The FitzOsbornes in Exile (29 page)

27th April 1939

We really ought to have expected it, after Italy invaded Albania at Easter, but anticipating bad news doesn’t make one feel any better when it arrives. Yesterday Chamberlain announced that all British men aged twenty and twenty-one years old are to be conscripted immediately into the armed forces.

Rupert is twenty. Three of our footmen and a dozen other male staff at Montmaray House and Milford Park are of an age to be called up.

“Well, it’s a good thing I’ve already applied to join the Royal Air Force,” said Toby brightly at breakfast this morning. “Otherwise I’d feel quite left out of things.”

Whereupon Aunt Charlotte burst into tears.

I don’t know whether she was upset over Toby or at the prospect of losing so many good servants, but it was certainly unexpected. Veronica and I stared, dumbfounded, across the table at her, though Toby jumped up at once and put his arm around her.

“Now, there’s no need to
fuss
,” he said, fishing out his handkerchief. “Goodness, there isn’t even a war on! It’s just the government being sensible. It’ll give all those poor unemployed men up north something to do. Three square meals a day and nice, warm uniforms—awfully kind of old Chamberlain to think of them.”

“When I remember the last war,” Aunt Charlotte wept. “When I think of your poor father, and yours, Veronica …”

As neither of our fathers died in the war (mine didn’t even fight in it), I wasn’t quite sure what she meant by that. Unless she was reminding us that Toby was the last living, legitimate male FitzOsborne, the one who was supposed to carry on the family name. As if summoned by my thoughts, Simon entered the breakfast room at that moment.

“Simon!” cried our aunt, catching sight of him. “Simon, you must join the air force, too! I … I
order
you to do so, to look after Tobias! He
can’t
go off by himself, he’s just a
boy—
”

Then she buried her face in Toby’s handkerchief, and I did what I ought to have done immediately and rang for Barnes. She arrived within seconds, took in the situation at a glance, and whisked Aunt Charlotte off to bed, summoning tea, brandy, and blankets as she went. (Imagine if
Barnes
were called up. Our household would collapse, but the British army would become unbeatable.)

“Don’t worry about poor old Aunt C,” said Toby to Simon, who was still standing there, stunned at the unprecedented sight of our aunt showing any emotion other than annoyance. “She’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow.”

Simon sat down at the table, shook his head, and reached for the teapot. “Oh, but I take my orders seriously,” he said. “I’ve no intention of letting you go off alone.”

Toby’s jaw dropped. “Simon! You can’t even
fly
!”

“If
you
can learn, I certainly ought to be able to do it. How different can it be from driving a car? Sophie, could you please pass the sugar?”

“It’s completely different!” exclaimed Toby. “It’s in three dimensions. There’s an up and a down, it’s—”

“They’ll bring in conscription for men aged up to twenty-five next,” said Veronica soberly. “Soon half the country will be in uniform.”

“Yes, it’s much better to decide what one wants to do now than to have very little choice later on,” said Simon, stirring his tea.

“But …” I hadn’t seen Toby so flustered in a long while. “But it’s safer for you here! And who’s going to look after the girls if we’re both away? And what about our submission to the League of Nations?”

“We’ll deal with everything as a family, as we always do,” said Simon. “Won’t we, Veronica, Sophie? So, has the post arrived? Anything from Otto Rahn?”

Veronica and I shook our heads in unison, glanced at each other, then returned to our breakfast. There we sat, spreading marmalade on toast and reaching for the milk jug, while the world fell into chaos. Our unflappable aunt having hysterics, Toby coming over all serious and responsible …

Veronica picked up her newspaper and rustled it. “Typical,” she said loudly. “Franco’s announced the Spanish Civil War is over, King Zog of Albania’s been forced into exile by the Italians, British attempts to build an alliance with the Soviet Union have stalled yet again—but
The Times
chooses to devote almost an entire
page
to the royal corgis!”

She was doing her best to return us to normality. It wasn’t her fault that it wasn’t really working.

25th May 1939

The most bizarre thing has happened. Aunt Charlotte has started reading the newspapers—not just the Court Circular and the gossip columns, but the bits in the middle about international politics. It’s very disconcerting. Mind you, she only pays close attention to political events if they involve people she knows (that is, people with titles). For instance, the evacuation of Spanish refugees from camps near the French border drew her interest only because Lady Redesdale’s eldest daughter, the Honorable Mrs. Rodd, had gone over there to help organize the ships to Mexico and Morocco. Still, even this rather narrow focus on politics has had a noticeable effect on our conversations. This morning, Aunt Charlotte was tutting loudly over some inflammatory remarks made by Mr. Kennedy (he is very pro-appeasement).

“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—”

“But 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.