A Brief History of Montmaray

by Michelle Cooper

  Henry nodded at Julia’s raised eyebrow. “Oh, yes, the ghost is awfully fearsome if you’re not a FitzOsborne. But you can have my room, Julia, I’ll go in with Veronica and Sophie.”

  Veronica gave her a dubious look (Henry’s room is full of cuttlefish shells, shark jaws, barnacle-encrusted driftwood, fish skeletons, broken lobster pots, and old bird eggs, none of which smell very nice), but in the end, it seemed the best solution. Then we left Julia to change for dinner after giving her our only spare towel and demonstrating how to unstop the loo if it looked as though it was about to overflow.

  I bet they don’t have to worry about that sort of thing at Buckingham Palace.

  Luckily, dinner went well. To start, we had cold lobster (Alice brought a pair of them with her when she and Jimmy walked Anthony back up to the castle, bless her) and spinach salad. Then there was fish pie. It was a bit gluey, but Rebecca opened a dusty bottle of wine she’d found in the cellar and kept Julia’s and Anthony’s glasses full, so I don’t think they noticed. Afterwards, there were two types of cheese, both Mary’s, but the lavender one turned out to be rather good. We probably should have had soup to start with, but there wasn’t anything to put in it except spinach or fish. In any case, Julia said the lobster was better than the Savoy’s.

  Anthony nodded forcefully every time Julia said anything, but was otherwise quiet during dinner—too busy eating, perhaps. He is not very pleasant to behold, poor man. He has a lot of freckles and a mustache that looks as though a furry caterpillar has fallen asleep on his upper lip. (Simon appears increasingly handsome, now that I have someone with whom to compare him.)

  After dinner, Anthony and Veronica discussed the Spanish situation—or rather, Veronica asked him a lot of questions and he did his best to keep up with her. Anthony explained that he’d tried to volunteer his services to the Republican cause in August when the war began, but the London recruiters weren’t very encouraging—he wasn’t a proper member of the Communist Party or the trade union movement, and he didn’t have any military training. He thought this was rather unsporting of them. Then his mother somehow found out and made him promise not to take part in any fighting.

  “So I had to give her my word,” said Anthony, frowning at the tablecloth.

  “Ant’s the only son and heir,” said Julia, patting his arm.

  “But it’s just so, so… unfair!” he burst out. “Now that blasted Prime Minister of ours has banned British businesses from selling weapons to the Spanish government, and you know Hitler and Mussolini are giving those Fascist rebels all the help they can!”

  “Well, rumor has it the Soviet Union is doing its utmost to aid the other side,” said Veronica. “Anyway, what about the Non-Intervention Committee in London? Have they reached any decision yet?”

  “I don’t think so. But wait—Julia, didn’t your uncle say something about that?”

  Julia winked at us. “He’s rather high up in some top-secret government department.”

  “He thinks they’ll probably want everyone to keep out of the whole thing,” Anthony said.

  “Yes, the name Non-Intervention Committee does rather hint at that,” said Veronica dryly. “But anyway, Anthony, if you’re supposed to keep away from the fighting, what are you doing flying to Madrid? Isn’t it surrounded by the Fascists?”

  “Well, yes. They say it’s getting a bit hairy, but the International Brigades are putting up a good defense! So I thought I might just drop by and… well, see what I could do. Offer to take mail back to England, maybe write down some observations for the newspapers, that sort of thing—”

  “To be frank, we weren’t sure we’d get quite as far as Madrid,” interrupted Julia. “Perhaps the northern bit of Spain, if we were lucky.”

  “We would have got to Madrid,” said Anthony, giving Julia a look, “if that dratted engine hadn’t packed it in.”

  I sat there thinking that Julia must be terribly brave—imagine agreeing to go anywhere near a battle zone! I mentioned this, which started off a discussion about women going to war. Apparently one of the first British volunteers to die in this Spanish conflict had been a woman—an artist who’d been working in Barcelona. She’d been part of a unit trying to blow up a Fascist munitions train. Anthony seemed personally offended by this—that they’d let her in to fight and not him, when everyone knew women were physically weaker and always went to pieces in a crisis.

  “Do they?” said Julia doubtfully. “Always go to pieces if there’s a crisis, I mean.”

  “I certainly would,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t!” cried Henry, popping out from the shadows of the stairwell.

  “I thought you were supposed to be in bed,” said Veronica.

  “I was, but I couldn’t sleep, your bed is all lumpy,” said Henry. “It’s full of books.”

  Veronica took her back upstairs again, probably to avoid an argument with Anthony. Faulty logic (“Women always go to pieces in a crisis”) annoys her no end. And I suppose even the “physically weaker” assertion could be the subject of debate—after all, it’s women, not men, who have babies. If all women were as frail as men seem to believe, the human race would have died out millennia ago. I found myself wondering whether most of the men at debutante parties would be like Anthony, and whether I’d want to get engaged to such a man. But it turns out his mother is an American oil heiress (which must come in handy when buying aeroplanes and such) and his father is an earl. I think this is why Julia’s parents haven’t objected to her engagement, even if Anthony is a bit of a Communist…

  7th November 1936

  I fell asleep over my journal last night and awoke to find ink smeared over both my face and the page. Fortunately, there were no sheets left on my bed to get ruined—just the blanket, which is dark blue anyway.

  I’m snatching a few minutes here in the gatehouse before I go down to help Veronica with luncheon. Anthony had hoped to leave this morning, but storm clouds are skidding past to gather in an ominous clump near the horizon. I don’t expect they’ll get away now until tomorrow.

  It is lovely having new people around to talk to, but rather exhausting having to keep the bathroom clean and make proper meals all the time. I have a sinking feeling when I think about tonight’s dinner—I fear we’ll have to sacrifice one of the hens (we can’t keep having fish all the time). If we do, I think it ought to be the beady-eyed yellow one that keeps pecking at my ankles. It’s spent too much time with Spartacus, I can tell. We’ll get Rebecca to do the bit with the ax, and I’ll make sure I’m a safe distance away this time. Last Christmas, I fainted at the sight of all the blood. (I don’t mind my own blood; it’s other blood that bothers me—which is not really very logical when I think about it.)

  I’d better go—Veronica’s alone in the kitchen, as Rebecca’s devoting all her time to Uncle John at the moment. He is very agitated by the strange voices and refuses to leave his bed. I wonder if we can get away with serving omelets for luncheon. Perhaps if we put lots of herbs and cheese and spinach in and call them omelettes de Montmaray …

  It is evening now; the washing up is all done and I am sitting in the kitchen. I have annexed the stove end of the table so I can take advantage of the firelight (I’m writing mostly in Kernetin, so it doesn’t matter if Julia or Anthony peeks). Julia and Henry are playing Squid, a card game of Toby’s invention, down the other end of the table, and Anthony and Veronica are in the middle, having a debate about Communism. Anthony is not much of a match for her (he’s rubbish at arguing compared to Simon), but whenever Veronica bests him at a point, she argues on his side for a bit to make him feel better. He is looking rather confused at the moment.

  “Of course,” Veronica is saying, “one only needs to look at the Soviet Union to see Marx’s predictions unfolding. The workers have certainly seized control of the means of production there.”

  “Yes!” says Anthony. “Exactly! It’s … it’s an inevitable conflict between the workers and the middle class! Just as Marx said
would happen. All over Europe!”

  “And yet, not quite all over Europe, surely? Not here in Montmaray.” Veronica paused. “Of course, we don’t actually have a middle class. Oh, wait, yes we do—we have Simon Chester.”

  “That’s Rebecca’s son,” Henry says, glancing up from her enormous pile of cards. (She’s probably cheating, but Julia looks more amused than annoyed.)

  “I think we’re more feudal here, really,” Veronica continues. “Except we don’t have very many subjects anymore. But one thing does confuse me—if the Spanish workers’ triumph over capitalism is so inevitable, Anthony, why do you need to help them out?”

  “Er,” says Anthony.

  “And yet,” Veronica says thoughtfully, staring up at the ceiling, “didn’t Marx also predict that government would wither away when the workers were finally in control of the means of production? And there’s certainly nothing withering away about Stalin’s government, is there? It makes one wonder what else Marx got wrong…”

  Anthony looks towards Julia helplessly, but she just gives him a fond smile, then goes back to studying her cards.

  I had a nice long chat with Julia today while I was getting dinner ready. (She did offer to help, but is not very experienced at vegetable peeling, it turns out—I think they must have rather a lot of servants.) She told me all about her presentation at Court two years ago—she seemed to assume that Veronica and I would be doing the same next Season. Julia wore a gold-and-cream brocade dress with her mother’s wedding veil as a train, a headdress of three ostrich feathers and Alençon lace held in place by diamond clips, long white kid gloves with pearl buttons, and shoes with two-inch gold heels. The dress alone cost thirty-two guineas. As she said, imagine how many Spanish refugees that would feed and shelter! Of course, she hadn’t even met Anthony at that stage. And there weren’t any Spanish refugees then anyway.

  I did enjoy hearing about the coming-out parties, despite my guilty twinges over all the conspicuous consumption (as Anthony—or Marx—would say). All the flowers and fairy lights and champagne and ices and beautiful dresses! I almost felt I was there.

  “And there are never enough men for dance partners—you should have heard my mother frantically telephoning round the day before my dance. ‘I need a man! No, men! Lots of them, as many as you can find!’ Now, if only your brother had been a few years older! What a triumph that would have been for her! So handsome, and heir to the throne—he already has half my friends and all my cousins in love with him. Toby is going to be devastating when he finishes school.”

  “He is rather good-looking, isn’t he?” I said, a bit embarrassed. I don’t know why I felt I had to be modest, though—it wasn’t my looks we were talking about. Except it does seem a bit silly to be discussing good looks in a boy, when they’re so irrelevant. It’s not as though Toby needs them to catch a husband. You’d think God, or whoever, could have saved up just a tiny bit of Toby’s beauty to pass on to me.

  “Darling!” said Julia. “You have no idea, he’ll be like King Leopold of the Belgians, only more so, debutantes swooning all over the place. Did you hear about that tragic accident last year, his poor wife dead and they say he was driving! And speaking of royalty…”

  Then she related a lot of terrible scandal about Britain’s new King and a married American woman who seems to be his mistress. I was worried Veronica would come in and overhear and realize how utterly frivolous I am. Not that she would say anything. And if she did, I could always argue that there’s a fine line between gossip and history when one’s talking about kings.

  Julia also asked me if I was in love with anyone. It turned out she was just making conversation (what peculiar conversations English girls must have with each other!), but for a second I was terrified she’d seen something in my face that had given away my secret—although what that something could have been, I’ve no idea. In novels, women in love tend to become even more beautiful or else wither away to a shadow. Neither of these things seems to be happening to me, which is further proof that I am not in love with Simon, which is a profound relief.

  I considered asking Julia for some general advice on the subject of love, but I was worried I would get muddled and she might end up thinking I was asking about the Facts of Life, which could prove embarrassing. For me more than her, probably—she is so very Modern, with her red lipstick and permanent-waved hair and aeroplane-flying. I wonder if she and Anthony have done It… but I don’t think she is quite that Modern. They’ll probably wait until they’re married. I certainly would, if I were engaged to Anthony. I’d want to put It off as long as possible.

  I already know how It works, of course—Toby told Veronica and me years ago. I was so revolted that I immediately added “men” to my list of Horrifying Things to Be Avoided, but Veronica dug out an old medical textbook and discovered Toby hadn’t been entirely accurate. He’d got the information thirdhand anyway, from someone at school. Since then, I’ve read a few Modern novels (one of them, left behind by a governess of ours, was particularly informative, even if I didn’t understand all the French) and it sounds like It could be rather nice. With the right man, of course, and after one was properly married.

  Unfortunately, all this talk of It has conjured up images of Simon, and now I cannot get them out of my head. I can’t help wondering how many girls he’s kissed. I can imagine Simon taking kissing as seriously as he does everything else. He would frown slightly, his dark eyes focused on the girl’s lips. He’d curl his fingers into her hair and stroke one thumb across her cheek and bend down to capture my … her lips. It would probably be quite scratchy unless he’d recently shaved—yes, best to concentrate on the unpleasant aspects of it. His hair would be stiff with hair oil, too—although it does smell lovely, of cloves and oranges, and at least he doesn’t have a horrible mustache…

  Now Veronica is looking at me oddly because she caught me running my fingertips along my bottom lip. Oh dear.

  I think I had better go to bed.

  14th November 1936

  Since Julia and Anthony left, I’ve spent most of my time curled up in the Blue Room, reading Walter de la Mare and sighing a lot. The weather is doing its best to match my mood—mist and showers, interspersed with icy squalls. It’s affecting everyone, even Veronica. Yesterday, she and Henry had an enormous row in the kitchen—I could hear the shouting all the way up in the Blue Room. Ten minutes later, Henry burst in, ranting about how mean and unfair Veronica was, and how Veronica only cared about people if they’d been dead hundreds of years. I gathered Veronica had accused Henry of taking a piece of paper from her Brief History notes and then drawing on the back of it.

  “She never even listened to me!” Henry shouted. “She’s always blaming me, I’m always the escape goat!”

  “The… what?” I said. “You mean ‘scapegoat’?”

  “That’s what I said!” Henry stomped around the room a bit more. “Anyway, I needed that paper. I’m drawing up some very important plans for Jimmy’s and my raft. It’s going to have a mast, and a special diving bell off the side so we can collect all the sunken treasure at the bottom of the Chasm. Maybe even two masts!”

  Then I went downstairs to find the shouting had set off Uncle John, who was stalking around the kitchen and raving about Isabella, with Rebecca nodding and urging him on whenever he seemed to falter. It’s like living in Bedlam here, sometimes. If it hadn’t been pouring, I would have gone off to the village to spend the rest of the afternoon with Alice.

  However, today dawned a little brighter—and we had letters delivered. There was a fat package from Toby, a thin one from our solicitor, and a little brown-paper parcel that Veronica immediately hid in the sewing basket. It must be from the solicitor as well, although I don’t know why she’d bother hiding it. Unless it’s some sort of surprise for someone—no, the next birthday is Veronica’s, and that’s three months away. Wait, could Simon have secretly sent Veronica something?

  One would think that all this cold, wet weath
er would have doused any lingering sparks of romanticism in me. Clearly not.

  Anyway, here is Toby’s letter, translated:

  Dear Everyone,

  Rupert just told me all about Julia’s visit! She was most impressed with the castle—yes, yes, Veronica, fortified house, I know—and found Rebecca and Uncle J terrifyingly Gothic. Julia’s rather fun, isn’t she? None of us can work out how she ended up engaged to Ant, who could bore for England. But perhaps girls go for men who are Political; is that true, Veronica? Ant’s certainly that—last time I saw him, at Rupert’s brother’s engagement party, he was droning on about the evils of Capitalism, all the while stuffing himself with plover eggs (which were scrumptious, I must admit). I hope you put him in my room and he got dripped on when it rained—he adores it when he gets a chance to experience how the Poor live.

  Speaking of parties, Aunt Charlotte made me spend the midterm holiday with her, which would have been dire except for two things. Firstly, I took Simon with me (he had papers and things for her to sign, anyway), and secondly, Lord Bosworth had a three-day shooting party and invited us for dinner on Saturday. Thank heavens he didn’t think to invite me to the shoot. I wish I could say it’s because I feel sorry for those poor pheasants, but it’s really that I’m afraid I’ll blast my foot off, or worse.

  I suppose you want to know what we ate and who was there. Well, there were five courses—caviar, grilled sole with salad, beef with mushroom sauce and potatoes, cheese soufflé, and a pudding of sponge cake with angelica syrup and whipped cream—also, champagne and three sorts of wine, and then port. By the end, I felt like the snake that swallowed the bison in that book of Henry’s. I just sat there, digesting, certain I wouldn’t be able to move for another six months, while all around me the men lit up their smelly cigars and talked over the top of one another. It was all about politics, of course, and if it hadn’t been for my enormous stomach being in the way, I would have ducked under the tablecloth, crawled towards the door, and tried to make my escape.