The FitzOsbornes in Exile

by Michelle Cooper

  “Thank you,” I said. “Now tell Veronica how lovely she looks.”

  She scowled at him in the looking glass.

  “She looks as though she’s on the verge of tearing up the furniture and running amok with a table leg,” he observed.

  “I may well resort to that,” she snapped. “If Lord Elchester starts up again about how wonderfully organized the Berlin Olympics were, and how this country could do with a man like Hitler!”

  “Agree to marry his nephew, then your aunt might stop seating you beside him at dinner parties,” suggested Simon, holding out his other wrist to Toby.

  “If I married his nephew, I’d be spending the rest of my life listening to foul Elchester opinions,” said Veronica.

  “Besides, that nephew’s never going to ask anyone to marry him,” said Toby. “He’s a confirmed bachelor. He made a pass at me at the Fortescue ball.”

  “Ugh,” Veronica and I said, because the nephew is vile.

  “He did not,” said Simon. “You think everyone makes passes at you.”

  “They do,” said Toby calmly. “But I can’t help being irresistible.”

  While I have no desire to encourage Toby’s vanity, I must admit it was his irresistibility that saved the evening. It certainly didn’t start well. Aunt Charlotte read us the riot act before we went downstairs. “There will be no haranguing people about politics at dinner, is that understood?” she said, glaring pointedly at Veronica. “Otherwise there will be consequences.”

  “I can’t believe we were dragged back to London for this,” hissed Veronica in my ear two hours later as we left the dining room. Lord Londonderry had droned on about his trip to Germany and what a marvelous host Göring had been; Lord Elchester said that if only the press here weren’t controlled by Jews, the man in the street would realize Hitler was on the same side as us, against those blasted Bolsheviks; and everyone else talked about horses.

  “Never mind—it’ll be better when the ball starts,” I whispered. The dinner was just for fifty of Aunt Charlotte’s oldest, most important acquaintances, but three hundred people had been invited for the dance, including our own friends—that is, Julia (Anthony had sent his apologies, as he had to escort his mother to some family function, and Rupert was at school). What I’d forgotten was that we were expected to spend another hour standing on the Grand Staircase, shaking hands with all our guests. And when we finally staggered into the ballroom, flexing our numb fingers, it was too crowded to locate anyone we wanted to see.

  For once, I had no shortage of dance partners—Aunt Charlotte had browbeaten half a dozen eligible bachelors into submission on the issue. But as this involved being jerked silently across the floor, a clammy hand sliding around my bare back, clumsy black shoes occasionally coming down hard on my toes, I did not find it a particularly pleasant experience. It occurred to me, not for the first time, that this whole Season thing was a very haphazard and inefficient way of finding a spouse. It was with some relief that I heard supper was announced. I escaped into the drawing room, where I collapsed onto a sofa beside Toby.

  “Having fun?” he enquired, twisting a stray tendril of my hair back up behind my coronet.

  “Not really,” I said. “You? Did you dance with anyone nice?”

  “Just Julia,” he said, glancing towards her table. She was surrounded by people, mostly men, and as I watched, she threw back her head and laughed uproariously.

  Toby frowned. “She’s not happy,” he said quietly, and as I looked back, I could see what he meant. There was a forced quality to her gaiety that I’d never observed before. “She told me she had her final wedding dress fitting this morning,” Toby added.

  “Well, she’s probably getting nervous about the big day, then,” I said.

  “More likely, she’s wondering what on earth she’s got herself into.”

  I stared at him. “But she loves Anthony.”

  “Oh, everyone loves Ant,” Toby said impatiently. “He’s terribly sweet and earnest and so on. But he’s all wrong for Julia—especially as a husband.”

  “Did she say something to you?” I demanded.

  “Heavens, no! She’s too busy reminding herself how rich he is—and telling herself over and over how wonderful ‘Lady Whittingham’ will sound.”

  “Don’t be so cynical,” I said crossly. “Anyway, you can’t deny Anthony’s madly in love with her.”

  “Is that enough?” he said, as much to himself as to me. He stared across the room. “To have one person in love but not the other …”

  Just then, Veronica threw herself on the other side of Toby. “Hide me, quick! There’s a horrible little man who keeps following me around. He claims he knew my mother, says he painted her portrait or something.”

  “Probably longing to paint you,” I said. Over Toby’s shoulder, I saw what he was gazing at—Simon, deep in conversation with a willowy blonde. I poked Toby in the ribs and told him to stop it.

  “I’m not doing anything,” he said, sitting up straighter. “Besides, it’s Veronica you ought to be telling off. Her behavior tonight’s been very disappointing.”

  “What are you talking about?” she said. “Ow, these shoes pinch.”

  “Well, you claim to care about the poor old Spanish Republicans, you’re supposed to be against Fascism, yet here you are, a roomful of Conservatives to convert to your cause—and you haven’t said a word. If men are following you around, hanging off your every word, why aren’t you taking advantage of their fascination?”

  Veronica snorted. “Don’t you recall? Aunt Charlotte threatened to cut off all our allowances if she catches me, in her words, ‘haranguing people about politics.’ ”

  “She only said ‘at dinner,’ ” I pointed out.

  “Sophie’s right,” said Toby. “How much did you say it’d cost to feed a Basque refugee child for a week?”

  “Ten shillings,” she said severely.

  “And look at this crowd,” he tutted. “Swilling champagne, stuffing themselves with caviar, the ladies dripping with diamonds …”

  A dangerous gleam had appeared in his eye.

  “Toby,” I said. “What are you … ?”

  “Dare me,” he said. “Go on.”

  “I dare you,” said Veronica at once.

  Toby leapt up and caught the elbow of one of the footmen, spoke into his ear for a moment, then strode over to the largest table. Bounding onto a chair, then the table itself, Toby raised both arms.

  “If I may have your attention!” he shouted. “Ladies and gentlemen! We are gathered here this evening to welcome my adored sister and cousin into Society—a Society that has ruled over England wisely and bravely since the Magna Carta. But, my friends, you mustn’t be ashamed to show the other qualities for which the English are famed—that is, true compassion for those in need and a fervent belief in justice. For not far from this peaceful nation stands a proud country, who asks only that we shelter a few—a pitiful few—of her little souls while she defends her land from brutal invaders.”

  For one wild moment, I thought he was talking about Montmaray. But he went on, clasping his hands near his heart.

  “I know that every single one of you is filled with sadness at the thought that this evening an innocent, helpless Basque child is shivering with cold, wondering where her next meal will come from, praying that her poor mother will be spared a savage, senseless death.”

  Beside me, a footman emptied a silver ice bucket into a vase.

  “These little children have been wrenched from the arms of their parents and brought here to a temporary haven. Yet they sleep on straw, they shelter under lengths of canvas, they eat dry bread—”

  A stout matron in gold lamé sniffed and raised her lace handkerchief to the corner of her eye.

  “If only England’s finest knew these details!” cried Toby. “They would rush to the aid of these children! When a mere ten shillings could feed and shelter a tiny orphan for an entire week … That is why I venture to ask that
you spare a coin or two—perhaps a little more—for this worthy cause!”

  He gave a small nod, and footmen began to move around the room with a variety of empty silver receptacles. Ladies delved into their evening bags and a few gentlemen patted their pockets.

  “Every penny will go towards helping a hungry child,” Toby said, turning his sorrowful gaze upon a cluster of wide-eyed debutantes. Then, observing the scowls of the older, more recalcitrant members of his audience, he hurriedly went on. “Of course, the relief efforts so far have been run by … well, members of the Labour Party. And, ugh, trade unionists! Will we stand by and allow them to take all the credit? Will we stand silent while they claim the upper classes no longer care about the underprivileged? Let us prove them wrong!”

  Toby jumped down from the table, grabbed a champagne bucket, and made a beeline for the debutantes. One of them flung her diamond bracelet into the bucket, earning a dazzling smile from Toby; at this, the others began stripping themselves of jewels as fast as they could. I could see Aunt Charlotte over by the doorway, staring frantically round the room and clutching her pearls as though a Basque peasant were about to snatch them from her neck. However, her horror at the situation was tempered by the fact that it was her beloved nephew at the center of it. In the end, she settled for pretending she’d been behind the whole thing.

  “One does get tired of the usual sort of dinner and dance,” she agreed when several ladies congratulated her on turning the evening into a surprise charity ball. “A theme does make things seem less tedious.”

  This morning, of course, we had dozens of telephone calls from young ladies desperate to retrieve earrings and bracelets and necklaces that they’d recklessly given away the previous evening, and which turned out to have been borrowed from their (now very irate) aunts and grandmothers. Fortunately, they all agreed to give hefty sums of cash in return.

  “That’s better, anyway,” said Toby. “Saves us having to sell the jewelry.”

  “You mean, saves me having to sell it,” said Simon rather grumpily (he’d been the one to deal with most of the telephone calls).

  Toby patted his arm consolingly. “How much have we got, Veronica?”

  She looked down at her piece of paper. “Two thousand three hundred and seventy-nine pounds and eight shillings,” she said. “Plus a couple of silver cigarette cases and a silk handkerchief—although I think the handkerchief fell in by accident. And I still think you could have at least mentioned Montmaray in your speech, Toby. We’ve been invaded, too, you know.”

  “But that would have sounded as though we were asking for money for ourselves,” he explained. “It would have been terribly impolite. Not that we need money. We need … Actually, what do we need? I mean, what exactly are we supposed to be doing to get Montmaray back from the Germans?”

  “I haven’t quite decided yet,” said Veronica, raising her chin. “Besides, the Basque children are our priority at the moment.”

  “You mean, you haven’t got a clue where to start,” said Simon, curling his lip. “In my opinion—”

  Veronica glared at him. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”

  “Oh, here’s the post!” said Toby quickly. “Perhaps people have sent checks!”

  There was silence as we opened dozens of thank-you letters, many of which had clearly been posted before the ball. There were no checks, but Veronica suddenly gave an exclamation of what sounded like disgust.

  “What?” said Toby. “It’s not one of those poison-pen letters, is it?”

  “Worse,” said Veronica, thrusting a piece of paper at him. He stared at it a moment, then burst into peals of laughter.

  “It’s not funny,” she said irritably. I reached over and took it from him. A company that made face cream was offering Veronica a small fortune if she’d agree to be photographed in her white ball gown for a newspaper advertisement.

  “Think of all the Basque refugee children that would feed,” Toby managed to gasp.

  “Really, Toby,” she snapped. “As if I’d do anything to encourage women to spend their money on such rubbish!”

  “And Aunt Charlotte would think the whole thing too vulgar for words,” I said a little sadly. I could only dream of someone catching sight of me and wanting to take my photograph for a newspaper. At that point, a footman came in and announced there was a telephone call for me from Miss Stanley-Ross.

  “Sorry, didn’t get you out of bed, did I?” said Julia. “But heavens, what a triumph last night was! You looked so sweet, and wasn’t Toby the hero! The expression on your aunt’s face when he jumped up on that table—but listen, Sophie, I have the most enormous favor to ask, and do say no if you can’t possibly, I’ll quite understand, but you see, my wretched little cousins have come down with measles, and the eldest was supposed to be one of my bridesmaids, but that’s out now, obviously, and the dress is almost done and I can’t have an uneven number of bridesmaids—imagine walking down the aisle of St. Margaret’s with five bridesmaids, it would look too ridiculous, and besides, there’d be thirteen in the bridal party, it simply won’t do, and she’s almost exactly your size, and would you please, please consider it?”

  “You … you’d like me to be your bridesmaid?” I stuttered.

  “Oh, but, Julia, I—”

  “Oh, bless you, Sophie! You’re an absolute angel!” she cried. “I’d much rather have you than my horrid cousin, anyway—she pushed Rupert’s puppy in the fishpond years and years ago, and he still hasn’t forgiven her—Rupert, that is, not the dog, I’m sure the dog’s forgotten. Can you come for a fitting this afternoon? I’ll pick you up at three-ish, all right? Oh, and tell Toby I’ve posted him a check! Goodbye, darling!”

  I stood there a moment, stunned, then went back to the drawing room and told the others.

  “Well, we’re all invited, anyway, and now you don’t have to worry about what to wear,” said Toby.

  “And stop imagining you’ll drop your bouquet or step on Julia’s train or whatever it is you’re thinking,” added Veronica, doing her usual mind-reading act. “You’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, look at when you were presented at Court,” said Simon. “Last night went well, too.”

  “That’s what I mean,” I said glumly. “Things have been going too well. It’s about time I tripped over my hem or did something really embarrassing.”

  “All the better if you do, it’ll make the bride look extra-graceful in comparison,” said Toby, grinning.

  On that comforting note, I came upstairs to write this down—and start fretting in earnest.

  6th June 1937

  If only tripping over my hem were the worst that could have happened at Julia’s wedding! I am beginning to think we FitzOsbornes have been hit with that “May you live in interesting times” curse. Perhaps one of us accidentally smashed a Ming vase in the Great Hall at Montmaray years ago, unleashing a malignant Chinese spirit that has pursued us across the seas—although I must say it wasn’t all our fault. A wedding day that begins with the bride in floods of tears is always going to struggle to turn out well.

  “Now, that’s enough, Julia,” said Lady Astley, roused out of her habitual languor by the incessant weeping. “Goodness, Anthony will think you don’t want to marry him! And consider what it’s doing to your poor eyes!” Julia went on sobbing, and Lady Astley gazed around helplessly at the rest of us.

  “Never mind. All brides get like this,” said the matron of honor briskly, marching in with a bottle of witch hazel and a handful of cotton wool. “I was sick in the chapel foyer myself, before and after. And one of my cousins came out in hives, red welts everywhere … Do sit up, Julia! Here, take my handkerchief. It’s nerves, that’s all, worrying about what married life will be like. But honestly, a week later and it seems as though one’s been married for years—it all seems quite normal and ordinary.”

  It occurred to me that that was what was bothering Julia. Until this moment, her future had been a vast sweep of thrilling possibi
lities. Now it would narrow to being the wife of a devoted but rather dull man, and her life would go on getting narrower and narrower until she suffocated.

  “It’s not that I don’t love him,” she whispered to me, after her makeup had been redone and her veil fixed in place, and the others had gone down to make sure the cars were ready. “And it’s not as though I love someone else more. It’s just …”

  She sighed heavily.

  “But then I imagined poor Ant standing there at the altar, waiting,” she went on. “And he would wait, wouldn’t he? For ages and ages, thinking the motorcar had had an accident or something. Oh, he is a dear, isn’t he, Sophie?”

  “He’s a very nice man,” I said.

  “I know,” she said. “Even if he sometimes … Oh, my eyelashes are falling off again. They really ought to make the glue waterproof.” She poked at her face for a moment. “There! How do I look?”

  “Absolutely beautiful,” I said with complete sincerity. The clouds of white lace, the roses in her hair, the beaded ivory silk billowing across the carpet—all made any slight puffiness under her eyes quite unnoticeable.

  “Now, tell me I’m doing the right thing,” she said.

  I considered for a moment. “You’re doing the sensible thing,” I said.

  She laughed till she choked. “Oh, bless you, Sophie!” she cried, hugging me and rumpling both our dresses. “Toby’s right, he always said you were the best listener—”

  “Julia!” bellowed her father up the stairs.

  “Coming!” she shouted back, and off she went, pausing only to wrench her skirt free of the chair leg.

  “So she hasn’t changed her mind, after all,” said Toby when the bridal party eventually arrived at St. Margaret’s, Westminster. He and Rupert were ushers—I could see Rupert inching down the side aisle with an ancient female relative attached to his arm. “Floods, I suppose?”

  “Mmm,” I said. “Anthony all right?”

  Toby rolled his eyes. “I’ll leave it to your imagination. Heavens, why do people put themselves through this sort of thing? If I were them, I’d elope. Oh, and by the way, try to steer clear of Aunt C and Veronica till they’ve both calmed down. They had the most enormous row over Veronica’s dress.”