The FitzOsbornes in Exile (9 page)

Oh dear, Phoebe has just knocked a bottle of cologne into my handkerchief drawer. Never mind, they’ll smell extra-nice now!

It’s no good, the poor girl’s still oozing tears. Better go and cheer her up …

25th February 1937

Their Royal Highnesses
Princesses Veronica and Sophia of Montmaray,
accompanied by the Princess Royal,
Princess Charlotte of Montmaray,
have arrived at Montmaray House
in anticipation of the Season.

It seemed an extraordinary thing for
The Times
to print on their front page—who on earth would care? (Especially as hardly anyone here seems to know where Montmaray
is
, let alone what’s happened to it. Toby says that people at school were always mistakenly thinking he came from Montenegro or Montserrat, or getting him mixed up with Prince Rainier of Monaco.) But then this morning, an absolute
avalanche
of envelopes descended upon Montmaray House. Advertisements from dress shops and tea shops and businesses that hire out gilt chairs and marquees; offers of free sittings with photographers; letters from dance schools and florists and “hair artistes.” And then there were the invitations.

“What’s a fork luncheon?” asked Veronica, staring at one engraved card as we sat around the breakfast table. “And who’s Mrs. Douglas Dawson-Hughes, and why would she invite us to one?”

“We’ve got
eleven
invitations to tea parties,” I said, counting. “One of them promising consultations with ‘Madame Zelda, the famous fortune-teller.’ ”

“She can’t be all that famous if they need to explain who she is,” said Veronica.

“Everyone’s hoping for invitations to your coming-out ball,” explained Toby. “There haven’t been any big parties at Montmaray House since before the war—probably not since the last Montmaravian Ambassador lived here, decades ago—so they’re all wondering what it looks like inside. And I bet they’re madly curious about you two.”

“They’re more interested in
you
, Toby,” said Simon. “Wondering if you’ll do for their daughters. Here, Sophia, give me those.” He began sorting the invitations into two piles. “Definitely
not
Mrs. Dawson-Hughes—her husband’s about to be declared bankrupt. Yes to the Marchioness of Elchester, yes to the Fortescues …”

“I suppose Lady Redesdale’s youngest girl is out this Season, too,” mused Aunt Charlotte. “Poor child, I don’t suppose she can help having such scandalous sisters. One divorced and now one run off to Spain with that awful Romilly boy … Is that in the newspapers yet, Simon?”

“Not this morning’s, ma’am,” said Simon.

“Lady Bosworth told me all the details yesterday. Dreadful thing. Well, girls, what are you doing today? Do you need the car?”

“Julia’s coming over at eleven to take us shopping, then there’s dress fittings and a Court class in the afternoon,” I said. “Theater this evening?” asked Toby.

“Can’t, I don’t have any proper evening shoes yet,” I said. “Ask me again in a week’s time.”

“Glad I was born a boy,” said Toby. “Aren’t you, Simon?”

“Very,” said Simon.

I was very happy to be a girl, though, when Julia swept us into Harrods and showed us all the beautiful things girls could wear. Chiffon scarves and exquisite little straw hats and strings of pearls and bright silk tea dresses and silver evening sandals …

“Right,” said Julia. “Gloves first.” And we bought three pairs each of long white kid gloves for evenings (“because you need to have them cleaned each time you wear them, and they stretch and split so quickly”) as well as black leather gloves for everyday, with clutch purses to match. Then we bought silk stockings and lipstick, and looked at hats. I fell in love with an elegant black pillbox with dotted veil, but I knew it would look ridiculous perched on my frizz of hair. Julia pronounced the frocks “tedious” and “far too expensive” and whisked us off to Peter Jones, where we bought a couple of silk afternoon frocks for “only” nineteen shillings each. I didn’t dare calculate how much we’d already spent—pounds and pounds, I was sure, but it all got charged to Aunt Charlotte’s account. Phoebe, laden with bags and boxes, staggered off to the car and was driven back to the house by Parker while Julia took us to Claridge’s for luncheon.

“Ant’s mother’s arriving from New York this afternoon, so now I have to go and meet her, but I promise I’ll be back tomorrow to help you look for evening shoes—remember to get fabric samples at your dress fittings—and oh, Sophie, I
must
introduce you to the man who does my hair, he’s an absolute magician.”

“He’d need to be, to make something of my bird’s nest,” I said.

“Nonsense, it just needs a trim! Now, long hair is terribly old-fashioned, but if anyone can get away with it, it’s
you
, Veronica—just pile it up and stick a tiara on top.”

“Yes, Julia,” said Veronica, who finds Julia highly amusing, although too frivolous for words.

After that, we went to order evening dresses, and the designer went into raptures over Veronica’s face and figure. His enthusiasm was dimmed somewhat when Veronica insisted on wearing mourning dress for her presentation at Court, but he rallied quickly. “Simple, yet elegant,” he cried, holding up lengths of black satin against her. “Nothing to distract from the natural beauty. No frills, no frippery, no furbelows.” (He actually said that, “furbelows”—one of those words that make less and less sense the more one repeats it, until finally one starts to wonder if it
is
a word.) For me, though, it was felt that frills and furbelows would be a very
good
idea. After much frowning and tongue-clucking, he decided on a gathered bodice with thin straps and a full skirt, in a shimmering silk that was halfway between violet and pale blue. We were meant to choose two more evening dresses each, but even I’d had enough by that stage, and besides, we were due at the Vacani School of Dancing, just around the corner.

“Oh, I’m not going,” said Veronica. “I’ve already arranged to meet Daniel for tea.”

I stared at her, horrified. “You can’t go wandering off into the East End by yourself!”

“No, he’s meeting me at Lyons Corner House, near Marble Arch. You can come, too, if you’d like.”

“But we’ve got to practice curtseying! And Parker will have a fit if he comes to pick us up and you’re not here! And what if Aunt Charlotte—”

“Oh, look, there’s the bus! Meet you at quarter to five in the Harrods car park,” she said, and she dashed off, swinging herself up the stairs of a tall red bus as though she’d been doing it all her life.

My first class with Miss Betty went very badly, which I’d like to blame on anxiety about Veronica, although I suspect it was simply my innate lack of coordination. We had to line up against a wall, holding the barre with our right hand, place our right foot (or was it our left?) against the wall and the other foot behind that, sink almost to the floor, then rise without wobbling or falling over sideways. I got my left and right confused, my knees cracked, I plunged downwards too fast and too far, and couldn’t get up again. The other girls tittered behind my back. Then Miss Betty had one of them demonstrate the procedure at Court, while Miss Betty sat in a chair, pretending to be the King.

“To be presented, Miss Lucinda Adams-Smythe.” And Miss Adams-Smythe, a curtain pinned to her shoulders to simulate her train, descended gracefully, bowed her head, and rose, beaming throughout.

“Keep your eyes on the King, kick your dress out of the way, three steps sideways, smile at the Queen, curtsey again … Excellent!”

If she was so excellent at it, what was she doing in this class? I stomped out as soon as we were dismissed and was further irritated to find Veronica calmly reading
The Evening Standard
, right where she said she’d be.

“You’ve no idea how worried I’ve been,” I said crossly. “Running off by yourself,
anything
could have happened! You could have been abducted by white slavers and shipped off to the Argentine!”

“What, in the middle of Mayfair?” she said.

“
Yes
! Phoebe was saying she’d heard that women disguised as nurses wander round London injecting young women with morphine. And taxi drivers are in on it, too. A quarter of taxis have
no handles
on the inside doors, so the victims can’t—”

“How was your lesson?” she asked, folding up the newspaper.

“Awful,” I said. “How was Daniel?”

“Very well, though rather thin,” she said. “He sends his fondest regards to you and wanted to know how your writing was going.”

My
writing
! Imagine him remembering those earnest little stories I used to labor over when I was twelve! (I fancied myself a budding Brontë.) Now the only thing I write is my journal, and I haven’t even managed to do
that
for weeks. I haven’t done a very thorough job of today’s entry, either—I forgot to mention all the arguments over Toby’s eighteenth birthday. Aunt Charlotte yearns for a grand ball in London to celebrate, as well as a party in the village (with fireworks) for the Milford tenants, whereas Toby just wants a quiet family tea.

I also meant to note down my first impressions of London. Ponderous buses swaying round Piccadilly Circus, looming shopfronts plastered with flashing advertising signs, rows of houses in Park Lane jostling against one another, each trying to look taller and more impressive than its neighbors … And
so
many people! Bowler-hatted businessmen who never seem to unfurl their black umbrellas, not even when it’s pouring; slender young ladies in sable coats stepping out of Rolls-Royces, and stout old ones in plaid shawls selling bunches of violets on the footpath; nannies stuffing red-faced infants back into their perambulators; footmen walking poodles; deliverymen balancing crates of fish on their heads; cloth-capped newspaper sellers shouting the day’s headlines …

Oh! I forgot something else—that Daniel gave Veronica a clipping from
Action
, the Fascist newspaper. (Daniel keeps a close eye on the enemy’s propaganda, ever since the Blackshirts hurled a brick through his office window.) And the paper had a whole paragraph about
Veronica
in it! As she points out, Mosley couldn’t decide whether to attack her for being a dangerous foreign Bolshevik trying to stir up trouble or to poke fun at her for being a silly debutante, parroting ideas she didn’t understand. So the whole thing was rather incoherent—but definitely offensive in tone. That
hateful
man! I gather Daniel suggested to Veronica that she refrain from denouncing Fascism in public, for her own protection—but Daniel ought to know that this would just make her want to give weekly lectures about it on top of a soapbox in Hyde Park.

I have to stop there, the dinner gong has sounded. I
do
resolve to make more of an effort with my writing, though …

17th March 1937

Well, so much for my resolution to write more—although the following account of my activities might provide
some
excuse. In the past three weeks, I have:

—attended seven debutante teas and had my palm read twice by Madame Zelda (the first time, I was told I’d marry a lord and have three children; the second, that I would overcome my “tragic past” to find true happiness in love, which Veronica said showed Madame had finally got around to doing some research on us)

—been to five fork luncheons (which turns out to mean standing in an overheated drawing room eating creamed chicken with a fork)

—learned how to curtsey without falling over and worked without much success on the waltz, the polka, and the fox-trot

—attended numerous fittings for my Court dress; also ordered three evening gowns and three pairs of satin shoes, dyed to match

—had my hair cut and shaped into a style that instantly made me look five years older (Julia was right, Monsieur Raymond
is
a magician), although the sophisticated effect only lasted till the next time I washed it

—been shopping with Julia three times

—watched
Romeo and Juliet
with Toby at the Odeon (Aunt Charlotte wouldn’t let us see
Camille
, because apparently Greta Garbo is “not at all ladylike” in it) and

—visited the British Museum with Veronica, Simon, and Toby, where we were followed around the Roman Gallery by a party of American tourists who mistook Veronica for a guide.

Toby and Aunt Charlotte also managed to reach a compromise about his birthday celebrations. We ended up having a nice quiet dinner at the Savoy with Lady Astley, Julia, and Anthony—although Aunt Charlotte, who always has to have the last word, then presented Toby with the keys to a crimson Lagonda coupé, which is so sleek and stylish and speedy that Anthony wants to buy one now. Toby’s not allowed to drive it till he gets his license, though.

I must say, London is just as impressive as I’d always imagined. So vast, so important! So full of history, yet so bustling and modern. I adore the shops and the cinema, I long to explore all the museums and art galleries …

Except there are days when I step out into the street and step right back inside again, cringing away from the blaring horns and sharp lights, the stampeding pedestrians, the taxis and buses and lorries hurtling past at inhuman speeds. Some days, I can scarcely breathe, the air is so dense and gray and evil-smelling. London stops being exciting then, and turns cold and menacing—“an ever-muttering prisoned storm,” as John Davidson called it.

Then, at other times, sliding through the city in the motorcar, gazing up at the buildings through a thick pane of glass, I can’t help but think that the tall facades are mere sets on a stage, flat sections of painted plywood, that one good shove would send them clattering backwards to reveal … What? Nothingness? At those moments, London simply doesn’t feel
real
—not compared to Montmaray. It doesn’t help that returning to Montmaray House is like walking into a museum, or perhaps a very grand hotel in its declining years. There are a lot of dim, cavernous drawing rooms filled with antique furniture and portraits of long-forgotten statesmen, then some dark little offices decorated in a manner that was probably very fashionable when Queen Victoria was a young bride, topped by a couple of floors of vast, icy bedrooms redolent of camphor and old velvet. Montmaray House has been owned, if not always occupied, by the FitzOsborne family for hundreds of years, so it ought to feel more like home—but I really think I prefer Milford Park. Perhaps it’s just that I’m more a country girl than a city girl.

Or perhaps I feel so disconnected from this place because I haven’t made a single new friend, despite all our frantic social activity. Who would have thought it was possible to feel lonely in the midst of hundreds of people? But all the other debutantes seem to know one another and move in noisy packs, like hounds. Either they’ve been to the same finishing school in Paris or they’ve hunted together or their fathers sit next to one another in the House of Lords. And their conversation! Whenever I summon up the nerve to walk across the room and introduce myself, they’re talking about clothes. I’ve as much interest in clothes as the next girl (far more, if the next girl happens to be Veronica), but there’s only so much one can say about them. If it isn’t fashion, it’s horses or hunting, neither of which I know anything about. No one appears to read anything except
Tatler
or
The Queen
. And those who aren’t standoffish or silly are downright spiteful. Last week, I was sitting in a window seat, half hidden in the folds of the curtain (which happened to be the same color as my dress), trying to work out how to dispose of my horrible creamed chicken, when I overheard a girl sneeringly describe Veronica as “clever.”

“Yes, but she’s awfully good-looking, don’t you think?” said another.

“No, no,
far
too tall,” said the first. “Don’t you know, men much prefer the petite,
dainty
ones.”

“Like us!” They shrieked for a bit.

“Yes, but have you seen the
King
of Montmaray?
Too
divine! He was at Eton with my brother.”

“Mmm. How
did
he end up with such a mousy sister?”

I wanted to sneak into the cloakroom and pour my creamed chicken into the pockets of their coats, but I didn’t know their names or what their coats looked like. What was worse was that they came up to me later and pretended to be friendly, asking me all sorts of questions. What a sweet frock—had I made it myself? Did I have any brothers? Would he be at my coming-out dance? I was so furious, I spluttered at them, which no doubt gave them more things to be catty about afterwards (“mousy
and
a half-wit”). Unfortunately, it was only hours later, back in my bedroom at Montmaray House, that I thought up a lot of brilliantly cutting responses.

Veronica finds these events equally unpleasant now that Aunt Charlotte has forbidden her from wandering off to the library (if it’s at a private house) or going down to the lobby to scrounge a newspaper (if it’s in a hotel, and many of them are). She isn’t as shy as I am, but she’s bored and that makes her irritable—and she’d rather avoid people altogether than snap at them.

“It’s
most
ungrateful of you girls,” Aunt Charlotte said in the car home yesterday after Veronica and I had spent yet another afternoon skulking around the walls of a Belgravia drawing room. “I bring you to London, get you invited to these things—not
everyone
has the chance to take tea with the Marchioness of Elchester, you know—and what do you do?
Mope
. I’ll say this for your mother, Veronica—she may be feckless and disloyal, but at least when
she
was eighteen, she could walk into a room and turn every head.”

If the car hadn’t been moving, Veronica would probably have been out the door in an instant and stomping down Sloane Street; as it was, she merely scowled ferociously.

“That’s exactly what I mean,” said Aunt Charlotte. “What a face! What girl is going to invite you to her dance, or her next house party, when you look at her like that? And
then
how are you going to meet her brothers or her male cousins or even her widowed uncles?”

I do feel for Aunt Charlotte. Here she is, three recalcitrant nieces having been dropped on her doorstep (well, two recalcitrant nieces, plus a well-intentioned but awkward one), and it’s not as though our aunt adores young people. With the exception of Toby, I really think she much prefers horses. But she honestly does
try
—introducing us to the crème de la crème of London Society, buying us lovely clothes, instructing us in the rules of ladylike behavior. For example:

“A lady always wears a smart hat when lunching at a restaurant.”

“A lady never powders her nose or applies lipstick when in a public place.”

“Young ladies do not drink or smoke, and they are
certainly
never seen in nightclubs.”

“Never permit a gentleman to kiss one anywhere except upon the back of the hand, unless one is engaged to him and the notice has appeared in
The Times
—and even then, never allow a kiss to last for more than a minute, and always keep both feet firmly on the floor.”

“Why?” asked Veronica.

“Because,” said Aunt Charlotte darkly, “men—even gentlemen—have
urges
. And it is the lady’s responsibility to
restrain
those urges.”

“If men are at the constant mercy of their uncontrollable
urges
,” said Veronica, “why are they allowed to run the country? Don’t they get distracted awfully easily?”

“Please try not to be so
contrary
, Veronica. Young ladies do not argue with their elders and betters.”

When we got back to Montmaray House yesterday, Veronica stormed straight up to her bedroom, although she managed to stop herself from slamming the door. I went to unburden myself to Toby, who was playing Chopin in the largest of the drawing rooms.

“I feel so
horrible
,” I said, slumping beside him on the piano bench. “Poor Aunt Charlotte, she’s spent all this money and made such an effort, and we’re complete failures before the Season’s even officially begun! I haven’t made one single acquaintance. I can’t even find anything to
talk
to them about.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” he said. “Whenever I’ve gone to house parties, the debutantes have always seemed so silly and giggly—or perhaps they’re just that way around me. But look on the bright side, at least you don’t have to go to school with them. And in a few years, they’ll probably be much improved.”

“That’s no help to me now,” I sighed.

“Do you know what it is?” he said thoughtfully. “It’s that they haven’t had anything really
awful
happen to them. No wonder they seem so superficial and unfeeling.”

It was certainly an interesting theory. But
some
of them must have had tragedies in their pasts—a brother who’d died in infancy, or a house that burnt to the ground, or a father who’d gambled away the family fortune (well, probably not the last, because it costs such a lot of money to make one’s debut). And in any case, surely one didn’t need to have suffered in order to possess empathy for those who had? All it required was a bit of imagination and a well-stocked library. Where were all the quiet, sensible girls who loved books? Perhaps they were hiding behind curtains. Or were too sensible to allow themselves to be drawn into the froth and frivolity of the Season in the first place.

I was also surprised to hear Toby sounding so philosophical—for him to acknowledge that human suffering even
exists
is bizarre in the extreme. But then, as if reading my mind, he launched into a loud rendition of “Yes, We Have No Bananas.” So the universe was restored to normal.

Luckily, we’re in regular contact with Henry, and she always manages to cheer me up. She is conducting a battle of wills with Miss Bullock, the score currently standing at something like nineteen to seven in Henry’s favor. Today, Henry was very excited because she’d sneaked off to the Home Farm to watch Cleopatra have her piglets, all fifteen of them.

“And Mr. Wilkin says I can have the runt, and bring her up and show her if she turns out a good’un!” Henry cried down the telephone. “Oh,
wait
till you see them! They’re so lovely and pink, and they squeal and squeal! I’m going to call mine
Julia.
”

“Er … I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” I said. “Some people prefer not to have pigs named after them.”

“Really?” said Henry, surprised. “I’d
love
it. The other name I thought of was Antonia, but I suppose that’s out, too. Sophie, could you think of a really
excellent
name? You’ll have to meet her first, though, so you can get an idea of her character.”

I promised to consider the matter carefully, said goodbye to Henry and Carlos (he always leans against her to listen in during her calls—I can hear him snuffling), and handed the telephone receiver to Aunt Charlotte. Then I went to join Veronica and Toby, who were sitting by the fire in the little drawing room, opening their post.

“Rupert sends his regards,” said Toby, looking up as I came in. “And—”

Veronica suddenly crumpled up the letter she’d been reading and hurled it into the fire.

“Ooh!” said Toby. “Lovers’ quarrel?”

“It wasn’t
from
Dan—Oh, very clever,” she said as Toby smirked. “No, it was just some rubbish. I’ve no idea where it comes from.”

“I wish people would send
me
letters,” I said wistfully. “Although I suppose I can’t expect to receive them when I never write any.”

“You could write to Rupert,” said Toby. “He always asks after you. And
I’d
write to you—if I were away at school, that is.”

“When
are
you going back to school?” asked Veronica, because he had his leg cast taken off on Friday.

“Never, hopefully. I’m sure I can talk Aunt C into letting me stay at home. Anyway, I’m getting through far more work here with you than I ever did at school,” he said. “Ouch!” he added, because the fire had just spat at him. He leaned over to push a singed bit of paper back into the flames, then frowned and picked it up. “What the … Veronica, is this
your
letter?” She glanced up. “Oh, yes. Throw it away.”

“But … it’s
dreadful
! Who sent it?”

I peered over his shoulder. The paper was scorched, but I could still make out a few typewritten words—“traitor” and “harlot” and “get what’s coming.” Veronica snatched it out of Toby’s hand and tossed it back into the fireplace, where it was devoured in a flash of red. “Oh,
really
, Toby,” she said as he continued to protest. “They’re simply not worth thinking about.”

“Wait,
they
?” I said. “You’ve had more than one?”