The FitzOsbornes in Exile (10 page)

It took a while, but eventually we got it out of her. She’d received at least three that she could remember, all addressed to “HRH Princess Veronica,” all filled with offensive epithets and vague threats.

“And you didn’t think to mention this to anyone?” said Toby incredulously. “Or call the police?”

“The police!” she scoffed. “It’s just some madman who picks names at random out of the Society pages of
The Times
—or else it’s schoolboys playing a prank. If it were anything serious, he’d have attacked me by now.”

I wasn’t entirely convinced, and we kept arguing about it until Aunt Charlotte came in for tea, at which point the whole subject was dropped by instant consensus. Aunt Charlotte won’t even let us go shopping without a chaperone, so
this
would probably give her a heart attack.

It’s all very tedious, especially for Veronica, who’s longing to go and visit Daniel’s newspaper office. So am I, actually. He sounds just as nice as ever, from the bits of his letters that Veronica reads to me, and he seems to have a very interesting job. I don’t think Veronica is in love with him, though, which is probably a good thing, because he’s what Aunt Charlotte would regard as “completely beyond the pale.” Apart from being poor and a Socialist and our former tutor, I think he might be Jewish. Although he doesn’t believe in God—and is it possible to be a Jewish atheist? I don’t know very much about it, but perhaps being Jewish has more to do with race or ancestors than with one’s personal religious beliefs? That’s what the Nazis seem to think—which probably means it’s complete rubbish. Anyway, Daniel’s grandparents came here from Vienna decades before he was born, so he’s far more English than we are …

Well! Just as I was pondering Veronica’s love life, or lack of it, she knocked on my door, wanting to talk about
Toby’s
love life. Or lack of it.

“Aunt Charlotte had me trapped in the drawing room for what felt like
hours
,” she said crossly. “Apparently, Lady Bosworth is demanding to know why Toby hasn’t proposed to her daughter yet, or at least fallen head over heels in love with the girl.”

“Toby thinks she looks like a horse,” I said.

“Yes, I said that. So then Aunt Charlotte wanted to know if he was enamored of some
other
young lady, and who she was, and how much her father’s estate was worth! Why ask
me
? Well, of course I know why—Toby’s been evading all her questions on the subject, and I can’t say I blame him. Whenever she starts up with
me
, I get the strongest urge to run away and join a nunnery—and I don’t even believe in God.”

“Just like Daniel,” I said.

“What?” she said, giving me a distracted look. “No, but, Sophie, listen. It did set me wondering. Don’t you think it’s a bit odd? A friendly, handsome boy like Toby, showing not the slightest bit of interest in all these females who keep throwing themselves at him? Of course, most of the girls are completely idiotic, but do men really mind about that?” She sat down beside me. “I know he’s always flirting with Julia, but neither of them takes that seriously, of course—even Anthony just laughs about it. Still, there
are
other women Julia’s age—smart, attractive ones. At least, Simon Chester seems to find them attractive. Is Toby just being contrary because Aunt Charlotte keeps badgering him? Or do you think he’s harboring a secret passion for one of the scullery maids?”

“There definitely isn’t any scullery maid involvement,” I said. “And I don’t
think
it’s Toby being contrary. At least, not in the way you mean …”

“Go on,” she said when I hesitated. “Unless he’s sworn you to secrecy, of course.”

“In which case, you’ll ambush him when he least expects it, sit on him, and threaten him with a feather.”

“Well, there
are
benefits to being taller and older and knowing all his ticklish spots,” she said. “I’d be interrogating him
now
, except he’s gone off somewhere with Simon Chester. I really don’t see why
I
should have to put up with Aunt Charlotte’s nagging about him, not without a very good reason.”

So I took a deep breath and told her that while Toby hadn’t discussed the matter with me, I suspected he was rather more interested in boys than girls.

“Oh! Like King James the First!” she breathed. “No
wonder
Toby’s avoiding Aunt Charlotte.” She sat there a moment, lost in thought. “Still, it didn’t stop King James fathering seven children. Or possibly nine, depending on which source one consults. Of course, there
is
controversy about the exact nature of the King’s relationship with George Villiers—”

“Veronica,”
I said, because she tends to wander rapidly off topic whenever she starts contemplating history. “It’s also
against the law
. Men go to prison for it if they’re caught. Look at poor old Oscar Wilde.”

“Who? Oh, right.” She frowned.

“Besides, it’s simply not
done
in Society,” I said. “Most people think it’s disgusting and depraved. Or else regard it as some sort of illness. Toby could get into terrible trouble. And Aunt Charlotte would have a fit if she ever found out.”

Veronica’s frown deepened. “Then I suppose we’ll just have to hope that he’s careful.”

“Hmm,” I said doubtfully. (Although, now I come to write this down, I realize that’s a bit unfair—Toby’s been extremely discreet so far.)

“And perhaps he’ll grow out of it,” said Veronica.

“Perhaps,” I said. “Just as long as he doesn’t lose his heart to someone completely unsuitable in the meantime.”

Like, say, Simon Chester. Not that I said this aloud. I had mentioned my suspicions about Simon and Toby to Veronica months ago, before we left Montmaray, but fortunately she hadn’t been paying much attention at the time.

Mind you, I’m in no position to talk about unsuitable men, as I’ve been known to have some rather unsuitable feelings for Simon myself. One would think his constant presence would make my heart grow less fond, and there are certainly times when he irritates me nearly to death—when he’s baiting Veronica, for instance. And yet, he’s so
very
charming when he wants to be! And so good-looking and clever and kind to his horrible mother. He’s also one of the few people I can really talk to about Montmaray—he even wrote to the shipping company we used to deal with, to see if they had any news of Montmaray (they didn’t). It’s difficult to define my relationship with Simon. We’re not quite cousins, not quite friends, certainly nothing approaching lovers (apart from all the other complications, I’m not
nearly
glamorous enough for his tastes, judging by the women who attract his attention at parties). But sometimes I catch him giving me a considering look across the dinner table …

I’m stopping that train of thought right there.

I think I’ll go and try on my new hat again, and endeavor to make my hair stay
underneath
this time, instead of springing out all over the place like a very tenacious type of garden weed …

29th April 1937

Fussing over silly crushes and hats and hairstyles—how
petty
that all seems now, how contemptibly insignificant, in the light of what has just happened. Well, I realized the Spanish war was still going on, of course—wars don’t stop just because I’m too busy to read about them in the newspapers. And yet,
this
. Even the most hardened war correspondents are shocked.

Veronica was the first to learn of it. She was hunched over the newspaper when Toby and I came in to breakfast yesterday, her face white, and I knew something was terribly wrong … but let me find
The Times
, so I can write down exactly what she read to us.

“ ‘Guernica, the most ancient town of the Basques and the centre of their cultural tradition, was completely destroyed yesterday afternoon by insurgent air raiders. The bombardment of this open town far behind the lines occupied precisely three hours and a quarter, during which a powerful fleet of aeroplanes consisting of three German types, Junkers and Heinkel bombers and Heinkel fighters, did not cease unloading on the town bombs weighing from one thousand pounds—’ ”

I sank into a chair as Veronica read on and on. “ ‘The whole of Guernica was soon in flames … Guernica was not a military objective … The market was full and peasants were still coming in … The whole town of seven thousand inhabitants, plus three thousand refugees, was slowly and systematically pounded to pieces … Next came fighting machines which swooped low to machine-gun those who ran in panic from—’ ”

“Stop it!” said Toby, snatching the paper away. “That’s
enough
!”

“Montmaray was the rehearsal,” Veronica said in a voice I hardly recognized, it was so choked. “The Germans practiced on
us
. And then they—”

And I saw something I’d never seen before. Veronica was crying.

Oh God
, I thought. Captain Zuleta. His whole family lived there. They couldn’t possibly have survived this massacre.

“Where did the aeroplanes come from?” said Simon, who’d brushed past me and seized the newspaper. “There were
waves
of bombers, where did they refuel? If they came from the north—”

“They’re using
Montmaray
?” said Toby, horrified.

“Why wouldn’t they? Now they have control of an island off the coast of Spain, they’ve got a natural landing strip and deep waters for their ships to anchor—”

“Shut up!” I shouted, turning on Simon. “Stop being so … so
rational
! People we know are
dead
, shot and burnt and crushed to death, and you’re talking about how clever the Germans are at military strategy! They’re not even supposed to
be
in the Spanish war!”

“We have to do something,” said Veronica, wiping her face with the back of her hand as she stood up. “We
can’t
let the Germans get away with this any longer. We can’t pretend it only affects us, not when they’re using Montmaray to attack others, to kill our
friends
—” And she strode out of the room, straight past Aunt Charlotte.

“What on earth … ?” said Aunt Charlotte, stopping in the doorway and staring. Simon began to explain as I ran after Veronica, who’d headed straight for the library.

“Where
is
it?” she muttered. “Was it in yesterday’s
Times
or—” She was rummaging through the newspapers on the big, round table. “Ah, here it is! The National Joint Committee for Spanish Relief.” She turned to me. “Some women from the Committee have gone to Bilbao. They’re hoping to evacuate children from the area and bring them to England.”

“Oh, Veronica …,” I said helplessly.

She grabbed a pencil and started jotting notes on the back of an invitation to yet another fork luncheon. “We need to take action, we need to make the British
government
take action against the Germans,” she said, almost snapping her pencil point, she was scribbling away so fiercely. “But first of all, we need to do what we can to help the Basque people. I’ll write to the Committee, offering our assistance. They’ll probably need Spanish-speaking volunteers, don’t you think? And then write—no, I’ll go and
see
Daniel. He’ll probably know some of the Labour politicians involved with the Committee. And we should telephone Anthony. His mother’s from Texas, isn’t she? I wonder if
she
speaks Spanish.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” I said, picking up a very crumpled
Manchester Guardian
, which Aunt Charlotte thinks inappropriate for young ladies and Veronica keeps rescuing from the wastepaper bin. “Look, the Mayor’s launched an appeal for food for Spanish children. Actually, they prefer money, but they’ll accept condensed milk, canned soup, dried cereal … But isn’t there a Fascist blockade? How are they getting the food into Spain?”

“They’re not,” said Anthony grimly, that afternoon. He’d come round for tea, although he was as fired up as Veronica and barely able to stand still long enough for me to hand him a teacup. “There are half a dozen British freighters hanging round the harbor of Saint-Jean-de-Luz, crates of food rotting belowdecks. Can’t get past the Fascist gunboats into Bilbao. Worst of it is, there’s a British warship sitting right next to them, but that blasted government of ours won’t let it do its job! Can’t intervene in a Spanish civil war! That Potato Jones fellow is a darn sight braver than any of our navy admirals, that’s for certain!”

“I know I shouldn’t even ask,” said Toby. “But
who
?”

“Oh, they’re all named Jones, the captains of the freighters. Awfully confusing, so they’re called after their cargo. Potato Jones, Ham and Eggs Jones, Corn Cob Jones—”

“You’re making this up,” said Toby.

“No, it’s true,” I said, looking up from the newspaper. “It says here that a Labour MP shouted at the First Lord of the Admiralty, ‘Is the First Lord aware that the entire British fleet is now toasting Potato Jones?’ ”

“Britain will have to overturn its non-intervention policy
now
, surely?” said Veronica.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Simon. “The Prime Minister doesn’t even support this evacuation of Basque children, I’ve heard. He thinks even
that
might be a breach of the non-intervention policy.”

“
You’ve
heard?” repeated Veronica scornfully. “What, when you went round to 10 Downing Street for tea?”

“Now, now,” said Toby. “Remember, peace begins at home.”

“It’s
charity
that begins at home,” said Veronica. “Speaking of which, your job is to talk Aunt Charlotte into giving us a house for the children when they arrive.”

“What children?”

“Haven’t you been listening? The Basque children being evacuated!”

“But I thought they were setting up a camp at Southampton for them,” Toby said.

“They can’t keep thousands of children in tents
permanently
. The children will need to be moved to proper houses once they’ve been organized into groups. There’s bound to be somewhere suitable in Milford. Oh, and I must write to the Reverend Webster Herbert. He can organize his parishioners into helping …”

Of course, Aunt Charlotte disapproves heartily of all of this. Refugees, Basques, Communists, Labour MPs, they’re all “beyond the pale”—and yet, even she couldn’t fail to be moved by the thought of starving children being bombed and machine-gunned. Toby was also cunning enough to point out that the National Joint Committee for Spanish Relief was a respectable charity organization, presided over by a
duchess
. So Aunt Charlotte has grudgingly agreed to let the Old Mill House in Milford be used to accommodate Basque children (“but only if there’s absolutely nowhere else for them to go, and only for a short while, mind you”). She’s forbidden Veronica from visiting Daniel but otherwise has been remarkably obliging. I
think
Aunt Charlotte believes Veronica will lose interest once the Season officially starts next week—that the exciting, exhausting round of cocktail parties and dinners and balls will push all thoughts of refugees from Veronica’s mind. This just demonstrates how little she knows Veronica.

For while I would rather none of this had happened, I can’t help but rejoice at the change in Veronica as I sit here in the library this evening. She is almost back to her old self—writing lists of provisions, listening to the BBC news, and bossing Toby around, all at the same time. She’s even got Simon culling our pile of invitations, as we’ll need to go back to Milford to organize things.

“But
all
the debutantes attend Queen Charlotte’s Ball,” Simon protests. “It’s supposed to be one of the highlights of the Season.”

“What is it?” she asks, turning to me.

“It’s run by Lady St. John of Bletso and held at Grosvenor House,” I explain. “We have to wear white and, er … curtsey to a giant cake.” Toby snorts with laughter.

“I’m not going to
that
,” says Veronica firmly. “Not when there are
important
things to be getting on with.”

“Well, you can’t get out of the Elchester dance,” says Simon. “It’s the first ball of the Season, and your aunt would have a fit if you missed that.”

“And there’s a bachelor nephew they have in mind for you, Veronica,” says Toby mischievously. “Only thirty-eight, most of his own teeth, heir to the Elchester fortune—”

“If meeting bachelors is the whole point of this Season business,” Veronica says, “then Aunt Charlotte ought to let me go and do volunteer work for the Committee in Southampton. Plenty of young men
there
. Of course, they’re all trade unionists and Labour Party members …”

“I’d rather see you die a spinster than marry a Red!” shrieks Toby, doing a creditable imitation of Aunt Charlotte.

“Nothing wrong with spinsters,” says Veronica. “Just look at Queen Elizabeth the First.”

“We don’t need to, we’ve got
you
to look at if we want to see a royal tyrant in action,” mutters Simon. But I don’t think he really minds. I think he’s missed having a worthy debating opponent.