A Brief History of Montmaray

by Michelle Cooper

  “What happened?” I snarled over my shoulder at Rebecca. “How long has she been like this?”

  “Mother?” said Simon. But she was ignoring him, too. “Look,” he said to me quietly, “we’ll sort it out in the morning, I’m sure it was just some sort of accident.”

  “No,” mumbled Veronica; “came at me…”

  “Does she have a knife?” I whispered urgently.

  Veronica shook her head. “Ax … threw it … in the water.” The bandage had already soaked through, and she was shivering violently. I tried to remember the best treatment for blood loss, but beef tea and a warm bed were all that came to mind.

  “Light a fire,” I told Simon, but the fireplace had been destroyed, there was no dry wood, and the wind whistling through the broken wall would have snuffed a fire out in an instant. Simon muttered something about the next morning and passing ships.

  “What passing ships?” I shouted. “There aren’t any, not anymore! And we need help now! Your crazy mother’s ready to murder us in our sleep—that’s if we don’t die of cold first or the Germans don’t come back to finish us off!” And I broke into jagged sobs then, unable to voice my worst fear—that Veronica’s life was trickling away as I watched. Carlos leaned over her and started licking my face.

  “Look, there’s nothing else I can do!” said Simon, clutching at his hair. “Nothing!” At that, Rebecca rose to her feet and staggered off outside. “Oh, for God’s sake!” he burst out, and he turned on his heel and went after her.

  I sniffled, pushed Carlos away, and wiped my face. Dragging the satchel nearer, I saw that Veronica had stashed the Bible in it. I would gladly have used it to light a fire, but even it was damp. Beneath that were more useless objects—my parents’ wedding photograph, some handkerchiefs that were too small to serve as proper bandages, a comb. At the bottom were some peppermints left over from the Christmas hamper. I tried to feed them to Veronica, but she lolled against my shoulder, impossible to rouse. I choked back another sob and fumbled at her neck for her pulse. It was slow and weak.

  Then Simon crashed back into the cottage.

  “Ship!” he panted. “About a mile off!”

  My heart clenched. “The Germans!” I said. “They’ve come back to see what their bombs did!”

  “No, no,” said Simon impatiently, jerking at my arm. “Come and see!”

  “But… oh, all right! Carlos, stay.” And with a backwards look at Veronica, I stumbled off after Simon, who still had a bruising grip on my elbow. The moon was higher and brighter, tracing a broken path across the rough sea and illuminating a small black ship. The outline was vaguely familiar and I was sure Henry could have identified it at a glance. But was it Otto Rahn’s ship, its blue swastika flapping like a skull and crossbones? Or something else—one of the fishing trawlers that used to pass by regularly, an American cabin cruiser, a cargo steamer?

  “She’s coming closer,” said Simon. The captain seemed to have some idea of what he was about—he was steering clear of the treacherous shoal a half mile off South Head. “She’s definitely heading towards us.”

  Was it a friend or an enemy? We had no choice—we had to take a chance. We turned and ran back to the cottage. Simon hoisted Veronica over his shoulder while I grabbed the satchel and Carlos.

  “Mother?” called Simon. As far as I was concerned, Rebecca could stay on the island and rot, but it turned out she had wandered off towards the rowboat. She even helped Simon drag it into the water and, at his urging, took up a pair of oars.

  “Hurry,” I moaned, cradling Veronica’s head in my lap. The rest of her lay crumpled on the floor of the boat, covered in the blanket. Carlos scrambled over us to take up his favorite position at the prow and we heaved off. If it came to the worst, I thought savagely, if the ship turned out to be full of Nazis, at least he’d manage to take a few bloody chunks out of them before they shot us. Meanwhile, Simon and Rebecca were battling the waves. Beyond the cove, they rose like white-tipped mountains, whipped into enormous peaks by the increasing gale. The boat felt as flimsy as paper as we slammed down into a trough and then were tossed into the air. One of Simon’s oars was torn from his grasp.

  “It’s no use!” he cried. “We’ll never make it!”

  It was terrible. It was as bad as the day we’d buried George.

  It was the stuff of nightmares.

  I leaned over the side of the boat, as I’d done so many times before in my dreams, but I wasn’t scared this time. I was furious.

  “Damn you!” I screamed into the wind and the water. “Don’t you dare try to stop us!” A wave reached up and slapped me in the face. “Isabella!” I shouted, leaning over further. “Don’t let them!”

  And perhaps it was my imagination, but the wave that surged up behind us at that moment seemed to push us closer to the ship. I peered down into the depths and saw a pale shape glide beneath us.

  “Isabella!” I screamed. “Help us! Help her!” Veronica stirred in my lap. I was vaguely aware of Rebecca starting to flail at me, of Simon twisting in his seat trying to restrain her, but I ignored them, focusing on the damp wood under my fingernails and the black, swirling waters. The boat had shifted sideways now, and wave after wave was urging us on. I stared down into the sea.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  The pale shape sank lower and lower, and then it was gone. I glanced up, swiping impatiently at my wet face. The lights of the ship were brighter than ever. I could hear the thrum of an engine idling down to a stutter, men shouting in a language I couldn’t understand, the clatter of chains against a metal hull. A wave swamped us, then another, but we were almost there. A rope landed with a wet thud at Simon’s feet. He threaded it through the metal loop at the prow, cursing his frozen fingers, and then we were being hauled on, faster and faster. The moon was blotted out as blackness rose above us, as we bumped gently against the towering hull. I could smell rust and oil and engine fuel.

  “Let go,” said Simon, trying to peel Veronica away from me, but I only clung to her harder, and in the end they hauled us both up together in a canvas sling. We were lowered onto the deck, into a huddle of men.

  “Please,” I said, grasping the nearest sleeve. “She needs a doctor, her arm …”

  A bearded face pushed itself forward. I peered up at the man and I almost sobbed with relief.

  It was the Basque captain.

  14th? January 1937

  I never would have imagined that motorcars were so noisy. They’re quite cold, too, even though Aunt Charlotte’s chauffeur has given Veronica and me enormous furs to wrap around ourselves and Carlos is stretched out on the floor, acting as a very heavy foot warmer. Simon and Rebecca are sitting in the front of the car, yards away, separated by a set of windows with velvet curtains. I wonder if it’s warmer where they are. It’s such an exhilarating experience, though, driving along in a car! I don’t think I’ve ever traveled so fast and so smoothly. Even with my head bent over my journal, I’m not feeling the slightest bit seasick—I mean, roadsick. Landsick. Whatever it’s called.

  The car’s not the only exhilarating experience, though. There are electric streetlights each time we drive through a town, and rows of very tall trees, and once a passenger train running on tracks alongside the road. The windows were lit up and there were hundreds of people sitting inside. It was quite overwhelming—until that moment, I’d only ever seen a dozen people at a time in one place. I wish Veronica were awake so I could point out things and exclaim over them with her. There was a moment when we halted abruptly at some traffic lights and she was jolted awake. She glanced around, bewildered. Then she caught sight of me, said, “Oh, Sophie, you’re here,” and slumped back against me. So although it makes me very sleepy just watching her, I am determined to stay awake. Someone needs to be in charge, in case anything happens. It’s about time it was me.

  Veronica still looks unnaturally pale, but her pulse is good and there is no fever at all. We have the Basque captain’s first mate to th
ank for that. He cleaned her arm, stitched it together neatly, and kept checking on her bandages. He even fixed my own hands (there were a few grazes and torn fingernails from all that adventuring Simon and I did). Then Captain Zuleta himself gave up his cabin for us, and insisted on making a detour so he could deliver us to the nearest English port. I always did say he was a nice man, and it’s lovely to be proved right.

  It was Anthony who sent him to our rescue. It turns out his aeroplane made it back to England but only just (the Dratted Engine, again), and none of the pilots he knew wanted to risk a flight to Montmaray with the storms that were forecast. So Anthony telephoned Julia from the airstrip and Julia contacted her uncle, who knew someone high up in the navy, who put out a signal that was picked up by the Basque captain, whose ship happened to be the closest to Montmaray.

  But why had he chosen to sail through waters so treacherous when there were safer routes northward? I like to think Isabella had some part to play in that. I think she was watching out for Veronica. And I wonder if it was mere coincidence that Rebecca lost her footing as she started to climb the ladder up to the ship’s deck? It was only Simon’s quick reflexes that saved her from slipping beneath the hull. It’s interesting, that’s all I’m saying, given how surefooted she was along the cliff ledge. I think I’ll share my thoughts on the matter with Veronica after she wakes up, when she’s feeling more herself. Of course, once she’s feeling more herself, she’ll probably scoff at the idea that we were saved by her dead mother. But then I’ll say, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Veronica, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” After all, I was there; I saw it, I felt it. And one can’t really argue with Shakespeare.

  On the subject of arguments, I was all for calling the police and having Rebecca arrested the moment we set foot on land, but Simon managed to talk me out of it. He said it was pointless until Veronica was feeling better and could make a formal statement; besides, he was sure that it had been an accident. I suppose I can’t expect him to say anything else. People can be very stubborn when it comes to their mothers. At least Captain Zuleta took me seriously, for all my difficulties making myself understood in English—he had Rebecca placed under some sort of Captain’s Arrest and locked in a cabin far away from ours once he realized how Veronica had been injured. I think Henry’s claims about his being in love with Veronica may have had some truth to them—he kept making excuses to hover around Veronica, even though she wasn’t doing anything but sleeping.

  The rest of the crew fell in love with Carlos. They chatted away to him in their various languages and kept feeding him bits of their meals. No one fell in love with me, thank heavens. I think I’ve had enough of love for the moment, it causes such problems. I’ll wait and see what I feel for Simon in the weeks to come, but I hope I’ll be more Sensible about him from now on. Living with Aunt Charlotte should make it easier—she’ll probably lock me in my bedroom for the rest of my life if she suspects anything unseemly. Besides, I’ll probably be meeting lots of other, more suitable, young gentlemen now…

  Oh dear, the road’s grown bumpy, which makes writing rather difficult. We’ve turned in past a pair of gateposts with some strange stone creatures curled up on top… Good heavens, they’re sea monsters! Are we here at last?

  Veronica is stirring now. This gravel drive seems to go on for miles and miles, but now the trees beside us are thinning, and oh, there’s the most enormous white rectangle of a house, with hundreds of windows blazing at us in the early morning sun. The car is curving around a fountain (yet another sea monster, this one erupting from the pool) and we’re crunching to a stop in front of a long colonnade.

  And the front doors have burst open and Henry, looking most peculiar in a kilt, is rushing towards us, followed more slowly by Toby on crutches and a very tall blond man dressed in black, who I think might be the butler. A couple of women in black frocks and starched white aprons have also appeared to help Veronica out of the car. Henry is rolling around on the manicured lawn with Carlos, who is emitting little yelps of joy. Toby is leaning on his crutches and trying to hug Veronica, and Simon is issuing orders to the butler, and Rebecca has wandered off down the drive…

  Well. Here I sit in a beautiful drawing room, my journal balanced on my knee, as I wait for the doctor to come downstairs. Above me dangles an electric chandelier, brighter than a thousand candles. The footman has just put another log on the roaring fire, and a maid has set a steaming teacup on the table. There are thick windows that keep out the drafts, heavy brocade curtains, a soft woolen rug underfoot—so why am I shivering? Is it that this feels like a dream, that I’m frightened I’ll wake and find everything has disappeared? Or is it that this is all too real? For so long, I’ve imagined being here—and now it feels wrong. I wanted to come here, but not like this. Not as a refugee, cast out into an exile that may last forever …

  For does Montmaray even exist anymore? Each tick of the exquisite ormolu clock beside me seems to nudge Montmaray a little further into the past. Already it seems an eternity ago that I ran down the cliff path towards the village, the tall purple grass scratching my bare legs, George looking up from his fishing nets to wave at me. Isabella is there, too, in that vanished Eden. She’s laughing and batting down her long skirt as it swirls in the sea breeze, and Uncle John is standing by the rocks, gazing at her. And there’s my mother, touching my father’s cheek as he leans into her embrace, and she glances over and smiles at me and how could I ever have imagined I’d forgotten her? Because there she is, each time I catch sight of myself in the looking glass—the same wide blue eyes, the same quiet smile. She’s been there all along, and Montmaray will be, too, no matter what happens to it. For we carry what we love inside us, always.

  And if, by chance, I was ever to start to forget, here is my journal—somewhat sea-stained, it’s true, but still readable. And very nearly complete, because I’ve just turned to the final page. One last sheet of parchment, waiting for my pen-and-ink wisdom … but now the doctor is in the hall and I can hear Aunt Charlotte’s imperious tones. Henry has run in and is tugging at my elbow and shouting the doctor’s report in my ear. Veronica will be fine, Henry says.

  “…and, Sophie, you have to come upstairs at once and look at where Aunt Charlotte has put you, right across from my room, and oh, wait till you see Toby’s dressing room, it’s got a safe hidden behind a portrait and a—”

  “Now, Henry,” says Toby, appearing in the doorway. “Give Sophie a moment. She’s writing.”

  Toby’s correct; it’s very important I finish this final page of my own brief history of Montmaray. History, I’ve learnt, can take many forms. I flash a reassuring smile at Henry and she’s off again, dashing back into the hall. Toby rolls his eyes at me and grins, and there’s another reminder of what I’ve lost and what remains, because Toby’s the very image of our father. Just as Aunt Charlotte has Uncle John’s flashing eyes and imposing height. I am just a tiny bit shy about going into the hall to join her … No, I’m not, that would be silly. I mean, after all, she’s family.

  Here I go, then.

  I take a deep breath, scenting not salt and sand, but hothouse roses and velvet upholstery and lemon furniture polish. And now I will close up my book and stand, my chin as high as Queen Matilda’s, and I will step bravely into my terrifying, exciting future.

  Author’s Note

  This novel is a blend of historical fact and imaginative fiction. Real people and groups mentioned include King Henry VIII, Catherine Howard, Queen Elizabeth I, Fabergé, the Romanovs, the Bolsheviks, Salazar, Franco, King Alfonso XIII, William of Normandy, Napoleon, Henry St. John, the Marquis de Torcy, Hitler, Mussolini, Marx, Stalin, von Ribbentrop, the Mitford girls, King Edward VIII, Wallis Simpson, Churchill, Oswald Mosley, the British Union of Fascists, Freud, Mrs. Beeton, Otto Rahn, the Deutsches Ahnenerbe, Wolfram Sievers, Himmler, the SS, the Cathars, the Druids, Wagner, the Salian Franks, King Edward III, and Oscar Wilde. However, the FitzOsbornes and any other characters who ap
pear in the story are figments of my imagination.

  Similarly, although Montmaray does not exist, many of the events mentioned in the novel did occur. These include the Battle of Hastings, Catherine Howard’s beheading, the defeat of the Spanish Armada, the War of the Spanish Succession, the Battle of Malplaquet, the Treaty of Utrecht, Napoleon’s invasion of the Peninsula, the Great War of 1914–1918, the influenza epidemic of 1918, the stock market crash of 1929, the burning of the Reichstag, the Spanish Civil War, and the abdication of King Edward VIII.

  The incident of the Communist protesters getting lost on the way to Downing Street and having to ask a policeman for directions comes from Jessica Mitford’s memoir, Hons and Rebels. The libel case involving Gef the Talking Mongoose is described in The Long Week-end: A Social History of Great Britain 1918–1939, by Robert Graves and Alan Hodge.

  Other information about life in the 1930s came from several books by Anne de Courcy, including 1939: The Last Season and Society’s Queen: The Life of Edith, Marchioness of Londonderry, and from biographies of the Mitfords, including Life in a Cold Climate by Laura Thompson and The House of Mitford by Jonathan Guinness with Catherine Guinness. The Story of Cornwall, by A. K. Hamilton Jenkin, provided useful information about Cornish customs, including the engraving on the hurling ball. The National Trust Book of British Castles by Paul Johnson, Geraldene Holt’s Complete Book of Herbs, and “Homing Pigeons” by E. S. Starr (an article published in the magazine The Century in July 1886) were also invaluable sources.

  Quotes from the following poems and plays were used:

  “The Bell-Buoy” by Rudyard Kipling (p. 21)