A Brief History of Montmaray (7 page)

It’s odd, actually, how vivid my recollections of Isabella are, when my own mother is such a blur to me. I was six when she died. I know that she was named Jane, that she was the only child of an impoverished Viscount, that she played the piano, wore spectacles and enjoyed the poetry of Wordsworth. But this is secondhand information, gathered from the few personal possessions she left behind. I
ought
to remember more. After all, I can recall other, earlier events quite clearly: the croquet mallet incident; Nanny Mackinnon forcing me into a scratchy pink frock for Henry’s christening; George rowing us out past South Head one spring morning to see the milky-blue swirls of a plankton bloom spreading across the bay. But as for my mother – I have no idea what her smile was like (she looks shy or solemn in photographs, even her wedding portrait) or what scent she wore or even the exact colour of her eyes. I don’t know whether she wrote poems or was frightened of the dark or missed her parents (they had both died by her twenty-first birthday). I haven’t had any success asking the others about her, either. Toby just changes the subject and Veronica is uncharacteristically vague. A few weeks ago, for instance, I was struggling with a handful of hairpins that would
not
stay in and I asked her whether Mother’s hair had been the same.

‘Oh, it was sort of ... wavy,’ Veronica said. ‘Or wait – perhaps she put curlers in it at night? I think it was brown, no, more a darkish blonde. She kept it cut short, I recall, although it may just have been that she tucked it up under her hats...’

Even Alice and Mary, while agreeing that my mother was ‘lovely’, are frustratingly short on details. I think it’s simply that Isabella was so beautiful and vivacious, so utterly dazzling, that my mother faded into the background.

I
do
take after her, then.

Much later, written in bed (hooray for candles). I stayed in the Solar for an hour this afternoon, then trudged back to our bedroom in a glum mood. Veronica was sitting on her bed reading, having just washed her hair – it splashed like black ink down her back. I offered to brush it for her.

‘Thanks,’ she said, smiling over her shoulder at me. ‘Oh, what’s that you’ve got?’

The photographs did not spark much reaction. She sighed at the label on the ‘twins’ and said she had no idea about the house. Then she went back to her reading. I drew the brush through and through her thick, glossy waves, trying not to sigh with envy.

‘I ought to ask you to cut it off,’ she remarked, turning a page. ‘Although I suppose it’s easier to tie it back when it’s this length.’

‘How can you even
think
of cutting it?’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s so beautiful!’

‘But isn’t long hair terribly unfashionable?’ she teased.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ I grumbled, looking down at my skirt (the hem has been let down so many times that it seems to have horizontal pleats). ‘Especially as ... Veronica, what’s that you’re
reading?
’ Because I’d just glanced over her shoulder and seen the most horrific photographs – of people who’d been
tortured,
it looked like.

She flipped it over to show me the cover, which was even worse – a maniac dressed in a blood-soaked apron, waving a cleaver.
‘The Brown Book of the Hitler Terror,
’ I read. ‘What
is
it? And where did you find it?’

‘It’s about the Nazi government in Germany,’ she said calmly. ‘Communist propaganda, of course, put out by the Left Book Club. Nevertheless, there are some rather interesting sections. You see, it puts forward a theory about the burning of the Reichstag–’

I squeezed my eyes shut. I was certain I was going to have nightmares about those awful pictures.

‘–and if even a tenth of it is true, it raises some serious questions about the British policy of ... oh, I’m sorry, this must be boring you.’

‘No, no,’ I said, suddenly spotting an opening. ‘You mean, about Britain not wanting to get involved in the Spanish war?’

‘Exactly!’ she said, clearly too fascinated by the subject to stop and wonder about my puzzling level of interest. ‘I mean, obviously, the Nazis are assisting Franco. And a significant number of British politicians support the principles of Fascism, if only because they believe Fascism is the true enemy of Communism. On the other hand, how can they be seen to support a military coup against the democratically elected Spanish government? Hence their policy of non-intervention. Best to do nothing at all, you see.’ She sighed heavily. ‘There was a time when Montmaray played a vital role in Britain’s diplomatic relations with Spain. In 1710, for example, we hosted secret talks between Henry St John and the Marquis de Torcy regarding who should rule Spain. They may not have agreed to meet otherwise, but this was the perfect location – midway between the two countries, a neutral island with impregnable defences – and both sides were thoroughly sick of the fighting by then. Did you know the Grand Alliance lost more than twenty thousand men in the Battle of Malplaquet – and
they
were the victors! Really, if it hadn’t been for the Montmaray peace talks, there might not have been a Treaty of Utrecht. The British Foreign Secretary was most impressed with Montmaray’s hospitality, especially the food...’

‘Well, Rebecca wasn’t housekeeper then.’

Veronica smiled. ‘Did you know
he
was the one who gave us the Laocoön statue?’

‘Not that hideous marble thing in the Great Hall, with the men getting crushed by giant snakes?’

‘A heartfelt token – or even a totem – of Henry St John’s gratitude,’ nodded Veronica. ‘I’ve often wondered about the symbolism. I mean, did he see himself as Laocoön and the British Parliament as the Trojans ignoring his wise words? Or perhaps Spain as Laocoön and Louis the Fourteenth as the snakes, or even Queen Anne as Apollo and the Duke of Marlborough as–’

‘Maybe he just thought Laocoön’s sea serpents would go nicely with our sea monster,’ I said hastily, because Veronica was getting that far-away look she gets whenever she starts theorising about history. ‘Anyway, don’t you think Montmaray should be doing something
now?
Taking part in these non-intervention talks, for example? Shouldn’t we have some sort of diplomatic presence in London?’

‘Toby, you mean?’ she said quizzically.

‘Er, yes,’ I said. ‘Toby. Yes.’

Veronica looked thoughtful. ‘Well, it would be
wonderful
if Toby started to take more of an interest in ... oh, not
now,
of course, he has his studies to concentrate on, but in a year or two...’

‘I expect he’d need a lot of help from you,’ I said. ‘I don’t think he has much of a clue at the moment, but if
you
were there...’

‘There?’ said Veronica, her gaze suddenly sharpening. ‘In England, you mean?’

‘Well...’ But there was no point equivocating. Veronica’s too clever and knows me too well. I put down the hairbrush and slid onto the rug so I could peer into her face. ‘Oh, Veronica, wouldn’t you love to visit London? Imagine, all that history! Westminster Abbey, the Tower of London, the Houses of Parliament, all those libraries and museums and newspapers and, and...’ I desperately tried to recall the rest of Simon’s list.

‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘You know I can’t. Someone needs to stay here and look after things. What about Henry? And Father? And making sure Rebecca actually does some work instead of sitting by Father’s bedside all day? Besides, there’s the
Brief History
–’

‘But wouldn’t there be all sorts of information – about Queen Elizabeth and the Armada, for example, or that British Foreign Secretary in 1710, Henry What’shis-name – that you could only find in England?’

Veronica looked almost wistful at that, but she shook her head. ‘Aunt Charlotte won’t pay for me to go over there and spend all my time digging through archives,’ she pointed out. ‘I’d be hopeless at what she
does
want – being decorative and charming – and I’ve no interest in finding a husband. Really, Sophie, it makes more sense that she should spend all her money on you. And you know you’d love all that dressing up and–’

‘Not without
you
there!’ I burst out. I stared down at my suddenly blurry skirt and blinked furiously for a moment. ‘Wouldn’t you ... wouldn’t you miss me a bit if I wasn’t here with you?’ I whispered.

‘Oh, Sophie,’ she cried, grasping my shoulders. ‘Of
course
I would! I’d miss you terribly! But I’d be happy that you were getting the chance to do all the things you enjoy. And we could write lots of letters. Remember when you were in quarantine with measles and we had to write each other letters instead of being able to talk to each other? Your letters were always so entertaining, you had Toby and me in fits. Even when there really wasn’t much new to write about, you were so clever and funny...’

‘No, I wasn’t,’ I mumbled.
‘You’re
the writer in this family, not me.’

‘Stop that,’ she said firmly, tipping my chin up. ‘What about that diary of yours? I saw you yesterday, scribbling away with the most
intense
look on your face–’

I felt myself starting to blush – that had probably been when I was writing about Simon.

‘–and I think it’s a wonderful idea that you’re writing about Montmaray now, all your observations and memories and thoughts, before you go off and have lovely new experiences in England.’

Is
that
what I’m doing? Recording my last months here for posterity? Perhaps I am. Not that I’m certain I want to leave, but...

‘Veronica!’ I said. ‘Wait, what about Aunt Charlotte? She expects
both
of us to go to England.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about
that,
’ said Veronica airily, closing her book and standing up. Of course, this is the same person who ignored my quarantine to read aloud to me when I complained in my letters about being bored – and she didn’t get much more than a few spots and a runny nose, either, despite the grown-ups’ dire predictions. Normal rules don’t apply to Veronica. I watched with great affection and not a little awe as she piled her hair on her head with a couple of pins and wandered off, saying something over her shoulder about having a chat to George before dinner.

I don’t think she’ll go to England. I don’t think I can make her, I don’t think
anyone
can make her. And I can’t stand up to Aunt Charlotte by myself. And I
do
want to go to England, I do, except the very idea of leaving Veronica and Henry and Carlos and everything else at Montmaray fills me with such a sense of panic – how will I possibly cope in a strange place, all alone?

I must say, it’s a very good thing that I have this journal as an outlet for all my moaning and whingeing.

After all the angst of the afternoon, it was a profound relief to have a pleasant evening. Veronica and Simon had a brief but polite conversation about the French government over dinner, and I managed not to spill anything or otherwise embarrass myself. Rebecca was unusually talkative, as well. She got out her darning while Veronica and I washed the dishes and delivered her version of a bedtime story, which consisted largely of warnings to Simon – that he ought to make sure his barber burned any hair he cut off, lest birds fly away with it and weave it into their nests and cause Simon to suffer horrendous headaches; that if (God forbid, touch wood, spit thrice), Simon were to grow a wart, he should rub meat into it and bury the meat until it rotted away, whereupon his wart would disappear; and that Simon must take care to block his ears with sealing wax when sailing back past Land’s End, because to hear the bells of wrecked ships was terrible luck.

When Rebecca is in such a mood, Henry can occasionally nudge her into other, more entertaining tales, of Piskies and Spriggans and Knockers. Not tonight, though. So Henry had to make do with my version of one of her favourites, the story of Bolster the Giant, whose doomed love for Saint Agnes led to his gory death at Chapel Porth, where the sea still boils blood-red.

Then Veronica was prodded into recounting the slightly more factual tale of Queen Matilda’s brave stand against the Moroccan pirates in 1631. When she heard they were approaching Montmaray, she strapped Benedict to her waist and led the castle battalion down to the village, where she waited on the edge of the wharf, her ebony hair streaming behind her in the sea breeze, her noble chin held high. (Veronica didn’t mention the bits about the hair and the chin, of course, they are my own invention. I always picture Queen Matilda as a cross between Joan of Arc and Veronica, and wonder how such a woman could have produced a descendant as faint-hearted as me.) Queen Matilda triumphed, of course. A storm blew up and the pirate ship ran into the rocks and sank, which was attributed to a combination of Queen Matilda’s determination and Benedict’s mystical powers.

Then Henry wanted to hear more from Veronica, about how King John the First had fired upon the Spanish Armada and how King John the Fifth used the very same cannon to threaten Napoleon, but Veronica said someone else should have a turn and everyone looked at Simon. Simon said he didn’t have any thrilling tales of old to relate, but went on to do some wickedly funny impersonations of his landlady, the British Prime Minister and a very rude London bus driver he’d once encountered. Veronica was laughing by the end; even
Rebecca
was smiling. Oh, I do love it when everyone gets along in this family!

Although I will probably have dreadful nightmares tonight. Those Nazi photographs seem burnt into my memory. Where
did
Veronica get that book, anyway?

And now I’ve jinxed myself by writing about something horrible last thing before I go to sleep! Quick, think of lovely, happy things, Sophia. Think of ... think of...

Why is it that the only image that comes to mind is Simon’s slow half-smile?