The FitzOsbornes in Exile

by Michelle Cooper

  “But the League’s an international bureaucracy!” she protested. “Full of professional administrators—and how could they fail to notice a huge sum of money being handed over to them each year?”

  “Not a huge sum, not compared to all the money other countries pay,” he said. “Perhaps they saw that it came from London and assumed it was part of Britain’s contribution? Or they thought it was a donation from some English philanthropist, and it went straight into general revenue? And as Montmaray hadn’t contributed any staff to the League, didn’t send any representatives to the first Assembly meetings—”

  “But why didn’t we? Why didn’t we know about this?” said Veronica.

  Simon huffed impatiently. “Well! Look at how things were in Montmaray after the Great War, with the King being—”

  “Insane,” said Veronica, nodding. “And Aunt Charlotte probably authorized Mr. Grenville to sign any official papers that arrived at his office. You know how she thinks it’s unladylike to take any interest in finances or government matters.”

  “The League of Nations has been accepting our money all this time,” said Simon. “I can prove it!”

  “They’ll have to listen to us now,” said Veronica, her voice catching his excitement. “Whether we’re an official member or not—and perhaps we really are!”

  She gazed up at Simon, her eyes shining.

  “Simon,” she said, “I could kiss you!”

  “Please don’t,” he said hastily.

  Well, I certainly wouldn’t have minded kissing him, but I restricted myself to a heartfelt “Well done, Simon!” He put his arm around my shoulders and beamed down at me.

  “Wait till Toby gets back,” he said. “Wait till we tell him!”

  Veronica had already snatched up a pencil and some paper. “Firstly, we need to write to the League of Nations, asking them to check their records—”

  “And requesting a hearing at the Court of International Justice,” said Simon.

  “Wait—perhaps take it directly to the Council itself?” said Veronica, scribbling away. “Isn’t that what Abyssinia did when Italy invaded it?”

  “We’ll need independent witness statements, though,” mused Simon.

  “Those pilots who took photographs of the airstrip and the German ships at Montmaray. We’ll have to get in contact with the Colonel—”

  “But it’ll be argued that Montmaray is German property, that it was sold to them,” said Simon, running his hand through his hair. “That’s the official view of the British government. What we need is proof that the Germans bombed the island in 1937—we need evidence of their violent attack.”

  “There’s plenty of evidence!” said Veronica. “All of us are eyewitnesses.”

  “It won’t be enough,” said Simon, shaking his head. “We need—”

  “Otto Rahn,” I said.

  They both looked at me.

  “Herr Rahn will help us,” I said. “He told me how sorry he was about what Gebhardt had done. He tried to warn us before he left the island. Herr Rahn’s not a Nazi, not a proper one. He would never have agreed to them bombing our library.”

  Veronica looked down at her list. “Write to Otto Rahn,” she said at last. “In … Berlin, wasn’t it? Is he at one of the universities? Or perhaps we can get in contact with him via the Ahnenerbe, if he still works for them. I’ll get Daniel to translate our letter into German—”

  Bother. There’s the car. Aunt Charlotte’s back.

  17th March 1939

  Here we are, back at Montmaray House, deep in preparation for yet another Season. Aunt Charlotte’s demeanor is that of a war-weary general, facing the enemy across the trenches for the third and (she hopes) decisive battle.

  “I see the Mosley girl is making her debut,” she says grimly, peering at the gossip columns of The Times as though they were military dispatches. “His first wife’s daughter, of course. Well, the girl’s pretty enough, I suppose, and she’s inherited her mother’s jewels. But she hasn’t your looks, Veronica—and that reminds me, I must have Barnes get all my jewelry out of the bank. All of it this time, including the emeralds. Sophia, you’ll need a turquoise ball gown to display them to their best advantage—please see to it. You may have the car this afternoon … Oh, not another Kennedy girl being presented at Court! How many more of them are there?”

  I have to say that, while I understand Aunt Charlotte’s increasing desperation to get us married off, I have more important matters on my mind than finding the right shade of silk to match the Montmaray emeralds. As predicted by everyone but Mr. Chamberlain, Hitler’s forces marched into Prague two days ago. Czechoslovakia is now entirely under Nazi control. The Munich agreement, “peace for our time,” is dead. Hitler’s promises have been shown to be worthless. The next major move, according to Veronica, will involve Poland. She and Simon had an argument about whether Germany would invade some city in Lithuania first, but I’m not quite sure where it is, or why the Germans care so much about it. In other depressing news, the Spanish war is all but over, the British government having formally recognized Franco as the new leader of Spain three weeks ago …

  Oh good, Aunt Charlotte’s gone off to the hairdresser’s. Except Simon’s just walked in, looking grave. Oh dear, what’s happened now?

  An hour later.

  “Listen, everyone,” Simon began. “Toby, stop staring out the window and come over here. We need to talk. Things are looking very bad, war could be declared at any time. I think we need to consider if …” He took a deep breath. “Well, if we’d all be better off becoming British subjects.” He raised his hand to cut off Veronica, who’d already started to speak. “I know we’re Montmaravians, Veronica, and we always will be. But right now, Montmaray is officially German territory, and if Britain declared war on Germany tomorrow, we’d be classified as enemy aliens. We could be imprisoned or deported. I suppose we could explain we were refugees, but then we’d be officially stateless. The sensible thing would be for us to apply to become naturalized citizens of this country, right away.”

  “And we might need to be British subjects to join the armed forces,” said Toby, looking unnaturally serious. “I mean, I will. And you, Simon, if you join up—”

  “There might not be any choice about joining up, they’re already debating conscription in Parliament,” said Veronica. “But, anyway—”

  “Which reminds me,” interrupted Simon. “Sorry, Veronica—but, Toby, you need to speak to your aunt about your plans. She has no idea what you’re doing—actually, neither do I. Are you planning to join the Royal Air Force? Or were you thinking of the Auxiliary Air Force? Either way, they’ll ask you for proof that you’re a British subject.”

  “Actually, I’m not sure they will,” said Toby thoughtfully. “I mean, if there’s a war, they won’t really care, will they, as long as we’re all fighting against the same enemy? Although … what happened in the last war, Veronica? What about all those Montmaravian men who fought in France with the British?”

  “They fought under the Montmaravian flag, of course,” she said. “But—”

  “The problem is,” said Simon, frowning, “that the Home Office is making it very difficult to become a British citizen now, with all these refugees starting to flood in from the Continent. Henry might just scrape in, as she’s under sixteen and her aunt, her legal guardian, is British through marriage. But that doesn’t help us. We weren’t born in the British Empire, our fathers weren’t born in the British Empire, none of us is married to a British subject—”

  “Unless there’s something you’re not telling us about Daniel, Veronica,” put in Toby.

  “It is possible for the British monarch to grant us the rights of British citizens,” continued Simon, “as a royal prerogative, but it seems unlikely he’d do so. Not after Henry’s debacle at Buckingham Palace.”

  Veronica cleared her throat. “If I could possibly be allowed to speak for one moment? Thank you so much. As I was trying to say, I doubt there’
ll be any difficulties if we decide we want to be British citizens.”

  Simon gave her an exasperated look. “Veronica, I’ve just finished explaining that we don’t meet any of the conditions allowing us to become—”

  Veronica sighed. “Oh, Simon,” she said, “all those hours spent poring over law books, and yet you’ve forgotten the Sophia Naturalization Act of 1705.”

  “The what?”

  “Don’t you recall the Electress Sophia of Hanover?” Veronica asked.

  “Who?” said Toby.

  “Sophie, you remember her,” said Veronica.

  “Um,” I said. “Didn’t her son become King George the First?”

  “Exactly,” said Veronica. (Of course, the only reason I remembered her is that we share a name.) “The Electress Sophia was heir to the British throne, but she hadn’t been born here. So an Act of Parliament in 1705 naturalized her and all her Protestant descendants as British subjects.”

  “Are you saying … ?”

  “That the FitzOsbornes are direct descendants of the Electress Sophia of Hanover, yes,” said Veronica. “Therefore, we are eligible to become naturalized British subjects.”

  “Are you sure we’re descended from her?” asked Toby.

  “Of course I’m sure,” said Veronica. “Her youngest grandchild married our great-great—”

  “Yes, all right,” said Toby quickly. “We believe you.”

  “That’s all very well for you three,” said Simon. “But my surname is Chester, not FitzOsborne, and there’s no proof I’m descended from—”

  “Do try not to be so idiotic,” Veronica said impatiently. “We know perfectly well who your father is. You’re just as much a FitzOsborne as I am.”

  We all stared at her. Simon opened his mouth, then closed it again, turning rather pink.

  “I didn’t say I was happy about it,” she added rather defensively. “And, anyway, this is all beside the point! Becoming a British subject would mean giving up everything—renouncing our titles, swearing allegiance to the British crown, all of it! I haven’t any intention of pretending to be British just because there might be a war starting!”

  “I agree,” I said, but I was too busy taking down notes to say much more.

  “Yes, you’re quite right, both of you,” said Toby. “Simon?”

  “I … well … of course, I don’t want to be British!” he spluttered, still in shock over Veronica’s acknowledgment of him as one of the family. “But … but we still have to think about what we’re going to do if Britain declares war on Germany!”

  “Why don’t we declare war on Germany?” suggested Toby. “Right now? We’ve certainly got reason to.”

  “We are not declaring war,” said Veronica forcefully. “Not until we have no other option, till we’ve exhausted every diplomatic means. We are going to present our case to the League of Nations, the way any civilized nation would.”

  “Well, it’d help if we had a stronger case,” said Simon, having finally pulled himself together. “I mean, we still don’t have any independent witnesses—”

  At that moment, the footman entered the breakfast room with the post (I think we were all rather glad about the interruption, the conversation had become so intense). He placed a large envelope in front of Veronica.

  “Who’s that from?” said Toby, peering over. “The British Furriers’ Association? Why are you corresponding with them?”

  “Oh, it’s Daniel, incognito,” she said, slitting the envelope open with her butter knife. “On account of him being banned from this household in any shape or form. I think he uses old envelopes from his father’s office.”

  “You didn’t hear that, Bert,” said Toby to the footman.

  “Of course not, sir,” the footman said, with the barest hint of a smirk. “Shall I bring in some more toast, sir?”

  “No thanks. You can clear away now—”

  “Otto Rahn’s written back!” cried Veronica. “Daniel’s translated his letter!” She scanned the page as we all leaned in eagerly. “Rahn’s resigned from the SS! And he’s written another book, Lucifer’s Courtiers—gosh, it sounds even more bizarre than his first book—”

  “Never mind about his books!” said Simon. “What does he say about providing a statement against Gebhardt?”

  “He says that he will. He says … Oh. He must have had a falling-out with his superior officers in the SS. He was sent as a guard to some concentration camp, and he says what he saw there … Hmm. He’s opposed to war, to the way Germany’s preparing for war. He doesn’t approve of Hitler. Then there’s an enormous paragraph about establishing a New Order of Pure Ones and working towards Universal Peace … Sophie, he especially asks to be remembered to you.”

  I took the page from Veronica and read it. “He sounds very sad. ‘This new nation of Germany is no place for a man such as I.’ ”

  “I just wish he’d sent his statement with this letter,” said Simon after the page was handed on to him. “The League of Nations is asking for all our documentation as soon as possible.”

  “It sounds as though he’s already started writing it,” I said.

  “But he wanted to send us this note first. There, didn’t I say he wasn’t a proper Nazi?”

  And they all agreed I was very wise, and henceforth, they would always pay close attention to me. Not really. Still, it is very good news to hear how supportive Herr Rahn is. And when the League of Nations sees all our documents, reads what Herr Rahn has to say, they’ll have to help us. Surely they will.

  27th April 1939

  We really ought to have expected it, after Italy invaded Albania at Easter, but anticipating bad news doesn’t make one feel any better when it arrives. Yesterday Chamberlain announced that all British men aged twenty and twenty-one years old are to be conscripted immediately into the armed forces.

  Rupert is twenty. Three of our footmen and a dozen other male staff at Montmaray House and Milford Park are of an age to be called up.

  “Well, it’s a good thing I’ve already applied to join the Royal Air Force,” said Toby brightly at breakfast this morning. “Otherwise I’d feel quite left out of things.”

  Whereupon Aunt Charlotte burst into tears.

  I don’t know whether she was upset over Toby or at the prospect of losing so many good servants, but it was certainly unexpected. Veronica and I stared, dumbfounded, across the table at her, though Toby jumped up at once and put his arm around her.

  “Now, there’s no need to fuss,” he said, fishing out his handkerchief. “Goodness, there isn’t even a war on! It’s just the government being sensible. It’ll give all those poor unemployed men up north something to do. Three square meals a day and nice, warm uniforms—awfully kind of old Chamberlain to think of them.”

  “When I remember the last war,” Aunt Charlotte wept. “When I think of your poor father, and yours, Veronica …”

  As neither of our fathers died in the war (mine didn’t even fight in it), I wasn’t quite sure what she meant by that. Unless she was reminding us that Toby was the last living, legitimate male FitzOsborne, the one who was supposed to carry on the family name. As if summoned by my thoughts, Simon entered the breakfast room at that moment.

  “Simon!” cried our aunt, catching sight of him. “Simon, you must join the air force, too! I … I order you to do so, to look after Tobias! He can’t go off by himself, he’s just a boy—”

  Then she buried her face in Toby’s handkerchief, and I did what I ought to have done immediately and rang for Barnes. She arrived within seconds, took in the situation at a glance, and whisked Aunt Charlotte off to bed, summoning tea, brandy, and blankets as she went. (Imagine if Barnes were called up. Our household would collapse, but the British army would become unbeatable.)

  “Don’t worry about poor old Aunt C,” said Toby to Simon, who was still standing there, stunned at the unprecedented sight of our aunt showing any emotion other than annoyance. “She’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow.”
>
  Simon sat down at the table, shook his head, and reached for the teapot. “Oh, but I take my orders seriously,” he said. “I’ve no intention of letting you go off alone.”

  Toby’s jaw dropped. “Simon! You can’t even fly!”

  “If you can learn, I certainly ought to be able to do it. How different can it be from driving a car? Sophie, could you please pass the sugar?”

  “It’s completely different!” exclaimed Toby. “It’s in three dimensions. There’s an up and a down, it’s—”

  “They’ll bring in conscription for men aged up to twenty-five next,” said Veronica soberly. “Soon half the country will be in uniform.”

  “Yes, it’s much better to decide what one wants to do now than to have very little choice later on,” said Simon, stirring his tea.

  “But …” I hadn’t seen Toby so flustered in a long while. “But it’s safer for you here! And who’s going to look after the girls if we’re both away? And what about our submission to the League of Nations?”

  “We’ll deal with everything as a family, as we always do,” said Simon. “Won’t we, Veronica, Sophie? So, has the post arrived? Anything from Otto Rahn?”

  Veronica and I shook our heads in unison, glanced at each other, then returned to our breakfast. There we sat, spreading marmalade on toast and reaching for the milk jug, while the world fell into chaos. Our unflappable aunt having hysterics, Toby coming over all serious and responsible …

  Veronica picked up her newspaper and rustled it. “Typical,” she said loudly. “Franco’s announced the Spanish Civil War is over, King Zog of Albania’s been forced into exile by the Italians, British attempts to build an alliance with the Soviet Union have stalled yet again—but The Times chooses to devote almost an entire page to the royal corgis!”

  She was doing her best to return us to normality. It wasn’t her fault that it wasn’t really working.

  25th May 1939

  The most bizarre thing has happened. Aunt Charlotte has started reading the newspapers—not just the Court Circular and the gossip columns, but the bits in the middle about international politics. It’s very disconcerting. Mind you, she only pays close attention to political events if they involve people she knows (that is, people with titles). For instance, the evacuation of Spanish refugees from camps near the French border drew her interest only because Lady Redesdale’s eldest daughter, the Honorable Mrs. Rodd, had gone over there to help organize the ships to Mexico and Morocco. Still, even this rather narrow focus on politics has had a noticeable effect on our conversations. This morning, Aunt Charlotte was tutting loudly over some inflammatory remarks made by Mr. Kennedy (he is very pro-appeasement).