The FitzOsbornes in Exile (12 page)

“I think I might write an article on this,” said Daniel a short while later, between mouthfuls of roast chicken and asparagus. “ ‘The Decadent Life of the Debutante.’ As careworn maids slave away in furnace-like kitchens, aristocrats loll about upstairs, stuffing themselves with lobster and caviar …”

“And don’t forget the footmen,” said Toby, who was getting along famously with Daniel. “Servingmen staggering under silver salvers of sumptuous sustenance. And the chauffeurs, shivering in the chill air as they chafe their chilblains.”

“You should write an article yourself,” said Daniel. “You’ve a definite flair for alliteration. I think a talent for words must run in your family.”

Then he turned to me and we had a nice long discussion about poetry, until Veronica spotted Aunt Charlotte at the far end of the room and Daniel decided to make a hasty exit. Although not before jotting down the names of some contemporary poets for me on the back of my dance card—he was horrified when I admitted I’d never even
heard
of W. H. Auden.

Oh—and that reminds me to note that Toby has just received a letter offering him a place at Christ Church, Oxford, to read History. He’d already reported that he’d managed to get through the entrance examination all right, thanks to Veronica cramming facts and theories into him for weeks beforehand, and that his interview had gone extremely well—mostly because one of the dons had been the tutor of our father and another, very elderly don recalled our grandfather with great fondness. Toby sounded rather resigned about it all, but then he found out that Rupert got in, too, and became a bit more cheerful. (Apparently, Rupert had been trying to talk his father into letting him go to the Royal Veterinary College instead of Oxford, but without success.)

I should also mention how magnificent Aunt Charlotte looked last night at Buckingham Palace. She wore a full-skirted midnight-blue satin gown heavily embroidered with gold, and she was absolutely ablaze with diamonds. A few of the gentlemen seemed quite dazzled, and not just by the jewels, which made me wonder, not for the first time, why she never remarried. She might seem ancient to us, but she was barely in her twenties when poor old Uncle Arthur died during the war (he wasn’t a soldier; he just had a heart attack while inspecting one of his factories). And she was even more splendid-looking then—I’ve seen the photographs—so she must have had lots of suitors. Perhaps she thought they were just after her money. Or perhaps her experiences with Uncle Arthur made her decide that men simply weren’t worth bothering about. Amongst all her advice to us, she has dropped a hint or two that, for women, the physical side of marriage is mostly a matter of duty rather than pleasure. Of course, Uncle Arthur was so old—in his sixties, according to Veronica—that he probably couldn’t do anything at
all
. It’s no wonder they didn’t manage to have any children.

I suppose it’s lucky for us that Aunt Charlotte
did
keep her fortune to herself, given that none of us have any money of our own. Simon has just negotiated a monthly allowance for each of us. Veronica’s and mine are very generous (though not half as generous as Toby’s, but he’ll have more expenses, being at university). We’re expected to pay for everyday clothes and hair-dressing appointments and things like that out of it, but Veronica has already spent all hers on supplies for the Old Mill House.

And now I really
must
go to bed, as I can barely keep my eyes open. We didn’t get home till half past three this morning. Being part of Society is such an exhausting business …

27th May 1937

The Basque children arrived on the SS
Habana
on Saturday evening, and on Monday, Veronica and I drove across to Southampton to visit their camp. It was an amazing sight—hundreds of white tents had sprouted on what had been a bare field only a few weeks ago.

“Just like the tepees in that cowboy film,” breathed Henry, who’d insisted on coming along. “And look at all the people!”

There were nurses pinning back the flaps of a marquee, Boy Scouts carting buckets and benches, young men inspecting a freshly dug drain, and lorry drivers unloading crates of food. And then there were the children,
thousands
of them, ranging in age from about four years old to fifteen, running in and out of tents, straddling benches, clustered round a water pipe.

“The camp organizer’s called Mr. Sams,” said Veronica as we got out of the car. “I need to speak with him or Mrs. Manning. Henry, what’s that?”

“Just some things for the children,” said Henry, hugging a large, roughly wrapped parcel.

“Oh, that’s very thoughtful of you,” said Veronica.

“Wait a minute,” I said, suddenly suspicious, but Henry had already skipped off and accosted a young lady with a clipboard, who beamed, accepted the parcel, and marched away with it. (Later, of course, I discovered Henry had given away her entire collection of summer frocks.)

Veronica was very warmly welcomed, as few of the British volunteers spoke Spanish. In no time, she was translating in the medical tent while I offered to help serve the children’s first English luncheon. It was heartbreaking: The children were
so
thin, so used to subsisting on whatever they could scrounge. They were astonished by the quantity of food and, in particular, all the soft white bread—one girl grabbed a piece and stuffed it in her pocket, announcing in a loud voice that she was saving it for her mother back home. As I washed up afterwards, another small child attached herself to my skirt and started sobbing for
her
mother. Luckily, Henry had brought along her skipping rope and a football, which were well received by a large group of children.

There was a bad moment later in the afternoon, when some aeroplanes from nearby Eastleigh Aerodrome thundered overhead.
Instant
panic—all the children screamed in terror and bolted for cover, and I have to admit my first instinct was to join them. The whine of the engines brought back such dreadful memories—half an hour later, I was still trembling. Veronica said afterwards that she dropped a thermometer and almost dived under the table when
she
heard them, which made me feel a bit better. It made it seem less like cowardice and more like a normal reflex, like one’s knee jerking when a doctor hits it with a little rubber mallet.

We could only spend a day at the camp, because we had to go back to London for our coming-out ball. Montmaray House, when we arrived, was also a maelstrom of activity, although of a rather different type. A battalion of servants was busy polishing everything from the enormous crystal chandeliers to the marble floors. Footmen bustled around the ballroom arranging chairs along the walls while maids snapped lengths of damask over the tables in the largest drawing room and set out the sparkling glasses and china, the monogrammed linen napkins, and the antique silverware stamped with the FitzOsborne crest. Immense arrangements of white lilies were carried into the hall, white climbing roses were twined around the banisters and secured with white satin bows, and vases of white tulips were set upon each table, along with hundreds of white candles in silver candlesticks. Aunt Charlotte had also decided Veronica and I would be wearing … white.

“She might as well stick a sign on us,” grumbled Veronica. “
Virgin nieces—all reasonable offers of marriage considered
. She could hold a double wedding tomorrow morning in the drawing room, we wouldn’t even need to change our dresses.”

“It’s all right for you,” I said. “You look wonderful in white. I look as though I’m dying of consumption.”

Toby, who was perched on the end of Veronica’s bed, suggested I put on a pink-lined sash and asked Barnes to fetch all Aunt Charlotte’s amethysts—which did improve matters somewhat. I asked him whom I’d be sitting next to at dinner.

“Lord Londonderry, I think,” he said. “Veronica’s beside Lord Elchester.”

“Not
again
! I’m always stuck with that ghastly old Fascist!” exclaimed Veronica. Phoebe, who’d been trying to fasten Veronica’s pearls, squeaked and dropped them on the carpet, whereupon they slithered under the dressing table.

“Never mind, Phoebe. I’ll get them,” I said hastily. “We’re pretty much finished, anyway. Why don’t you go down and have supper now?” Phoebe ran off, sniffling.

“What is
wrong
with that girl?” said Veronica, staring after her.

“Perhaps she’s in love,” suggested Toby. “Suffering from some unrequited passion—that always turns everything tragic.”

“Or else she’s still worried about her brother,” I said as I retrieved the pearls. “He was in some sort of trouble in Liverpool. She started to tell me about it once, then Aunt Charlotte came in and she got scared off.”

“Well, if she ever manages to explain it,
please
do something to help her,” said Veronica. “She’s getting more dim-witted by the hour. I caught her fumbling through my post the other day—said she was looking for the shopping list Barnes gave her. Why on earth would it be on
my
desk?”

“Speaking of which, you haven’t had any more of those poison-pen letters, have you?” asked Toby.

“Not really,” she said, which was Veronica-speak for “Yes, but stop fussing about it.” I finally got the diamond clasp secured on her necklace, and she leaned forward to straighten her coronet. “Anyway, Toby, I meant to ask you about—” There was a knock on the door. “What do
you
want?”

This last was addressed to Simon, who walked into the room looking very elegant in his tails and white tie. He ignored her and held out his wrist so that Toby could fasten his cuff link. “You look very nice, Sophia,” he said, smiling at me.

“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!”