I felt very sad then. I feel sad now. Sad and lonely and forsaken. My mother seems further away than ever. I even spent an entire half hour earlier this evening feeling furious at her for leaving us to deal with all these awful grown-up problems by ourselves. As though she’d done it deliberately! Then I turned my anger upon myself for being so stupid.
However, at least writing this down has made me exhausted enough to sleep. It’s nearly two o’clock in the morning—an hour when the whole world is silent, and dawn seems an age away, and everything is black and still and hopeless. But perhaps things will seem better in the morning …
They’ll have to. They can’t possibly seem any worse.
22nd September 1938
Veronica, Simon, Toby, and I met with Mr. Reginald Adams-Smythe at the Foreign Office this afternoon. Veronica and I weren’t invited, but Veronica announced she was going regardless, and Simon didn’t even attempt to stop her. I pretended to be Simon’s secretary. I took down everything I heard in my abbreviated Kernetin, which is getting extremely fast but looks almost entirely unlike shorthand. (I saw Mr. Adams-Smythe’s own secretary give my notebook an astonished, upside-down look.) At any rate, it means I can now write a proper, detailed account of the proceedings.
I’d expected everyone at the Foreign Office to be rushing about with grave expressions, because Hitler is threatening to invade part of Czechoslovakia, and the British Prime Minister has just flown back to Germany for more negotiations. Mr. Chamberlain is willing to try anything to avoid war, and no wonder, when all the newspapers are saying Germany’s air force could reduce London to smoldering ruins in a matter of days (and one only has to look at Guernica to see what the Germans are capable of). However, the Foreign Office looked pretty much the same as the last time I’d been there. I even saw Mr. Davies-Chesterton standing in a doorway, although he made a squeaking noise and vanished as soon as he caught sight of us.
We were shown into a magnificent office on the second floor, where Mr. Adams-Smythe was installed behind a mahogany desk large enough for a game of Ping-Pong. Based on the furniture and the size of the windows and the number of staff kowtowing to him, I ranked him a good five or six notches above Mr. Davies-Chesterton in the Foreign Office hierarchy. After we were seated, Mr. Adams-Smythe had his secretary pass him a file. He surveyed this for several minutes while Toby beamed at the secretary, reducing her to a blushing, quivering jelly, and Veronica and Simon had a near-silent argument, culminating in her tearing a page from my notebook and scrawling him some urgent, last-minute note. Eventually, Mr. Adams-Smythe looked up, folded his hands on the desk, and invited Simon to begin, whereupon Simon outlined our problem and explained why it was in the best interest of the Foreign Office and the British Empire for them to assist us.
Perhaps it was Simon’s legal expertise, perhaps it was the three days he’d spent rehearsing this speech with Veronica criticizing every aspect of his performance, but gosh, he was good! The secretary looked ready to applaud when he finished. Even Veronica seemed impressed. Then Mr. Adams-Smythe cleared his throat.
“Yes, a most unfortunate situation,” he said. “We’ve had our people investigate this matter thoroughly since receiving your letters, and you’ll be very pleased to know that—after much effort—we have resolved this issue.”
We all held our breath and leaned forward.
“Ahem,” he said. “You see, the problem rested on the ownership of this island of Montarey—”
“Montmaray,” said Veronica.
“Er, yes, the property under dispute. Firstly, we needed to ask some very important questions. For example, did the German government have a legitimate prior claim to the area? Were there German-speaking residents who would be inconvenienced by your claim to this land?”
“If there are Germans living on the island,” said Simon quickly, shooting a quelling look at Veronica, “they are there illegally. They’re trespassers, taking advantage of last year’s violent invasion of the Kingdom of Montmaray. This is all documented in the report sent to the Ministry for Coordination of Defence—”
“Ahem,” said Mr. Adams-Smythe. “Yes. However—fortunately!—there’s no need to bring that ministry into our discussion. Ha-ha! In light of current international events … Yes. Well. You see, we’ve been in discussion with the German Embassy about this matter, and they explained that their government purchased this island from its legal owner several years ago.”
We stared at him.
“Its legal owner?” repeated Simon in a strangled voice. Toby placed a restraining hand on Veronica’s arm, because she looked ready to explode.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Mr. Adams-Smythe. “Apparently, it’s not uncommon, property ownership becoming confused over many years. An understandable mistake on your part! While your family may have been long-term tenants, the property actually belonged to the Spanish government. Not surprising, really, given the location of the island … Ah, yes, I see it’s just off the coast of Spain.”
“It’s two hundred and ninety-three miles off the coast of Spain!” snapped Veronica. “The Isle of Wight is seventy miles from Cherbourg, but I don’t see you handing that island over to the French!”
“Er, no,” he said, momentarily wilting under her glare but then drawing himself upright. “Yes, but, you see, we have clear documentation of ownership of this particular island. Title deeds and so forth.”
On cue, a young gentleman marched in with yet another file, which he presented to his boss. Mr. Adams-Smythe removed a piece of paper and waved it at Simon, who snatched it out of the older man’s hand. Simon bent his head over the document, staring at it for so long that I was tempted to drop my secretary pose and lean over his shoulder to read it. He finally shook his head and passed the paper to Veronica. Toby and I exchanged frustrated looks but remained silent. (This had been the plan, for Simon to do all the talking unless we needed a burst of charm from Toby.) Veronica glanced up from the paper and gave Simon an intense look that I found impossible to interpret. Simon took a deep breath.
“This document,” he said, “has obviously been manufactured by the Germans. It’s a manifest forger—”
Veronica kicked him in the ankle. It seemed Simon hadn’t interpreted her look very effectively, either. Then she passed him back the document with her finger pointing to a particular spot, and his eyes widened. He opened his mouth—then closed it, gave her a tiny nod, and eased back in his seat. I couldn’t believe it. Simon, sitting back and allowing Veronica to take the lead?
Veronica gazed across the vast desk at Mr. Adams-Smythe. “You don’t think this document has been forged or fabricated by the Germans?” she asked.
“Of course not,” he said at once. “Now, really, one can’t make unfounded accusations like that! Particularly in the current … Ahem! I assure you, our department has investigated this document most thoroughly!”
She nodded slowly. “So … you are saying that this island belonged to the Spanish government, and they sold it to the Germans a couple of years ago.” Her tone was light, almost idle. Toby and I glanced at each other again. I had no idea where this was going, but for the first time, I thought it might end up somewhere we’d quite like to be.
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Adams-Smythe. “It’s plain that—”
“Yet it appears from this document that the land was acquired by the Spanish government from one of its own citizens,” went on Veronica. “Fairly recently, in fact.”
“Ah!” he said. “Yes, I see how that might be confusing to one not familiar with Spain. However, with the tragic situation in that country, so many old landowning families having died out—in such cases, their property reverts to the Spanish government.”
“Just to make things quite clear to me,” Veronica said. “When you say ‘Spanish government,’ you’re referring to the democratically elected Republican government? I mean, the British government hasn’t secretly acknowledged Franco as the legitimate leader of Spain, has it?”
&nbs
p; “Er … no,” said Mr. Adams-Smythe, glancing at his young assistant.
“Good,” Veronica said briskly. “You see, I recognized the name of this particular Spanish landowning family. A prominent aristocratic family—well known to those familiar with Spain. The Germans obviously did a tiny bit of research when they were fabricating this document, in order to make it seem more plausible—Oh, excuse me! It’s genuine, isn’t it? Your staff have confirmed that. Silly me. And everyone knows how honorable the Nazis are, it’s unthinkable that they’d ever be deceitful! Anyway, as I started to say, this particular Spanish family does have a legitimate historical link to the island of Montmaray. Furthermore, the family has not died out. The late Duke’s only daughter—indeed, his only child—married the King of Montmaray. Her maiden name was Isabella Cristina Margarita Álvarez de Sevilla y Martínez.”
Toby made a small sound, which he hurriedly turned into a cough. Simon was lounging in his chair with the air of someone watching a very entertaining show at the Theatre Royal.
“Er,” said Mr. Adams-Smythe, looking around wildly. His assistant sidled up and muttered in his ear. “Ahem! Yes,” said Mr. Adams-Smythe. “Correct. However, I’m afraid that his only child, being female, was unable to inherit, old Spanish law—”
“But surely that was one of the first acts of the Republican government?” Veronica said. “To abolish all those old laws oppressing women, to establish a State separate from the rules and traditions of the patriarchal Church? I think you’ll find the Republican government hasn’t any problem with women inheriting property—and you did say they were the true government, did you not? So the family’s land wouldn’t have been acquired by the Spanish government, not when the family had a legitimate heir.”
“But, but,” Mr. Adams-Smythe spluttered. “This is irrelevant to your claim! This Isabella Margaret de … de …”
“Isabella Cristina Margarita Álvarez de Sevilla y Martínez.”
“Yes, that lady—she’s not mentioned anywhere in your file! She’s not part of your claim! And, and … well, she must have sold the land to the Spanish government!”
“She most certainly did not. I’d know if she had, because—Oh, did I forget to mention that she was my mother? Sadly, she’s now deceased. And I’m her only child—her female child, it’s true, but quite able to inherit her property, according to current Spanish law. There’ll be no difficulty proving my relationship to her—one only needs to look at old pictures in Tatler to see that I’m her daughter. So if this document is correct, then I’m the legitimate owner of the island of Montmaray, and I certainly didn’t authorize its sale to the German government, nor to any private German citizen. However, this debate is all theoretical, isn’t it? Because we all know this document is fraudulent, don’t we?”
She nodded at Simon and he leaned forward.
“We certainly do, Your Highness,” he said, “and the question is, who fabricated it? It’s horrifying to consider the British government might actually forge a document in order to discourage another sovereign nation from pursuing a legitimate grievance—”
“But, but we haven’t done anything of the sort!” cried Mr. Adams-Smythe desperately.
“Then it’s rather depressing to see the British government so willing to accept German lies,” Simon said. “Truth and justice pushed aside for the sake of political expediency.” He shook his head. “In any case, there’s abundant evidence that the FitzOsborne family has owned Montmaray since the sixteenth century. Why, your own Queen Elizabeth the First acknowledged the FitzOsbornes as the royal rulers of Montmaray in her letter written in—In what year was it written, Your Highness?”
“I believe it was written in 1588, Lord Chancellor,” said Veronica. They turned identical glares upon Mr. Adams-Smythe.
He blustered on a bit more, his assistant growing paler and paler, before Simon finally put them both out of their misery.
“Well, I think that’s all for the moment,” he said, getting to his feet. “Please do contact us as soon as you’ve worked out how you’re going to rectify this grave error.”
Then we swept out of the office, Veronica leading the way. Toby gave a great whoop of triumph as soon as we reached the corridor, causing disapproving heads to emerge from various doorways. Toby ignored them.
“The expression on that man’s face!” he crowed. “And that flunky, I thought he was going to faint when you started going on about Spanish law!” He dropped his voice. “Was it true, what you said about Spanish inheritance?”
“Partly,” Veronica said. “But as all of their argument was fraudulent, it doesn’t really matter that I ignored a couple of key points of Spanish law.”
“Well done, Your Royal Highness,” said Simon, smirking at Veronica.
“Well done, Lord High Chancellor,” said Veronica. “That speech of yours was not bad at all.” We started down the staircase.
“Of course, I wrote most of it,” Veronica added. Simon rolled his eyes.
“Don’t start up again, you two,” said Toby. “Now we must celebrate! At once! Tea at the Ritz, I think.”
“Celebrate?” said Simon. “Celebrate what? We still haven’t achieved anything!”
We clattered out into the street and climbed into the car. While we all knew Simon was right, it did feel as though there was something to celebrate, even if it was just the temporary cease-fire between Simon and Veronica. Besides, the chocolate cake at the Ritz is scrumptious—I wasn’t about to miss out on that for anything.
We sped off to the hotel and were immediately shown to one of the nicest tables in the Palm Court (Toby is friends with the headwaiter). The string quartet was playing Vivaldi, the chandeliers were throwing armfuls of sparkling light against the marble columns and looking-glass walls and golden statues, and everyone gazed at us and murmured as we took our seats. Luckily, the four of us were dressed in our smartest day clothes, on account of the meeting. (I don’t mind being stared at, as long as I look all right—which doesn’t happen often.) As soon as we were seated, a waiter brought us tea and two tiered silver stands laden with pastries and sandwiches.
“I imagine heaven will be just like the Ritz,” sighed Toby, taking an éclair. “And it will always be teatime there.”
“What makes you think you’ll end up in heaven?” said Simon.
Toby started to explain how wonderfully angelic he was, bringing joy to everyone he met, but I was distracted by a couple in the dimmest corner of the room—not that it was very dim, given the chandeliers and so forth. The gentleman had just taken the lady’s hand and was giving her a look that Henry would have called “soppy.” The lady was wearing a very chic suit of marina-blue silk that looked just like one of Julia’s. Then she turned, and I saw it was Julia. I dropped my teaspoon, and Toby looked round.
“Is that Julia?” Toby said. “Who’s she with?” He waved at her, and, after a quick word to the gentleman, she stood up and threaded her way over to us through the maze of tables.
“Hello, hello!” she cried. “Gracious, look at all of you! What’s the occasion?”
“Who’s that man?” Toby asked. The gentleman had now vanished.
“Just a friend,” Julia said. “Ooh, you’ve got chocolate éclairs, how unfair, we just had scones—”
“A friend?” Toby repeated, raising one eyebrow.
“Now, don’t be jealous, darling,” she said, patting Toby on the head. “He’s not your type. Is that champagne coming our way? Excellent, what are we celebrating?”
Veronica explained all about the Foreign Office, and Julia listened with a show of great interest. Simon busied himself handing round the sandwiches so he didn’t have to participate in the conversation. Then a group of Julia’s friends came in, and she jumped up and went over to say hello.
“Well!” said Toby, sitting back in his chair and watching her tip-tap across the marble floor in her beautiful Italian shoes. “If I were her, I wouldn’t be organizing my romantic rendezvous at the Ritz. She might as w
ell put an announcement on the front page of The Times. Poor Ant—although one can’t really blame her. He’s a dear old thing, but imagine being married to him.”
“What are you talking about?” said Veronica, who’d been sitting with her back to Julia’s table and missed all the references to the mysterious “friend.”
“He’s not talking about anything,” said Simon quickly, frowning at Toby. “Sophie, would you like the last sandwich? It’s ham, I think.”
“No, thank you,” I said, partly because I haven’t felt quite right about eating ham since I met Estella, but mostly because I was so troubled over Julia. Not that holding hands with a gentleman meant she was having an affair with him, I reminded myself. Perhaps he was a cousin who’d had sad news—his best friend had died or he’d lost his job, and Julia was comforting him … Although he had been looking at her the same way that Daniel looked at Veronica. And Julia hadn’t said he was a relative …
Oh dear! Poor Anthony, he probably didn’t even know, he was so sweet and trusting and … well, I had to admit it, a tiny bit dim. And he did have that awful bristly mustache—kissing him must be like kissing a hairbrush. Perhaps if I could persuade him to shave it off, Julia might feel more kindly towards him and not be tempted to do anything …
And then there was Simon, who’d known all along. This was what he’d meant when he’d said she was an “unsuitable” companion for me. There wasn’t a hint of “I told you so” from him, but still, I could barely meet his eye. Any sense of celebration evaporated. And not even the half glass of champagne that Toby insisted I drink helped cheer me up.
28th September 1938
I knew the Nazis couldn’t be trusted! Those poor Czechoslovakians finally agree to give up the Sudetenland, having been bullied into it by Britain and France, and now Hitler’s announced that’s not good enough! He demands they hand over any Czechoslovakian district containing any Germans, not just the bits of land containing a majority of Germans, and he insists all this territory be given up by the first of October!
The FitzOsbornes in Exile Page 26