The FitzOsbornes in Exile (3 page)

“She will be,” said Toby. “The doctor says she’s perfectly able to get out of bed
now.
”

“Oh! Well, I’m glad the doctor said … But then, it doesn’t seem awfully like your cousin to, um …” Anthony trailed off.

I knew what Anthony meant. He’d been impressed—possibly even intimidated—by Veronica’s intellect and energy. He, like the rest of us, had assumed she was invincible. It was disconcerting to think of her as even slightly broken.

“Don’t worry. She’ll be back to her usual self soon,” Toby assured us. “I have a plan.”

19th January 1937

One would think I’d have far more time for writing in my journal here than I ever did at home, now that I have servants to cook my meals, and wash my clothes, and even put an extra log in the fireplace if I wish (not that I’d ever ring the bell for
that
; the intimidating butler might turn up). But somehow, the hours seem to fly past, and now here I sit,
days
after my last entry.

There has been rather a lot happening, though. Firstly, our new clothes arrived, and it was like ten Christmases at once.
Two
suits for me, one a lovely, heathery tweed and the other a dark blue jersey, as well as a gray box-pleated skirt and a slim black linen one. Three silk blouses, two plain and one striped, and three Aertex shirts. A knitted jersey, a matching cardigan, a coat, two pairs of shoes, and a sweet little velvet hat that my unruly hair keeps shoving off my head—plus pajamas and vests and knickers and cotton gloves and handkerchiefs and lisle stockings. I’d only ever worn socks before, so the stockings make me feel very grown-up and sophisticated. Or they would if I could figure out how to use the mysterious devices that prevent the stockings from falling down.

There’s also a black woolen frock for church, because we’re all supposed to dress in mourning when we go out. Toby says I ought to be able to get away with white or violet as half mourning because Uncle John wasn’t my father. I wholeheartedly agree with Toby, as black makes me look like a very faded ghost. Aunt Charlotte is not yet convinced by our arguments. She is thoroughly Victorian in such matters.

Veronica has the same clothes as I do, except one of her suits is black and she got brassieres as well as vests, on account of her having a great deal more bust. Veronica says the brassieres don’t fit properly and need to be sent back. Aunt Charlotte says they’re
supposed
to be uncomfortable. The two of them also had a spirited debate about girdles. Veronica is not willing to suffer on behalf of Modesty and Decency, let alone for the sake of Fashion—a stance that Aunt Charlotte finds both baffling and perverse.

But all that arguing came later. First, the doctor came back to check Veronica’s stitches.

“Thank
heavens
debutantes wear long gloves,” said Aunt Charlotte, frowning at Veronica’s arm after the doctor had gone. Thin purple lines crisscrossed Veronica’s right palm, and there was a three-inch puckered ridge, bristling with spidery threads, running along her wrist.

“Yes, that’s my main concern—how I’ll look in a ball gown,” I could just hear Veronica saying sarcastically to herself. However, as she wasn’t talking out loud at that stage, she only pressed her lips together and stared out the window.

“It
is
a tiny bit gruesome, Veronica,” said Toby, sitting on the end of her bed. “As though you tried to do yourself in. Except you’re right-handed, so I don’t know how you’d actually manage to—”

“Stop
babbling
, Tobias,” said Aunt Charlotte, looking round to ensure Henry and all the servants were out of earshot. “Now, there are
matters
to be resolved. What have you done about getting rid of that dreadful woman in the attic?”

“Well, Simon’s been investigating various … options,” said Toby.

“I fail to see why
options
are needed,” said Aunt Charlotte irritably. “The woman is a homicidal maniac. It’s perfectly clear she needs to be taken away by the police and locked up in Holloway.”

“But if Rebecca
is
mad, she’s not liable for her actions,” said Toby. “So she can’t be sent to prison. Besides, we don’t
really
want her going to court, do we? All sorts of things could come out.”

Aunt Charlotte huffed. “There’s absolutely no proof of her ridiculous claims about her son!”

“Well, there’s Alice and the other villagers,” said Toby. “They’re all living in Cornwall now. They might know something about who Simon’s father really—”

“Hearsay,” interjected Veronica, unable to stop herself.

Toby shot me a triumphant glance—he’d made a bet with me that she’d be talking by teatime if he kept mentioning Simon. Veronica sat up higher in bed and began ticking off points on her uninjured hand.

“Firstly,” she said, “the law doesn’t recognize evidence based on what has merely been
reported
to a witness by someone else. What does it matter if Rebecca repeated her absurd claims to Alice or Mary? Their evidence is inadmissible in court—they’d simply be repeating old rumors. Secondly, even if Simon
is
my father’s son, he’s illegitimate. Rebecca might claim there was a wedding, but it wasn’t witnessed by anyone, let alone performed by a minister, and it certainly doesn’t appear in any FitzOsborne records.”

Aunt Charlotte gaped at Veronica, astounded by the sudden deluge of words.

“Thirdly,” continued Veronica, “my father had twenty-two years to acknowledge Simon as his son, if he’d wished, and he didn’t. Fourthly, the identity of Simon’s father is irrelevant to the issue of succession when there already
is
a legitimate male relative of the late King.” Veronica gave Toby a pointed look.

“But I’m underage,” said Toby.

“You’ll be eighteen next month,” Aunt Charlotte said, finally recovering her powers of speech.

“But isn’t twenty-one the age of majority?” Toby asked hopefully.

“King Stephen was only fifteen when his father died,” said Veronica. “His mother ruled as Regent for the next two years, but he’d barely turned seventeen when he ascended the throne.”

No one seemed to have noticed that we didn’t
have
a throne anymore, nor a castle, nor a kingdom. But I wasn’t going to be the one to remind them, not when Veronica had finally started talking again.

“I still think I’m too young,” said Toby.

“Too lazy, you mean,” said Veronica.

At that point, Aunt Charlotte’s maid tiptoed in to whisper that the Earl of Dorset was on the telephone.

“About that horse, I suppose,” said Aunt Charlotte. “Wait here,” she ordered us, then stalked off.

“Actually,” said Toby, lowering his voice, “it’s not revelations about Simon’s father that worry me. It’s more what Rebecca might tell the police regarding that German soldier. Aunt C doesn’t know anything about
that
, of course.”

“Rebecca was there, too,” I said. “She was the one who wanted to hide the body. She had as much to do with it as we did.”

“Or even more than us,” agreed Veronica. “
She
was meant to be keeping an eye on Father.”

“Yes, well, this is Rebecca we’re talking about,” sighed Toby.

“What are you saying?” I asked. “That she’s threatening to—”

“Of course,” said Veronica, slumping back against the pillows. “She and Simon Chester think they can blackmail us into giving them what they want. And what they want is for Simon to be King of Montmaray.”

“Oh, no … I don’t think so,” said Toby, not very convincingly. “It’s more that Simon’s worried about his mother and wants her to get some proper help. There are all sorts of clinics now for people who are, um—”

“Homicidal maniacs,” said Veronica.

“I’m not denying she needs to be somewhere secure,” said Toby. “But, Veronica, those old asylums were just awful! You don’t want Rebecca locked up in a place like that.”

Veronica only raised her eyebrows at this.
Oh, don’t I?
was what she seemed to be thinking.

“What did Simon say in his letter this morning?” I asked Toby hastily.

“Oh, that he should be back by this afternoon, and that he inspected a place in Cornwall and another near Poole,” Toby said, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. “The one near Poole looked the best. Right by the sea and almost like a nursing home. They stay in bedrooms rather than wards, and therapists take them on outings and teach them how to weave baskets and so forth.”

“It sounds expensive,” I said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll talk to Aunt C,” said Toby. “I think I can persuade her it’ll be worth whatever it costs, to avoid a scandal.”

“And you think that’ll satisfy Simon Chester, do you?” Veronica said. “That once Rebecca’s settled in a luxury loony bin, he’ll happily go back to being a solicitor’s clerk, carting files around and fetching people cups of tea?”

Toby and I looked at each other and then at the carpet. That was the problem. All of us—probably even Veronica—believed that Uncle John
was
Simon’s true father, regardless of the arguments about Simon’s legitimacy. And Simon had always been fiercely ambitious. Now he had proof, of sorts, that he’d been cheated out of his rightful place in Society. Even the most noble of souls would have felt some resentment about
that
.

“What
if
,” said Toby, with the unmistakable air of one grasping at straws, “what if Simon was made, um, Regent? And looked after things till I turned twenty-one? Then I could be crowned King—”

“
Simon Chester
, give up the crown once he’d got his grasping fingers on it?” said Veronica.

“Anyway, Aunt Charlotte would never agree,” I said.

“Yes, Toby,
you’re
her favorite,” said Veronica, with the slightest tinge of bitterness. “She’d never allow the mere son of a servant to get in
your
way.”

There was another long, unhappy silence. Aunt Charlotte’s unyielding sense of How Things Ought to Be Done colliding with Simon’s determination to claim his rightful inheritance and Rebecca’s sheer craziness—it seemed destined to end in catastrophe.

“It depends on Simon, doesn’t it?” I said slowly. “If
he
could be persuaded to be reasonable—”

“I could talk to him,” said Toby. “Well, I
have
tried, but it’s difficult. He’s hardly ever here and he’s so distracted and …” He looked down at Simon’s letter sadly, and even Veronica couldn’t find it in her to make any more caustic remarks about Simon. In fact, she looked as though she wanted to pull the blankets over her head again.

Then Aunt Charlotte swept in, wearing a very pleased expression. “Bought that chestnut hunter!” she said. “Lord Dorset’s sending over a pony, too—perfect for Henrietta!” Her gaze settled on Veronica. “Aren’t you up
yet
? I’ll send Barnes to draw a bath for you. I suppose the two of you will need your
own
lady’s maid now.” She sighed loudly. “Well, perhaps that parlor maid, the skinny one—what’s her name?”

“Phoebe,” said Toby, running his fingers along the crease of Simon’s letter.

“What sort of name is
that
for a maid?” said Aunt Charlotte. “They used to have good plain names like Annie and Mary and Dot. What’s her surname?”

“Oh, Westerdale or something. Isn’t she the niece of one of the gardeners?”

“I shall call her Smith,” declared Aunt Charlotte. “Barnes will have to train her. Really, what with trying to find a governess for your sister, dealing with that hopeless secretary of mine, and now
this
, it’s a wonder I have time to
breathe.
” Then she swept out again. Veronica trudged off to have her bath, and Toby and I returned to our respective bedrooms to brood.

Wondering whether writing things down might help, I seated myself at my desk. I jotted down all the reasons Toby should be King and then the arguments in favor of Simon. I added the names of those who supported Toby and those who supported Simon. This didn’t get me very far, so I tried assigning points to supporters on the basis of how reasonable their claims were. Ten points to Aunt Charlotte for being head of the FitzOsborne family. A grudging two points to Simon for being older than Toby, and probably having better leadership skills. Five points to Veronica for knowing more than anyone else about the history of the Montmaravian monarchy. Minus fifteen points to Rebecca for being insane and trying to kill Veronica. Arithmetic never having been my strong point, I got into a fearsome muddle with the figures, so I started doodling in a corner of the paper. I drew a crown and a sword, an island and a boat—and then a wisp of an idea appeared. An hour later, Henry stomped in to complain that Parker had gone to collect Simon from the railway station without telling her first, even though Parker had
promised
her a ride in the motorcar—by which time my wisp had coalesced into a very interesting-looking cloud.

I hastily changed into my dark blue suit and most businesslike blouse. Then I ran downstairs and paced up and down the Marble Hall until Simon arrived.

“Oh, hello, Sophia,” he said, tugging off a new pair of very stylish black gloves and looking over my shoulder. “Toby’s upstairs, I suppose?”

“Yes,” I said. “But before you see him,
I’d
like to speak to you.”

There was a tiny pause as he took in my severe tone. He’d only heard it once before.
Then
it had astonished him, as if he’d been bitten by a butterfly. Now he merely handed his gloves to the footman, who was waiting, expressionless, with Simon’s coat already folded over his liveried arm.

“Of course,” Simon said to me. “Perhaps we could talk in … the music room? As the Princess Royal appears to be interviewing governesses in the library?”

“Fine,” I said.

“After you,” said Simon with a half smile, knowing perfectly well I had only the haziest notion of where the music room was. The footman, bless him, inclined his head the slightest bit to the left and flicked his gaze at the double doors of the State Dining Room. I gave him a grateful nod, then marched off, glimpsing with relief an enormous gilded harp through an adjacent doorway. Once we were inside, I shut the doors and led Simon over to a pair of armchairs near the window.

“Please sit down,” I said.

Simon did so, looking amused and extremely condescending. For the first time, I understood how Veronica often felt in his presence. I, too, had the urge to throw something at him. But I restrained myself, because there were Important Matters at stake.

“Do you want to be King of Montmaray?” I asked.