The FitzOsbornes in Exile

by Michelle Cooper

  I ought to have accompanied Simon, but instead, I fell back into my chair the moment he left the room. I found I was trembling. It had been a nerve-racking and exhausting confrontation—but also rather thrilling. And the back of my hand still felt the press of Simon’s lips, brief though it had been. Not that I gave any thought to that as I gathered myself together and went upstairs to dress for dinner.

  “I didn’t know you had it in you, Soph,” said Toby as he, Veronica, and I sat in the Velvet Drawing Room later that evening—Simon having been summoned to the library for a “little chat” with Aunt Charlotte. “When did you become so scheming?”

  “It’s a fairly recent development,” I said.

  “Simon called you ‘Machiavelli disguised as a debutante.’ ”

  “Gosh,” I said, not sure whether to feel flattered or insulted.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Veronica, glancing up from her newspaper. It was the first time she’d dined downstairs since we’d arrived, and she looked extremely elegant in her black jersey dress, with her hair piled on top of her head—although I noticed she’d acquired a smudge of newspaper ink along one high cheekbone. I leaned over and wiped it off with my thumb.

  “Sophie has persuaded Simon to drop his claim to the throne,” Toby explained.

  “Really?” said Veronica, astonished enough to let half of The Times flutter to the floor. “How did you manage that?”

  “I simply reminded him of the importance of family loyalty,” I said.

  “And offered him the Lord Chancellorship instead,” Toby added.

  We braced ourselves for Veronica’s explosion, but she merely stared at me a moment, then returned to The Times. Toby raised his eyebrows at me, and I shrugged.

  “Well then, it’s settled,” Toby said. “We ought to have an official gathering of the new Court in Exile. Or is it called an Assembly? Veronica?”

  “Privy Council,” she said, not looking up from her newspaper.

  “Right,” said Toby. “Because, firstly, we need to decide what I’m called. I mean, do I have to be the next King John, or can I be King Tobias, or—”

  “You can call yourself whatever you want,” said Veronica, rustling her newspaper impatiently. “It’s a monarchy, not a socialist democracy.”

  “ ‘When Caesar says, “Do this,” it is performed,’ ” I quoted.

  “And look how he ended up—dead in the street with knives sticking out of his back,” said Toby. “No thank you. I shall be the very model of a modern major monarch—”

  Simon strode into the room and threw himself into an armchair.

  “That was quick,” said Toby.

  “Wasn’t much to discuss, really,” Simon said. “I’ve always admired the Princess Royal. Remarkably pragmatic lady, when presented with the facts, and she was most appreciative of my offer to take over her appointment book. Her secretary seems to be making a terrible muddle of her charity luncheons and committee meetings and so forth.”

  “Excellent work,” Toby said. “And you’re just in time for the first Privy Council meeting of the reign of King Tobias of Montmaray. First item on the agenda—appointment of the Lord Chancellor. That’s you, Simon.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Simon, giving a little bow.

  “Veronica, you can be Court Historian and Constitutional Expert,” said Toby. Veronica rolled her eyes. “And, Sophie, what would you like to be?”

  “Me?” I said.

  “I know you’re going to write all this down in that journal of yours,” said Toby. “So you’re already Court Scribe, but how about—”

  “Ambassador?” suggested Simon blandly. “I happen to know she has excellent negotiating skills.”

  “Perfect,” said Toby.

  I gave Simon a narrow look. He smiled at me and leaned back in his chair.

  “And Henry can be Commander of Defence,” Toby went on. “Next item! Finances. Simon? Any coins rolling around the bottom of the Privy Purse?”

  “Well, it’s complicated,” said Simon. “I’ve barely started going through all the records in London, but my guess is that apart from the savings account, which has about sixty pounds in it, we’re entirely dependent on the Princess Royal’s private income.”

  “Good old Uncle Arthur,” said Toby. “God rest his soul.”

  “Yes, but unfortunately, a large proportion of his fortune is derived from coal mining. If a Labour government got in again and nationalized the mines—”

  “They’d pay compensation,” said Veronica. “Besides, there’s property as well. Most of the village of Milford, a hunting lodge in Scotland, warehouses and factories in Manchester and London. Plenty of rent coming in from them.”

  “Naturally, I’m aware of the Princess Royal’s extensive property holdings,” said Simon, scowling at Veronica. “I’m simply explaining that the Kingdom of Montmaray is essentially broke, and that if the Princess Royal were to, heaven forbid, pass away suddenly, her money wouldn’t necessarily go to Toby. She could leave it all to the Cats Protection League if she so desired.”

  “Why would she do that?” asked Toby. “She doesn’t even like cats. She likes me.”

  “She’d like you a damned sight more if you stopped getting expelled from schools,” said Simon.

  “It was only one school,” said Toby. “Stop exaggerating.”

  “I’m merely pointing out,” said Simon with studied patience, “that you ought to be as obliging as possible these next few months while I try to negotiate a permanent allowance for you and the girls. Do a bit of work for the entrance examinations, go up to Oxford, try not to get sent down in your first year—”

  “Then marry an aristocratic young lady from a rich family and produce a couple of heirs,” finished Veronica.

  Toby pulled a horrified face and turned to me. “Soph, don’t you dare fall in love with anyone with an income of less than a hundred thousand a year. And make sure you have sons, not daughters. Dozens of them, if you can manage it.” He turned back to Simon. “Also, how am I supposed to pass exams when I won’t be back at school for months?”

  “Months?” said Simon. “Don’t you mean ‘a week or two’? Anyway, I’m going up to London in a few days, so I’ll talk to your House Master and bring all your books back. Veronica can tutor you in Latin and History, Sophia can help with English Literature, then you just need to practice your music. Now, what’s next on your agenda?”

  “Simon, you are No Fun,” Toby declared. “Hmm, what is next? Oh—Simon, could you find Alice and the other villagers, let them know what’s happened, and give them our new address? And we really must organize honors for all the nice people who saved our lives. Ant, the Basque captain, and Colonel Stanley-Ross. We’ll need to borrow Aunt Charlotte’s Order of the Sea Monster—”

  “Order of Benedict,” Veronica corrected.

  “—to have a few new ones made up. It’s a sort of round silver thing with a blue sash, isn’t it? We should probably have an official ceremony, but that might be difficult if the Captain’s at sea. Can you track him down? His name’s Captain Zuleta. Veronica, what’s his first name?”

  Simon was making a note of this in his little black memorandum book when one of the footmen came in and said that Aunt Charlotte needed Simon’s help with some correspondence.

  “Poor Simon,” said Toby, watching him stride back down the corridor. “He’ll never have a moment’s rest now.”

  “Poor Simon!” repeated Veronica scornfully, picking up her newspaper. “I wouldn’t waste any pity on him. He’s exactly where he wants to be.”

  The next day, a car from the clinic in Poole came to collect Rebecca and Simon. It was thought Rebecca’s departure might be more easily accomplished if the rest of us were out of the way. Lady Astley’s invitation to luncheon had therefore been most welcome, although I still felt rather nervous about it.

  “Who’s going to be there?” I asked Toby as Parker shut my door and went round to the front of the car. “You have to te
ll me their proper titles and what we’re supposed to call them. I always get barons and baronets mixed up.”

  Henry waved mournfully from the front door. Her new governess was due to arrive any moment, so Aunt Charlotte had insisted Henry stay behind with her. We all waved back.

  “It’s just the Stanley-Rosses and Ant, as far as I know,” said Toby. “And Julia’s father is Lord Astley—a baron, not a baronet.”

  “But what’s the difference?”

  “It’s quite simple,” said Veronica. “English peers are, from most important to least: dukes, marquesses, earls, viscounts, and barons. Then there are baronets, but they can’t sit in the House of Lords, and knights, who can’t pass on their title to their eldest sons.”

  “It’s not simple at all,” I said. “Why is he Lord Astley if his children are called Stanley-Ross?”

  “The title’s Astley, his family name is Stanley-Ross,” said Toby. “Don’t worry about it. He blusters a bit, but Lady Astley is awfully sweet, she’ll adore you. As for the others—well, David’s the eldest and he’s married to the niece of Lady Bosworth. I don’t know if he’ll be around, though. Penelope, his wife, prefers London. There’s a second son, Charles, but I’ve only met him once. He’s the black sheep, off gold-digging in Ontario or Otago or somewhere. Then there’s Julia, of course, and Ant—I mean, Lord Whittingham.”

  “Only son of an earl, so he gets to use the courtesy title of Viscount,” put in Veronica.

  “And then Rupert’s the youngest,” said Toby. “Oh, I haven’t seen him for months. I can’t wait for you all to meet him!”

  “Isn’t he back at school now?” I asked. “Or does he still have the flu?”

  “He’s much better,” said Toby. “But he had rheumatic fever when he was a baby and nearly died, so his mother tends to fuss a bit. Not that he’s all that keen to return to school.”

  “Sounds like someone I know,” said Veronica.

  “What are you talking about?” said Toby indignantly. “I’m the walking wounded! Worse, the limping wounded. There’s no way I could manage all those stairs at school. Besides, you haven’t any idea how nasty and rough and brutish schoolboys can be. What if someone pushed me over in a dim, rarely used corridor, and I lay there like a tortoise on its back, neglected, forgotten, becoming weaker and weaker, until years later, my skeleton was discovered, one leg still encased in plaster—”

  Veronica laughed, for what seemed like the first time in weeks, and Toby looked very pleased.

  “But tell us more about Rupert,” I said. “Does he really hate school? I thought you said he was clever.”

  “Oh, he is. He’s always reading. But he’s even worse than me at Games. And it doesn’t help that both his brothers were in Pop—that’s the Eton Society—and David was Captain of the Eleven and scored a century against Harrow. Still, only another six months and we’re both free.”

  “Which reminds me,” said Veronica. “When are the Oxford entrance examinations?”

  “Around Easter, I think. Why? Are you putting your name down for them?”

  “Yes, I’m sure Aunt Charlotte would be delighted to fund my university education,” said Veronica sardonically. “I’m talking about you. Have you even picked up a book in the past week?”

  “I have had other matters on my mind, you know!”

  I tuned out their squabble, because the view was so much more interesting. My only previous car trip had been at night. Now I gazed my fill, at farmland divided into neat shapes by hedges and stone walls, at velvety hills with the white chalk beneath showing through in patches, at clumps of dark old woodland. We motored past Salisbury, catching a tantalizing glimpse of the cathedral spire, and Toby promised he’d take us there once he could walk around properly.

  “Do we go past Stonehenge on our way?” I asked.

  Toby shook his head. “No, but it’s not too far from here. We could visit it on the way back if there’s time.”

  “I do feel sorry for Henry, missing all this,” I said with a sigh, settling back against the leather seat.

  “I feel sorrier for the new governess,” said Toby. “I wonder how long she’ll last.”

  We discussed this as we drove along beside a slate-green river. I thought at least six months, as Henry’s behavior seemed so much improved lately. Toby said three weeks. Veronica felt it depended on the lady’s employment history.

  “If, for instance, she’s worked in a prison or a zoo, she might have developed the appropriate skills and become a bit hardier,” Veronica pointed out.

  We turned off the main road, and Toby directed our attention to a large pile of gray stone with some chimneys poking out the top.

  “Astley Manor,” he announced, although it took another couple of miles of winding lane before we reached the gates.

  “Is it really Elizabethan?” I asked, leaning forward.

  “Well, the original part is,” said Toby. “There’s a Georgian wing and some hideous Victorian bits pretending to be medieval. Lady Astley wants to modernize the bathrooms and the kitchen, but I doubt they’ll ever get round to it. With three sons to put through Eton and Oxford, it takes all their spare money just keeping the roof tiles on.”

  The car rolled to a stop near a doorway set into a thick stone wall. Shreds of bronze-colored ivy dangled from the lintel, where someone had attempted to cut the vines back. Further up, they grew unhindered, twining round a weathered coat of arms, half obscuring the diamond-paned windows, and seemingly holding one battered chimney in place. A couple of shabby evergreens reclined against the wall, and thistles popped their fuzzy heads out of the cracks in the path. As we climbed from the car, the door of the house was flung open and Julia rushed out, followed by a confusion of people.

  “My dears!” Julia cried. “Have you had the most dreadful trip? That horrid, winding road—but, Sophie, what an adorable hat! And, Veronica, how are you? Ant told me—oh, Toby, you poor darling, do watch out for that paving stone, you know the place is falling to bits. Ant, take Veronica’s arm, no, the other one. Rupert! Where is that—oh, there you are. Put that creature down at once, and come and meet the girls.”

  A thin boy with something brown and fluffy draped across his left arm hurried over. “Sorry,” he panted. “I was just putting her—How do you do?”

  He held out his right hand, which I shook. The brown thing turned out to be the world’s floppiest rabbit, who blinked at me, then went back to sleep.

  “Is she all right?” I asked, looking at the neat bandage tied around her front paw.

  “Oh, yes. It’s just that she jumped off the sofa yesterday, knocked over a glass of sherry, and stepped on the—”

  “Drunk again, I suppose,” said Toby, limping over. He gave his friend a one-armed hug. “I’ve never known a rabbit to spend so much time getting blotto. Now, aren’t you going to tell me how haggard and washed-out I look?”

  “You look exactly the same as ever,” said Rupert with a smile. “Except for a tiny bit of plaster on your leg. Stop fishing for compliments.”

  “Rupert only cares about injuries if they happen to poor dumb beasts,” explained Toby.

  “But why are we standing round out here?” wailed Julia. We instantly found ourselves in a long hall, maids divesting us of coats and gloves under the stern gaze of some Stanley-Ross ancestors rendered in dark, dusty-looking oils. Then the butler whisked us down a corridor into a cozy wood-paneled drawing room, where Lady Astley was waiting. Without rising from her seat or even saying very much, she gave the distinct impression she’d been looking forward to our visit for weeks. She was an older, languid version of Julia—warmhearted and very pretty, but lacking Julia’s boundless energy. Julia seemed to have inherited that from her father, who stomped into the room in his tweeds, barking orders at the servants, organizing us into our seats, summoning up a footstool for Toby, marching over to poke at the roaring fire, then wheeling round to hurl questions at me.

  I’d never before had to converse with so many new peo
ple at once. Faced with Lady Astley’s amiable murmurs, Lord Astley’s good-natured but brusque enquiries, and Julia’s usual barrage of talk, I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into my armchair, my tongue tying itself in knots. On one side of me, Anthony was telling Veronica about his aeroplane’s latest mechanical mishap; on the other, Toby and Rupert were deep in an equally unintelligible conversation about mutual friends and enemies at Eton. I could only be thankful that David and his wife were still in London.

  After about twenty minutes of this, Julia jumped up and offered a tour of the house before luncheon. Lord Astley accompanied us as far as the library, where he was highly gratified by Veronica’s interest in his diplomat grandfather’s bound memoirs. Julia and I left them there and continued upwards, through a maze of rooms and corridors.

  “It’s all so poky and jumbled,” apologized Julia, shoving open a door to reveal a bedroom that had been divided down the middle with a plywood wall, leaving a half window in each side.

  “Oh, no,” I said sincerely. “I think it’s wonderful.” I didn’t say it reminded me of home, even though it did, because I was trying not to think too much about Montmaray.

  “You are sweet,” she said, beaming. “We adore it, of course, but it’s hopelessly impractical, falling down round our ears. And compared to Milford Park—well! Everything’s so beautifully designed there, such a sense of space and light, but not so large that it’s impossible to run. Imagine, your aunt’s dear old husband buying that entire estate for her as a wedding present! And then all the renovations and landscaping … Goodness, I wish our uncle had had the sense to buy up a lot of coal mines fifty years ago—but don’t tell Ant I said that, he’s awfully thingy about the poor old coal miners. Anyway, this was David and Charlie’s room before they went off to school, but they kept trying to murder each other, so it was thought best to divide the room in two. David took a suite over in the East Wing after he got married, and now his wife wants to put in new windows and a glass bathtub, and she’s driving Daddy completely mad. Here we are, this is mine.”