The FitzOsbornes in Exile (8 page)

26th January 1937

Last night we went to our first proper dinner party, and it was a disaster. Or rather, a series of disasters.

Firstly, Aunt Charlotte sprained something in her foot as she was getting off her horse in the morning. The doctor said nothing was broken but that she wasn’t to stand on it for forty-eight hours because it was the foot that had been in plaster.

It was awful luck, especially as I then received Julia’s note saying she’d rather eat her own head than endure another dinner at the boring Bosworths, and thank God, she and Ant had been invited elsewhere. I’d been hoping Julia would be there to give me clandestine signals across the table if I picked up the wrong fork.

“Don’t worry,” said Toby as I fretted over what shoes to wear. “They won’t even notice you.”

It was depressing to consider he was probably correct, given that Veronica looked absolutely stunning in her clinging black silk, worn with Aunt Charlotte’s rubies. In contrast, I had on an old bridesmaid’s frock of Julia’s, mauve chiffon with puff sleeves and a white organza sash. It was pretty enough, but hardly the height of sophistication. Worse, the satin shoes that went with the frock were slightly too big for me, and one of the heels was loose. I hadn’t even
thought
to try walking in them till then. But the only other shoes I owned were my everyday pairs—tan lace-up brogues (out of the question) or black Mary Janes with no heel whatsoever.

“Can you see my feet if I’m standing up?” I asked Toby, tugging my dress down in a vain attempt to cover the Mary Janes. But they poked out beneath the hem like a pair of fat black beetles emerging from under a leaf.

“Here, give me the others,” Toby said.

He stuffed some cotton wool in the toes of the satin shoes, and I tried them again. It was
slightly
better, although I was forced into a weird shuffling gait.

“You won’t have to walk far,” he said consolingly. “And at least there won’t be dancing. It won’t even be a very late night. Wiltshire in January isn’t exactly High Society.”

It may have been dull by London standards, but there was more than enough noise and dazzle to frighten me into speechlessness. Lady Bosworth swooped down on Toby the moment we arrived (“Ah! Your Majesty!”), settling him into an armchair and shoving her daughter in his direction. The daughter seemed more interested in Simon, although he quickly shook her off. A moment later, I saw him leaning against the chimneypiece, lighting a cigarette for a raven-haired beauty in a strapless scarlet gown (I caught Toby glowering at both of them). Meanwhile, Veronica and I stood in a corner, sipping our glasses of lemonade and trying to make polite conversation with David Stanley-Ross and his wife, Penelope. It was heavy going. David was nothing like Rupert in looks or manner. He had little to say in response to Veronica’s openings on the subject of Amelia Earhart’s plan to fly around the world, the forthcoming coronation of King George the Sixth, or the state of President Roosevelt’s health. He merely gazed around the room, tilting his head back so he could stare down his long, aristocratic nose. I fared no better with Penelope.

“That’s a lovely dress,” I said brightly.

“Oh—
this
,” she said, glancing at herself with disdain. “Had it made in Paris.” There was a pause as she looked me up and down. “I recognize
your
frock, of course.” Which was when I realized my bridesmaid’s dress was from
her wedding
. I know there are worse things than being discovered wearing a hand-me-down frock, but I wanted to sink through the floor. I twisted round, searching for an escape, and found myself nose to nose with Lady Bosworth’s daughter, Cynthia.

“Hellooo,” she brayed. “Hunt much?”

“Er, I’m afraid I don’t ride,” I said. She looked at me as though I’d announced I was from the planet Mars. I quickly added, “My little sister does, though, and she says it’s lots of fun.”

“What’s she ride?”

“Um … a pony?”

Fortunately, there was a flurry at the door at that moment and several men stomped in, calling out greetings.

“Ah, Tom!” cried Lord Bosworth. “There you are, late as usual, ha-ha!”

“Who’s that?” I whispered, nodding at the tallest, most important-looking one. He had sleek black hair, extremely mobile eyebrows, and a rakish mustache.

“Mummy’s cousin Tom,” said Cynthia, waving at him. “You know—Sir Oswald Mosley.” Veronica suddenly stiffened, like Carlos catching sight of a rabbit. Mosley’s appraising glance landed on her, then brushed past me, unseeing. I shivered. I didn’t like him then, and I liked him even less when Simon explained who he was.

“Leader of the British Union of Fascists. Amazing speaker. Riles up his Blackshirts, then they rampage through the East End, getting into fights with the Communists.”

I gave Simon a horrified look.

“So keep Veronica away from him,” Simon hissed as we went in to dinner. Of course, there was nothing I could do about our placement at the dining table, which was determined by social rank. Toby was up one end between Lady Bosworth and a wizened duchess, and Veronica down the other next to the Marquess of Londonderry and across from Mosley. Simon was between Penelope and the Scarlet Woman, and I was in the middle of the table, perfectly placed to watch the whole catastrophe unfold. I didn’t even have a conversation of my own to distract me, the two middle-aged gentlemen either side of me simply talking over the top of my head once they realized I knew nothing about horses or gambling. The soup and fish courses passed without incident, but then Lord Bosworth asked what Mosley thought about reports of Fascist atrocities in the Spanish war.

“Pure invention,” Mosley said promptly. “A pathetic attempt by Red propagandists to cover up their own barbarities and generate some sympathy for their doomed cause. And of course, our Labour Members of Parliament are wringing their hands, on cue.”

There was some sniggering, then a voice rang out.

“How very interesting,” said Veronica. “For weren’t
you
a Labour Member of Parliament, Sir Oswald?”

“Certainly,” he said, with a little bow in her direction. “And I was appointed a minister, and I developed an innovative—and, if I may say so, quite brilliant—plan for tackling the crippling unemployment problem. Sadly, the party was in the crushing grasp of the trade unions and voted against my plan, so I realized I must turn my back on their petty games and power plays.”

“Is it only the
Labour
Party that engages in such games?” Veronica enquired, in carefully innocent tones that had Simon and me exchanging worried glances. “Because you were a member of the
Conservative
Party before that, I believe? And, after that, the New Party?”

“My dear girl, I’m afraid
all
the parties have fatal flaws.”

“Now, Tom,” chided Lord Bosworth, clearly a dyed-in-the-wool Conservative.

“I’m afraid you must bow to my considerable breadth of experience on this matter, Bosworth,” Mosley said, raising his glass and smirking.

“
Some
might salute your breadth of experience,” agreed Veronica. “Although others might call you a political dilettante.”

There was a sudden muffled oath from Lord Londonderry, who glared in Simon’s direction. I was fairly sure Simon had tried to kick Veronica under the table and missed. Penelope gave Simon a suspicious sideways look, then turned to Mosley.

“It’s so fascinating, though, isn’t it?” she trilled. “That your experiences inspired you to set up your own British movement! Awfully smart uniforms, and that emblem of yours—a sort of lightning bolt, isn’t it?”

“We call it the flash of action in the circle of unity,” said Mosley proudly.

“Also known as a flash in the pan,” said Veronica. “Tell me, why do you insist your movement is British when your black shirts, your salute, the name ‘Fascism’—probably even your funding—come from the Italians?”

“How … gratifying to see young ladies taking an interest in world affairs,” Mosley said slowly, doing something very odd with his eyes. The pupils seemed to get bigger, then smaller, as though he were trying to hypnotize Veronica into submission. It had no discernible effect on her, although Penelope fluttered a bit. “But I’m afraid you’re sadly misinformed about our funding,” he continued, “which comes from sales of our newspapers and other literature—and of course, from those in England who see our good work and are moved to contribute in whatever way they can. But you’ll find all this information in our publications. May I recommend
Fascism: 100 Questions Asked and Answered
?” He spoke in mocking tones, but there was real anger bubbling below the surface. He was not a man used to being questioned, I felt.

“I’ve read that,” said Veronica. “Although I doubt I’m the intended audience—it appears to have been written for people whose critical faculties are severely impaired. For example, how can you insist in one paragraph that your movement is
not
anti-Semitic, when in another you claim that all the ills of the world are the result of greedy Jewish bankers and shopkeepers? And according to you, even though the Jews are the evil face of capitalism, they’re also busy running the Communist movement and trying to
destroy
capitalism—”

“The Jews are irrelevant,” he said, waving his hand impatiently. “The press insists on going on about that, but I assure you, it’s of no importance to me. I have a number of Jewish friends.”

“Yet you write that Jews should not be allowed the full rights of other British citizens, that they must have their possessions confiscated and be deported—”

“Successful new political movements are based on engaging the emotions, not the intellect!” he snapped. “They require
something
for followers to hate.”

“Then how clever of you to choose to hate a traditional enemy of both the undereducated masses
and
your foreign backers,” Veronica said coldly.

“
Speaking
of foreign places,” burst out the Scarlet Woman, “we had such a lovely time in Venice last summer, but I have thoughts of
branching out
this year, and I wonder if anyone has visited—”

Penelope quickly took up the topic, but several of our dining companions preferred to stare at Veronica in icy silence. My appetite had quite disappeared, even though a footman had just set in front of me an exquisite creation of meringue, preserved cherries, and whipped cream. Simon, avoiding my gaze, drained his wineglass and joined in the Vichy versus Biarritz debate. I poked at my pudding, relieved that at least dinner was nearly over. But a further calamity was just around the corner. As all the ladies rose to leave the gentlemen to their cigars and port, my shoe got caught in the leg of my chair—
and the heel fell off
.

I crouched there for a second, staring at the little wooden thing lying on the carpet, wondering if I could possibly retrieve it. But the longer I stood there, the more attention I attracted, so I was forced to half shuffle, half tiptoe towards the door. The eyes of the nearest footman widened and his mouth grew tight as he tried his hardest not to burst into laughter. I limped into the drawing room and sat down on a chair near the door, whipping my feet under my skirt and wondering wildly what to do.

“Are you all right?” asked Veronica. I whispered my dilemma, although I needn’t have bothered lowering my voice. The others were all giving us a wide berth. Mosley seemed a great favorite of one blonde in particular—she kept shooting Veronica very offended looks.

“Give me your shoe,” Veronica demanded, still fired up from her argument. “I’ll go and find the other bit!”

“What?” I hissed. “I can’t take it off here! And you can’t go in
there
.”

“Oh, come on,” she said, dragging me up. Under the pretense of visiting the loo (although why we’d need to go
together
, I’ve no idea), we escaped into the hall. Luckily, the footman was coming out of the dining room, looking for me—he’d rescued my poor heel. I thanked him profusely.

“And if Your Highness will permit me, the shoe can be mended.”

So I sat on the marble staircase like Cinderella, one shoe on and one shoe off, waiting for the footman to return, while Veronica stalked along the hall, gazing up at the paintings.

“Look, Sophie!” she kept saying. “It’s a Caravaggio!” Or a Rubens. Or a Van Dyck. It seemed extraordinary that people who’d grown up with such beautiful, thoughtful pictures could enjoy the company of that horrible Mosley man. The footman eventually came back, and I slipped my shoe on, apologizing to him for all the trouble I’d caused. Then, thank heavens, the gentlemen filed back into the drawing room and we were able to depart.

“
What
an eventful evening,” said Toby once Parker had stowed away his crutches and gone round to the front of the car. “We never had dinner parties like that before the girls arrived, did we, Simon?”

“Hmm,” said Simon.

“I mixed up the name of Cynthia’s brother with that of her horse, so she glared daggers at me all night,” said Toby. “Veronica insulted the leader of a gang of vicious hooligans. Simon, what did you do to poor old Lord Londonderry? He kept giving you the filthiest looks.”

“I kicked him in the shin when I was trying to get Veronica to shut up,” said Simon.

“Soph, how was
your
evening?”

I recounted my shoe saga.

“I was wondering why you smelled of glue,” Toby said. “Well, an excellent evening all round for the House of FitzOsborne. Unless—” He slid open the glass window separating us from the chauffeur. “Parker, how did you go at cards tonight?”

“Lost three bob, sir,” said Parker.

“Oh dear,” sympathized Toby. “It wasn’t to one of those Blackshirts who drive Mosley around, was it?”

“Indeed it was, sir,” said Parker. “Indeed it was.”

“Rotten luck,” said Toby, then leaned back in his seat. “We’ll probably never get invited back to the Bosworths’ again.” He smiled broadly. “So, well done, all of you!”

Of course, Aunt Charlotte was absolutely furious when she found out. Lucky for us that she’s too busy with preparations for our London Season to do much reprimanding. She is trying to compile a guest list for our coming-out ball in May (a
most
arduous task, as she keeps reminding us) while supervising the packing and trying to run a household with two-thirds of her staff (several carloads of servants have already been dispatched to London to open up Montmaray House). At least Henry has now calmed down about being left behind at Milford Park with Miss Bullock—her pony and the impending arrival of Cleopatra’s piglets seem to have helped, and of course, Carlos will stay here …