how I’d unwittingly extinguished all of Veronica’s excitement about that. But I couldn’t help feeling she’d be disappointed yet again, that the meeting would be futile, that we were helpless little creatures about to be swatted by the vast hand of the Foreign Office …

I felt very sad then. I feel sad
now
. Sad and lonely and forsaken. My mother seems further away than ever. I even spent an entire half hour earlier this evening feeling furious at her for leaving us to deal with all these awful grown-up problems by ourselves. As though she’d done it
deliberately
! Then I turned my anger upon myself for being so stupid.

However, at least writing this down has made me exhausted enough to sleep. It’s nearly two o’clock in the morning—an hour when the whole world is silent, and dawn seems an age away, and everything is black and still and hopeless. But perhaps things will seem better in the morning …

They’ll have to. They can’t possibly seem any
worse
.

22nd September 1938

Veronica, Simon, Toby, and I met with Mr. Reginald Adams-Smythe at the Foreign Office this afternoon. Veronica and I weren’t invited, but Veronica announced she was going regardless, and Simon didn’t even attempt to stop her. I pretended to be Simon’s secretary. I took down everything I heard in my abbreviated Kernetin, which is getting extremely fast but looks almost entirely unlike shorthand. (I saw Mr. Adams-Smythe’s own secretary give my notebook an astonished, upside-down look.) At any rate, it means I can now write a proper, detailed account of the proceedings.

I’d expected everyone at the Foreign Office to be rushing about with grave expressions, because Hitler is threatening to invade part of Czechoslovakia, and the British Prime Minister has just flown back to Germany for more negotiations. Mr. Chamberlain is willing to try anything to avoid war, and no wonder, when all the newspapers are saying Germany’s air force could reduce London to smoldering ruins in a matter of days (and one only has to look at Guernica to see what the Germans are capable of). However, the Foreign Office looked pretty much the same as the last time I’d been there. I even saw Mr. Davies-Chesterton standing in a doorway, although he made a squeaking noise and vanished as soon as he caught sight of us.

We were shown into a magnificent office on the second floor, where Mr. Adams-Smythe was installed behind a mahogany desk large enough for a game of Ping-Pong. Based on the furniture and the size of the windows and the number of staff kowtowing to him, I ranked him a good five or six notches above Mr. Davies-Chesterton in the Foreign Office hierarchy. After we were seated, Mr. Adams-Smythe had his secretary pass him a file. He surveyed this for several minutes while Toby beamed at the secretary, reducing her to a blushing, quivering jelly, and Veronica and Simon had a near-silent argument, culminating in her tearing a page from my notebook and scrawling him some urgent, last-minute note. Eventually, Mr. Adams-Smythe looked up, folded his hands on the desk, and invited Simon to begin, whereupon Simon outlined our problem and explained why it was in the best interest of the Foreign Office and the British Empire for them to assist us.

Perhaps it was Simon’s legal expertise, perhaps it was the three days he’d spent rehearsing this speech with Veronica criticizing every aspect of his performance, but gosh, he was good! The secretary looked ready to applaud when he finished. Even Veronica seemed impressed. Then Mr. Adams-Smythe cleared his throat.

“Yes, a most unfortunate situation,” he said. “We’ve had our people investigate this matter thoroughly since receiving your letters, and you’ll be very pleased to know that—after much effort—we have resolved this issue.”

We all held our breath and leaned forward.

“Ahem,” he said. “You see, the problem rested on the ownership of this island of Montarey—”

“Montmaray,” said Veronica.

“Er, yes, the property under dispute. Firstly, we needed to ask some very important questions. For example, did the German government have a legitimate prior claim to the area? Were there German-speaking residents who would be inconvenienced by your claim to this land?”

“
If
there are Germans living on the island,” said Simon quickly, shooting a quelling look at Veronica, “they are there
illegally
. They’re trespassers, taking advantage of last year’s violent invasion of the Kingdom of Montmaray. This is all documented in the report sent to the Ministry for Coordination of Defence—”

“Ahem,” said Mr. Adams-Smythe. “Yes. However—fortunately!—there’s no need to bring
that
ministry into our discussion. Ha-ha! In light of current international events … Yes. Well. You see, we’ve been in discussion with the German Embassy about this matter, and they explained that their government purchased this island from its legal owner several years ago.”

We stared at him.

“Its
legal
owner?” repeated Simon in a strangled voice. Toby placed a restraining hand on Veronica’s arm, because she looked ready to explode.

“Yes, that’s right,” said Mr. Adams-Smythe. “Apparently, it’s not uncommon, property ownership becoming confused over many years. An understandable mistake on your part! While your family may have been long-term tenants, the property
actually
belonged to the Spanish government. Not surprising, really, given the location of the island … Ah, yes, I see it’s just off the coast of Spain.”

“It’s two hundred and ninety-three miles off the coast of Spain!” snapped Veronica. “The Isle of Wight is seventy miles from Cherbourg, but I don’t see you handing
that
island over to the French!”

“Er, no,” he said, momentarily wilting under her glare but then drawing himself upright. “Yes, but, you see, we have clear documentation of ownership of this particular island. Title deeds and so forth.”

On cue, a young gentleman marched in with yet another file, which he presented to his boss. Mr. Adams-Smythe removed a piece of paper and waved it at Simon, who snatched it out of the older man’s hand. Simon bent his head over the document, staring at it for so long that I was tempted to drop my secretary pose and lean over his shoulder to read it. He finally shook his head and passed the paper to Veronica. Toby and I exchanged frustrated looks but remained silent. (This had been the plan, for Simon to do all the talking unless we needed a burst of charm from Toby.) Veronica glanced up from the paper and gave Simon an intense look that I found impossible to interpret. Simon took a deep breath.

“This document,” he said, “has obviously been manufactured by the Germans. It’s a manifest forger—”

Veronica kicked him in the ankle. It seemed Simon hadn’t interpreted her look very effectively, either. Then she passed him back the document with her finger pointing to a particular spot, and his eyes widened. He opened his mouth—then closed it, gave her a tiny nod, and eased back in his seat. I couldn’t believe it.
Simon
, sitting back and allowing Veronica to take the lead?

Veronica gazed across the vast desk at Mr. Adams-Smythe. “You don’t think this document has been forged or fabricated by the Germans?” she asked.

“Of course not,” he said at once. “Now, really, one can’t make unfounded accusations like that! Particularly in the current … Ahem! I assure you, our department has investigated this document most thoroughly!”

She nodded slowly. “So … you are saying that this island belonged to the Spanish government, and they sold it to the Germans a couple of years ago.” Her tone was light, almost idle. Toby and I glanced at each other again. I had no idea where this was going, but for the first time, I thought it might end up somewhere we’d quite like to be.

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Adams-Smythe. “It’s plain that—”

“Yet it appears from this document that the land was acquired by the Spanish government from one of its own citizens,” went on Veronica. “Fairly recently, in fact.”

“Ah!” he said. “Yes, I see how that might be confusing to one not familiar with Spain. However, with the tragic situation in that country, so many old landowning families having died out—in such cases, their property reverts to the Spanish government.”

“Just to make things
quite
clear to me,” Veronica said. “When you say ‘Spanish government,’ you’re referring to the democratically elected Republican government? I mean, the British government hasn’t secretly acknowledged Franco as the legitimate leader of Spain, has it?”

“Er … no,” said Mr. Adams-Smythe, glancing at his young assistant.

“Good,” Veronica said briskly. “You see, I recognized the name of this particular Spanish landowning family. A prominent aristocratic family—well known to those
familiar with Spain
. The Germans obviously did a tiny bit of research when they were fabricating this document, in order to make it seem more plausible—Oh, excuse me! It’s
genuine
, isn’t it? Your staff have confirmed that. Silly me. And everyone
knows
how honorable the Nazis are, it’s unthinkable that they’d ever be deceitful! Anyway, as I started to say, this particular Spanish family
does
have a legitimate historical link to the island of Montmaray. Furthermore, the family has
not
died out. The late Duke’s only daughter—indeed, his only child—married the King of Montmaray. Her maiden name was Isabella Cristina Margarita Álvarez de Sevilla y Martínez.”

Toby made a small sound, which he hurriedly turned into a cough. Simon was lounging in his chair with the air of someone watching a very entertaining show at the Theatre Royal.

“Er,” said Mr. Adams-Smythe, looking around wildly. His assistant sidled up and muttered in his ear. “Ahem! Yes,” said Mr. Adams-Smythe. “Correct. However, I’m afraid that his only child, being female, was unable to inherit, old Spanish law—”

“But surely that was one of the first acts of the Republican government?” Veronica said. “To abolish all those old laws oppressing women, to establish a State separate from the rules and traditions of the patriarchal Church? I think you’ll find the Republican government hasn’t any problem with women inheriting property—and you did say
they
were the true government, did you not? So the family’s land wouldn’t have been acquired by the Spanish government, not when the family had a legitimate heir.”

“But, but,” Mr. Adams-Smythe spluttered. “This is irrelevant to your claim! This Isabella Margaret de … de …”

“Isabella Cristina Margarita Álvarez de Sevilla y Martínez.”

“Yes, that lady—she’s not mentioned anywhere in your file! She’s not part of your claim! And, and … well,
she
must have sold the land to the Spanish government!”

“She most certainly did not. I’d know if she had, because—Oh, did I forget to mention that she was my
mother
? Sadly, she’s now deceased. And I’m her only child—her female child, it’s true, but quite able to inherit her property, according to current Spanish law. There’ll be no difficulty proving my relationship to her—one only needs to look at old pictures in
Tatler
to see that I’m her daughter. So
if
this document is correct, then
I’m
the legitimate owner of the island of Montmaray, and I certainly didn’t authorize its sale to the German government, nor to any private German citizen. However, this debate is all theoretical, isn’t it? Because we all know this document is fraudulent, don’t we?”

She nodded at Simon and he leaned forward.

“We certainly do, Your Highness,” he said, “and the question is, who fabricated it? It’s horrifying to consider the British government might actually forge a document in order to discourage another sovereign nation from pursuing a legitimate grievance—”

“But, but we haven’t done anything of the sort!” cried Mr. Adams-Smythe desperately.

“Then it’s rather depressing to see the British government so willing to accept German lies,” Simon said. “Truth and justice pushed aside for the sake of political expediency.” He shook his head. “In any case, there’s abundant evidence that the FitzOsborne family has owned Montmaray since the sixteenth century. Why, your own Queen Elizabeth the First acknowledged the FitzOsbornes as the royal rulers of Montmaray in her letter written in—In what year was it written, Your Highness?”

“I believe it was written in 1588, Lord Chancellor,” said Veronica. They turned identical glares upon Mr. Adams-Smythe.

He blustered on a bit more, his assistant growing paler and paler, before Simon finally put them both out of their misery.

“Well, I think that’s all for the moment,” he said, getting to his feet. “Please do contact us as soon as you’ve worked out how you’re going to rectify this grave error.”

Then we swept out of the office, Veronica leading the way. Toby gave a great whoop of triumph as soon as we reached the corridor, causing disapproving heads to emerge from various doorways. Toby ignored them.

“The expression on that man’s face!” he crowed. “And that flunky, I thought he was going to
faint
when you started going on about Spanish law!” He dropped his voice. “Was it true, what you said about Spanish inheritance?”

“Partly,” Veronica said. “But as
all
of their argument was fraudulent, it doesn’t really matter that I ignored a couple of key points of Spanish law.”

“Well done, Your Royal Highness,” said Simon, smirking at Veronica.

“Well done, Lord High Chancellor,” said Veronica. “That speech of yours was not bad at all.” We started down the staircase.

“Of course, I wrote most of it,” Veronica added. Simon rolled his eyes.

“Don’t start up again, you two,” said Toby. “Now we must celebrate! At once! Tea at the Ritz, I think.”

“Celebrate?” said Simon. “Celebrate
what
? We still haven’t achieved anything!”

We clattered out into the street and climbed into the car. While we all knew Simon was right, it did feel as though there was
something
to celebrate, even if it was just the temporary cease-fire between Simon and Veronica. Besides, the chocolate cake at the Ritz is scrumptious—I wasn’t about to miss out on that for anything.

We sped off to the hotel and were immediately shown to one of the nicest tables in the Palm Court (Toby is friends with the headwaiter). The string quartet was playing Vivaldi, the chandeliers were throwing armfuls of sparkling light against the marble columns and looking-glass walls and golden statues, and everyone gazed at us and murmured as we took our seats. Luckily, the four of us were dressed in our smartest day clothes, on account of the meeting. (I don’t mind being stared at, as long as I look all right—which doesn’t happen often.) As soon as we were seated, a waiter brought us tea and two tiered silver stands laden with pastries and sandwiches.

“I imagine heaven will be just like the Ritz,” sighed Toby, taking an éclair. “And it will always be teatime there.”

“What makes you think
you’ll
end up in heaven?” said Simon.

Toby started to explain how wonderfully angelic he was, bringing joy to everyone he met, but I was distracted by a couple in the dimmest corner of the room—not that it was
very
dim, given the chandeliers and so forth. The gentleman had just taken the lady’s hand and was giving her a look that Henry would have called “soppy.” The lady was wearing a very chic suit of marina-blue silk that looked just like one of Julia’s. Then she turned, and I saw it
was
Julia. I dropped my teaspoon, and Toby looked round.