The FitzOsbornes in Exile (32 page)

“Er,” I said.
“Excusez-moi. Je ne comprends pas …”

They giggled and shot Simon sly looks, and one of them patted me on the knee. Then they offered us grapes and some little seedcakes from one of their many baskets. I gathered that they thought we’d eloped, that Gebhardt was my father or the red-haired man my abandoned fiancé. It was quite embarrassing, but the cakes were excellent, and I was starving by then. They asked where we were headed and gave us detailed directions for finding a hotel in Lyon that their nephew owned. Half an hour more of amiable (although rather muddled) conversation, and then they gathered up their baskets and departed, fondly wishing us
bon voyage
and winking at me behind Simon’s back. A further half an hour, and Simon and I arrived at our destination. Not Geneva, unfortunately, just Lyon, and when we checked, we found there wasn’t a train to Switzerland until eight o’clock the next morning.

“It’s just as well, really,” I confessed. “I don’t think I could face another couple of hours on a train.”

“Nor could I,” said Simon. “Shall we try that hotel the ladies recommended?”

This proved to be fairly clean and within our budget, and (after further confusion, due to the hotel manager believing we actually
were
newlyweds) we were shown two tiny rooms connected by a door. We had a hasty wash in the bathroom down the corridor, then followed the manager’s directions to a
bouchon
around the corner. This was exactly as I’d imagined little restaurants in France to be—red wallpaper, flickering candle-light, a tangle of dark bentwood chairs and tiny tables, a mustachioed waiter polishing glasses behind the bar.

“Très romantique,”
said Simon. “Perfect for a couple on their honeymoon.”

I kicked him under the table. “Stop it,” I said, trying to read the menu in the dim light. “What’s ‘andouillette’?”

“Sausages made from pork tripe.”

“Oh. Then I think I’ll have the salade Lyonnaise. And coq au vin.”

The waiter brought us bread and a jug of water, then poured me a large glass of red wine before I could stop him. I was afraid it might be some terrible breach of French dining etiquette to ignore it, so I had a sip, and it was all right. But the food was
superb
. I really think the chef could have made even pork tripe taste divine. And it wasn’t at all expensive, not compared to London restaurants. The glorious meal was almost enough to make me forget our troubles—almost, but not quite.

“Do you think Veronica and Toby have enough money?” I asked. “Simon, what if Gebhardt drove straight back to Paris? What if he waited at the station there, in case we’d doubled back, and then he saw Veronica and Toby?”

“I doubt he’d want to loiter around that station for another couple of hours, after the day he’d had,” said Simon. “And even if he did, there wouldn’t be much he could do on a busy platform. I’d like to see him try to drag Veronica off somewhere quietly. She’d raise absolute hell—and Toby speaks excellent French, he’d soon get all the guards and passengers on their side.”

“But it’s so awful, not knowing where they
are
,” I said. “If only someone would invent telephones that we could carry around with us! Then Veronica could telephone us to say they were all right. Or we could telephone her …”

“They should train pigeons to track certain people,” Simon said. “Then we could carry the birds around, inside special pockets in our jackets, and send the birds off with messages whenever we needed. You ought to get your suitor working on it.”

I tried to kick Simon under the table again and missed, possibly because I’d finished my glass of wine by then. (I hadn’t been certain I liked red wine, not at first, but it seemed to improve with each mouthful.) “Stop making fun of Rupert,” I said sternly. “If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t even have got this far today! There’s nothing wrong with being wonderful with animals. Also, pigeons are extremely clever, so you shouldn’t make fun of
them
, either. But anyway …” I frowned. “What was I saying?”

“How much have you had to drink?” asked Simon.

“I don’t know. I think the waiter refilled my glass when I wasn’t looking. Oh, yes—Rupert! Well, he’s not my suitor. I like him very, very much, he’s awfully sweet, but I don’t feel … I just don’t feel
romantic
about him.”

“Good,” said Simon, pouring me a glass of water. “Because I think you could do a lot better, as far as husbands go.”

“Why does everyone keep telling me not to
marry
him?” I cried, throwing up my hands. “When we haven’t the slightest
interest
in getting married to each other!”

“Shh,” said Simon. “Drink your water. Otherwise you’ll have a horrible headache tomorrow.”

“I already have a headache,” I muttered. “From being forced to think about
marriage
all the time. Simon, who are
you
going to marry?”

I think I may have been a little bit drunk, after all. But Simon only laughed.

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a catch. No money and no title.”

“That’s true,” I conceded. “But you’re clever and hardworking. And
moderately
good-looking.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Only moderately,” I said, which was a lie. Every woman in the room, and at least one of the men, had been eyeing Simon, on and off, all evening. I glared at his most persistent admirer, a stylish brunette in the corner, then turned back to him. “Simon?”

“Hmm?” he said, tipping the rest of the wine into his glass.

“Have you ever been in love?” (I was definitely drunk.)

“No.”

I stared at him. “Really?
Never?
”

“Never.”

I took a deep breath. “Not even with … not even with Toby?”

Simon sighed and drank his wine.

“Toby,” he said at last, “is a beautiful, charming, self-centered brat. He’s frittered away opportunities that others would kill for, he’s relentlessly frivolous—”

“That’s not fair,” I protested. “He’s very serious about this air force thing.” I didn’t add that he was also very serious about Simon—I wasn’t
that
drunk.

“All right, I’ll admit Toby has hidden depths,” said Simon. “
Very
hidden.”

“It’s not easy for him, you know,” I said rather sadly. “Especially with Aunt Charlotte determined to marry him off. Do you think Toby could ever …?” I trailed off, not quite sure how to phrase it.

“Oscar Wilde was a husband and a father,” said Simon, reading my mind. “And don’t think I haven’t already pointed that out to Toby.”

“But imagine poor
Mrs
. Wilde,” I said, frowning. “I don’t think it was very fair of that man, if he already knew that he was … Although I suppose one could like both men
and
women. After all, you do.”

“I think I prefer women,” he said levelly.

“Well, that’s the more sensible option,” I said. “Also, it’s more … legal.”

“True.”

“And, anyway, women are nicer,” I said. “Better dressed, not as aggressive—”

“Really? You mean Veronica’s actually a
man
?”

“Very funny, Simon,” I said. “You’re just jealous of her.”

“I am, a little,” he admitted. “Or I used to be. Now it’s closer to grudging admiration. At least Veronica makes the most of what she’s been given. You can be damned sure
she
wouldn’t toss away an Oxford education.”

“Toby only did that because he hoped Aunt Charlotte would let you or Veronica go to Oxford in his place.”

“Then he’s an idiot,” said Simon. “He ought to have known your aunt would never agree to that. Although I must say, it
was
rather clever of him, telling her he was pining away over Julia Whittingham, that
that
was why he couldn’t consider marriage to any other girl. Not that it’ll work in the long term, but it might give him a bit of room to maneuver.”

“And you call
me
Machiavellian,” I said.

“Ah, Sophie,” he said, smiling at me—not with his guarded half smile, but a rare, unrestrained one. “You’re
beyond
Machiavellian. Look at how you’ve cleverly got me to spill my secrets this evening. It’s a good thing you’re too drunk to commit them to memory, otherwise they’d all get scribbled down in that wicked journal of yours …”

Ha! Little does Simon know that I have an EXCELLENT memory for conversations! And I wasn’t
that
drunk. I had a lovely, long sleep after we got back to the hotel, and not a trace of headache when I woke up. And I’ve managed to get all this written down since we left Lyon, having resolutely ignored the spectacular Alpine scenery speeding past the train window. Simon has asked several times what I’m writing, but I’ve told him to concentrate on watching out for Gebhardt.

Oh, now the Customs men are moving through the train, checking everyone’s papers. We must be nearly at the Swiss border … Will write more soon.

23rd August 1939

So, we arrived at the Hôtel des Bergues, located conveniently close to the train station, offering a splendid view of the calm blue expanse of Lake Geneva.

And Veronica and Toby weren’t there.

No, said the man at the reception desk, His Majesty and Her Highness had not arrived, and they had not left any messages for us. Except … Oh, he was mistaken, there
was
a telegram. I tore open the envelope. It was from Daniel, wishing us good luck.

“Don’t worry,” Simon assured me. “They’ve gone directly to the Palais des Nations, that’s all. It wasn’t as though they had any luggage to drop off.”

We took a taxi to the headquarters of the League of Nations (although it turned out to be within walking distance) and hurried over to the main desk in the vast marble lobby to make our enquiries.

“One moment, please,” said the elegant blonde behind the desk. She picked up her telephone receiver and spoke into it in French, then English. Meanwhile, I stared around at all the cold white stone, at the heavy pillars and lofty ceilings. It was a secular cathedral, built for the glory of International Diplomacy rather than God. I could see the effect was meant to be dignified, but it came off as rather boastful and unwelcoming. The lady at the desk finally informed us that Madame Blair would speak with us in her office and that a clerk would show us the way.

“But could you tell us if His Majesty, the King of Montmaray, has arrived yet?” said Simon.

“He has not,” said the desk lady crisply before turning to an Oriental gentleman waiting beside us.

Madame Blair was even crisper. “No, the delegation from Montmaray has
not
arrived, nor have I received any message from them. The afternoon session of the Council begins in”—she examined her tiny diamond wristwatch—“ninety-seven minutes. This is all
most
unfortunate. The issue of Montmaray is the first item on a
very
busy agenda. I expected to meet with the Montmaravian delegation at eleven o’clock sharp, to explain the procedure to His Majesty—”

“Something’s gone wrong,” I said. Simon put his hand on my arm and turned back to Madame Blair.

“The delegation was due to arrive in Lausanne at 6:26 this morning,” he said to her. “Have you heard of any delays with the trains? Any … any accidents?”

“I have heard of no such thing,” she said, drawing herself up and glaring at him. “Several gentlemen arrived from Lausanne this morning without reporting any difficulties.” She snatched up a pen and held it over a typewritten list. “Now, I must know, at once, whether I need to make changes to the agenda—whether the delegation from Montmaray will be addressing the Council this afternoon or not.”

“Yes,” said Simon firmly. “Montmaray
will
address the Council this afternoon.”

“Under what authority—”

“I am the Lord Chancellor of Montmaray,” he said. “If the King is unavoidably delayed,
I
will speak in his stead.” He stared her down.

“Very well,” she said with a sniff. She marched out to confer with her colleagues, then returned to escort us to the empty Council Room. She briskly pointed out Montmaray’s place at the massive, semicircular marble table, raised on a platform at the front of the room. She explained the procedure whereby Toby (or Simon) would be introduced by the President of the Council, enter the room, and deliver his speech. She also showed me the stairs to the observers’ gallery. Then she deposited us in a reception room, saying she would meet us there fifteen minutes before the Council session was due to begin.

The moment she disappeared, Simon sagged onto a sofa. “
I
can’t address the Council!” he said to me. “Toby’s got the only copy of that speech!”

“Never mind about that!” I cried. “Where
are
they? If Veronica hasn’t sent a message, something really terrible has happened!”

Simon ran a hand through his hair. “All right. Let’s … let’s think about this logically. They’ve probably gone to the hotel—”

“We left a message for them there, at the front desk! Anyway, they’d come straight here! We have to do something! Tell the police or—”

“Tell them
what
? That a couple of people are running late for a meeting?”

“Then telephone the train station at Lausanne or … or … I don’t know!”

The trio of gentlemen sitting in the corner broke off their conversation in Greek (or whatever it was) and turned to gaze at us disapprovingly.

“Look, let’s go outside,” muttered Simon.

We rapidly made our way out through the wide corridors, reached the main doors of the Palais des Nations—then came to an abrupt halt, racked with indecision.

“Perhaps I should go back to the hotel,” said Simon. “See if they’ve telephoned—”

“No, no, they’d come directly here … Oh, Simon,
how
could Gebhardt possibly have got to them? They took a completely different route!”

“It’s probably something else, a flat tire on the way from Lausanne …”

We paced up and down, hurling useless fragments of sentences at each other, and all the while, the minute hand of Simon’s watch moved closer to two o’clock.

“Right,” he said at last. “We’ve got ten minutes till that woman comes to collect us from the reception room. I’ll go back in. You take a taxi to the hotel and—”

“SOPHIE! SIMON!”

We whirled around. A dusty black car had pulled up on Avenue de la Paix, and Veronica was climbing out of the back of it. We raced over.

“Oh, thank God you’re all right!” I said, flinging myself at her.

“Where’s Toby?” Simon demanded, staring into the empty backseat of the car.

“At the police station in Lausanne.” The driver reached over to close the door, and Veronica turned to him.
“Un moment, monsieur, s’il vous plaît!”

“Gebhardt?” I said. “They caught him?”

“What?” said Veronica. “No, no, Toby got arrested in the men’s room at the railway station—”

“WHAT?” Simon and I shrieked.

“What the hell was he
doing
?” shouted Simon.

“Oh, no,
he
wasn’t doing anything disreputable, he just went to help a man who was being beaten up, but Toby got hurt—well, I think he did, he had blood on his face, although that may have been the other man’s, it was all so confusing—and then the police arrived and hauled everyone off to the station. And when I finally found out where they were holding him, the policemen refused to listen to me
—typical
of a country that won’t give the vote to women! They wouldn’t even let me
see
Toby, and I didn’t have enough money to offer bail, wasn’t sure if they’d think I was trying to
bribe
them. Oh, and I forgot to say Toby had all our identification papers! And then it took ages to find a telephone, and I left a message at the hotel, but they said you were here … What time is it?”

“Time to go,” said Simon. He took her arm and pushed her in the direction of the building. “Get inside. Sophie will show you the way. You need to deliver that speech to the Council. I’m going back to Lausanne to rescue Toby—”

“Speech!” said Veronica. “What are you talking about? Simon,
I
can’t give that speech. Toby’s got all the papers—”

“You wrote it!” shouted Simon, clambering into the front seat of the car. “You know more about it than any of us! Now, get going!”

He said something to the driver and slammed his door, then the car sped off. I grabbed Veronica’s arm, suddenly aware of how pale and exhausted she looked.

“It’s just that I didn’t get much sleep last night,” she confessed. “One of us had to keep watch for Gebhardt, and I wanted Toby fully awake when he addressed the Council today.”

“You’ll be fine,” I said to her, tugging her back up the drive. “We’ve still got a few minutes, and I brought along some of your things, in case you needed to change.”

I dragged her into the nearest ladies’ room, where Veronica splashed some water on her face and pulled on a pair of unladdered stockings.

“Have you had luncheon?” I asked, pinning her hair up.

“I didn’t even have breakfast,” she said. “Everything was so chaotic, you’ve no idea. I was so worried about Toby—and you know how difficult it is to work out what’s going on when one doesn’t speak the language fluently. The only thing that went right was that we managed to avoid Gebhardt.”

“That’s because he was busy with us,” I said, handing her my lipstick.

“What?” she exclaimed, wheeling around.

“Never mind, I’ll tell you about it later,” I said. “Here, you’ve got lipstick on your chin.” I fixed her face, straightened her collar, brushed the dust off her jacket, then led her down the hall towards the reception room, wishing she’d been able to change into her new suit.

Madame Blair was waiting by the door, tapping her foot. “His Excellency the Lord High Chancellor of Montmaray—”

“Has been unavoidably called away at the last minute,” I said. “May I introduce Her Royal Highness Princess Veronica of Montmaray? She’ll be delivering the King’s speech. Veronica, this is Madame Blair from the Secretariat of the League of Nations.”

“What?” said Madame Blair, aghast. “But, but my agenda—”

“Gosh, look at the time,” I said, taking Veronica’s arm and marching her towards the door that led to the Council Room. I could see a dozen eminent-looking gentlemen slowly taking their places at the table, having entered the room from the other side.

“All right,” I said to Veronica. “Now, the President of the Council will introduce you—”

Madame Blair shoved past us, bustled up to the table, and had a hurried conversation with one of the men. He frowned and wrote something on his pile of papers.

“—then you walk in and take your seat,” I went on. “You’re sitting over there, at the very end of the table. I think the President will talk about Montmaray for a few minutes before inviting you to stand up and give your speech. I’ll be upstairs in the gallery—”

But Veronica hadn’t taken in a word I’d said. She was staring at two gentlemen who were shaking hands at the far side of the room. “That’s Joseph Avenol,” she said, her eyes enormous. “The Secretary-General of the League of Nations!”

I glanced over. “Is it? Good. Anyway, I’ll try to sit right in the middle—”

“It’s
not
good!” she cried. “He’s
terribly
pro-appeasement! I had no
idea
he’d be at this meeting; he’s part of the Secretariat, not the Council.”

Her gaze jerked away from the men, across to the towering windows with their forty-foot drapes, around the marble walls, up at the huge murals depicting Humankind engaged in various heroic acts. A uniformed guard shut the big bronze doors on the other side of the room, and the chatter began to die down.

“They’re starting,” I said. “You need to—”

“No,” said Veronica, taking a step backwards. “I can’t do this.”

“What?”

“This is
insane
! I don’t have any
notes
, I’ve never even given a speech in public before, they’re expecting the
King
of Montmaray to speak!”

I was alarmed to see the panic in her face.

“Veronica—” I started.

“Just
look
at them!” she continued, twitching her hand in the direction of the Council. “Men, all of them old and distinguished, not a single, solitary woman at that table! Why did I ever think we could … ?”

She shook her head wildly. “They’re not going to pay the slightest bit of attention to me, a
girl
from a place they’ve never even
seen
, someone who’s not even listed on the
agenda.
”

She took another step backwards.

“It’s all been a waste of time,” she said, and her voice was full of despair. “They aren’t going to do anything to help us—”

“Stop that!” I said, grasping her arm. I glanced into the Council Room, where the President had just risen to speak, and I lowered my voice. “Listen to me, Veronica. They
invited
us. And we risked our
lives
to get here, for this one chance to tell our story. We’ve been working towards this for months, and all that time,
you
were our leader. Not Simon. Definitely not Toby.
You
were the one doing the research, chasing up the records, writing the letters—yes, I know Simon helped, we all did, but you started this, you kept it going, and
you’re
going to finish it.”

She stared at me, still shaking her head.

“They’ll pay attention to you,” I said, “because you’ll
make
them listen. Look, I don’t know what the Council will decide. I don’t know if they’ll help us. That’s beyond our control. All you can do is walk through that door and tell them what happened to Montmaray. And that could never,
never
be a waste of time. How could it be futile to tell the truth, to ask that justice be done? Think of why we’re doing this! Remember Montmaray, remember how the castle looked that last afternoon …”

I closed my eyes for a second. It was as though I were there again, amongst the smoking ruins, overwhelmed with grief.

“Even if Simon and Toby were here,” I said, my voice wobbling, “we’d still want
you
to speak. Because you’re the one who should explain Montmaray to the world.”

“Your Highness!” snapped Madame Blair, from somewhere behind my shoulder. “The President of the Council has just announced your name! Are you ready?”

Veronica took a deep breath. The world waited.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’m ready.” Then she bent down and kissed me, turned on her heel, and walked through the door.

I stood there for a moment, watching her take her seat, then ran upstairs. The gallery was only half full, and I found a seat in the front row, right in the middle. I peered over the railing, my heart pounding, and saw that the President of the Council was still reading out our submission to the League of Nations. He kept mispronouncing “Montmaray,” putting the emphasis on the wrong syllable, the middle one.