The FitzOsbornes in Exile (23 page)

He frowned at me, clearly incredulous. It was probably a good thing he didn’t realize it was he himself I’d wanted to hurt—and yes, I’d been in a jealous snit over Simon at the time. It was quite a tribute to Simon’s charm, I suppose, that he had us all in a fluster over him.

I was also surprised that Toby hadn’t yet discovered that one didn’t
always
get what one wanted. In my experience, one
rarely
did. But then again, my brother had been born on the Sabbath day, “blithe and bonny, good and gay,” with fireworks and feasts to celebrate his arrival in the world. I imagined that would set one up with rather high expectations for life.

“What matters,” I said very firmly, “is not what one feels but how one
acts
as a result of the feelings.”

I was going to add that it was also a good idea to consider
other
people’s feelings before taking action, but my words of wisdom were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. It swung open a few inches, and Rupert and the cat poked their heads around it.

“Well?” said Rupert.

“I’ve now seen the light,” said Toby. “I renounce the Demon Drink. From this moment on, my life will be a shining beacon of purity and—”

“At least you’re vertical now,” interrupted Rupert. “Are you ready for luncheon, Sophie? We’re eating in my rooms, if that’s all right.”

Luncheon was delicious—one of the benefits of saving the cook’s cat from death by terrier, I expect. The cat devoured a piece of salmon, then jumped onto the table, peering at each of us in turn as we worked our way through melon, lobster salad with fresh rolls, and then meringues and coffee and tiny glasses of a liqueur that tasted of marmalade. The warmth of the sun, the cooing of the pigeons, the soft snufflings of the bandaged hedgehog asleep on Rupert’s desk, all combined to lull me into a sense of drowsy well-being (although I suppose the Cointreau may have helped). The problems of the world seemed a long way away. Even Toby looked a bit happier by the end of the afternoon, I was pleased to report to Veronica when I finally arrived home.

“Good,” she said, nodding.

“And how were the Pembertons?” I asked her.

“Bad,” she said. Sir Julius had shown not the slightest interest in discussing Montmaray. “He’s one of those very correct civil servants who’d no more question a departmental ruling than run naked through Whitehall. And I could see he was horrified that Geoffrey liked me. Not even Aunt Charlotte’s money could compensate for me being a bluestocking
and
a Red.”

“That would make you a deep shade of purple. What about Lady Pemberton?”

“Dead, years ago—probably from boredom. You’ve no idea how tedious the conversation was. Even Aunt Charlotte thought so. She put on her Queen Mary act—you know, looking down her nose at everything.”

“That can’t have helped our cause.”

“No, but it never really had any chance of succeeding,” said Veronica. She sighed. “Still, at least it’s got Geoffrey off my back. He hasn’t the imagination or the strength of mind to go against his father’s orders, thank heavens. I almost wish …” She stopped.

“Go on.”

“No, it would sound insufferably vain.”

I laughed. “How could anyone accuse
you
of vanity? I’ve never met a girl less interested in clothes and hairstyles and makeup!”

She pulled a face. “Well, no, I’m not interested in any of
that
, although I quite understand why so many girls are. Their only hope for a secure future is to marry well, and men do seem to care what a woman looks like. It must have been even worse in centuries past. It’s pure luck, though, whether one’s looks happen to fit contemporary conventions of beauty. I’m not sure mine do now—”

“They do,” I said emphatically.

“—but
if
they do,
if
how I look attracts even a few men, I’ve realized it feels very uncomfortable to use my appearance to … to further my own aims. So I was going to say, I almost wish I didn’t have that option. Not that it worked particularly well with Geoffrey Pemberton.”

“But you don’t have any scruples about using your
brain
to convince others of your point of view,” I noted.

“Well, I feel as though I’ve developed my brain, through reading and listening and thinking. It feels less of a gift, and more of a hard-won prize, than how I look.”

“I think it’s just as much a gift, being born with a brain that’s
capable
of developing,” I said. “I mean, look at Kick’s sister.” (Rosemary Kennedy is a little slow, poor thing, although she’s a very sweet girl. And it’s possible she only seems slow in comparison to her brothers and sisters, who are unrelentingly quick, sharp, and loud.) “Anyway, whatever you’ve been given, Veronica—looks or brains—I think it would be a dreadful waste for you to ignore them. I just wish you could transfer anything you don’t want to me.”

“Don’t talk like that!” she scolded. “You’re very pretty, Sophie, and there’s certainly nothing wrong with your brain. And you’ve been blessed with a lovely temperament, so calm and gentle. Or
is
temperament a gift? Perhaps
it’s
developed through hard work, too.”

This is the sort of thing I could talk about for hours. I was going to say that temperament was surely related to looks and brains—that a beautiful girl was bound to be more confident than an ugly one, for example, and that only someone with brains could be effectively devious. But the gong rang to dress for dinner, and Phoebe arrived to help me do up the back of my gown. Then came dinner and sitting around in the drawing room afterwards—and it is only now, long after midnight, that I’ve found the time and privacy to take out my journal and write this down. However, I’m so tired from my long day that any further musings on the human condition will have to wait.

21st July 1938

Dinner at the American Embassy last night. Kick’s elder brothers have arrived from the United States, and Veronica made quite an impression on Jack, the younger of the two, during cocktail hour. She must have spent at least twenty minutes deep in conversation with him, until she suddenly broke off and stalked across the room towards Toby and me.

“Do you know what that young man just said?” Veronica exclaimed indignantly, once she was within exclaiming distance.

“His sister’s standing right behind you, you realize,” warned Toby.

“Well, I don’t hold girls responsible for the behavior of their
brothers
,” retorted Veronica, unable to refrain from shooting a contemptuous look in Simon’s direction as he clinked glasses with the most glamorous of the Embassy secretaries. Kick poked her head out from the cluster of young men surrounding her and grinned at us.

“Jack just can’t help himself with beautiful women,” she said. “Go on, tell us.”

Veronica crossed her arms and scowled. “Well, we were having a perfectly sensible discussion about European rearmament—although I do think he overestimates the influence of British trade unions in this economic climate—”

“Get on with it,” said Toby.

“Well, and then he said something about ‘you English’ and he’d never even
heard
of Montmaray! And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he asked if I was a
Catholic
!”

“Are you?” said Kick. “I didn’t know that!”

“I most certainly am not!” said Veronica. “I’m an atheist!”

“Gosh,” said Kick. “Which one’s that again? I always get it confused with ‘agnostic.’ ”

“Oh Lord, please don’t ask questions like that, Kick,” groaned Toby. “Not unless you want a three-hour lecture on why the very notion of God is fundamentally irrational—”

“I’ll pray for you, Veronica,” said Kick, patting Veronica’s arm, then disappearing back into her scrum of admirers.

I don’t think Kick was joking, either. Last week, I went to her house to collect her on the way to Harrods, and just as she was putting on her hat, she realized she’d forgotten to say her rosary that morning. With a quick “Oh, Soph, you’ll excuse me, won’t you?” she dropped to her knees, right in front of me in her bedroom, and prayed away in silence for a good ten minutes. Watching her, I almost envied her unwavering faith in such rituals. Perhaps believing in God is part of why she’s so confident. Although I suspect that’s simply due to growing up in her family. Having Mr. Kennedy as a father would either frighten a child to death or make her tough enough to withstand anything. He certainly terrifies
me
. I had luncheon with the family when we came back from our shopping trip, and had to keep reminding myself that I’d faced far more unnerving situations and survived
them
. Hans Brandt dead with all his insides coming out, surely
that
was scarier than the Ambassador’s ice-blue glare and razor-sharp tongue, I kept reminding myself. But (unsurprisingly) this didn’t help my state of mind much. Mrs. Kennedy is extremely odd, too, so brittle that one expects her to crack apart any moment … Oh, but who am I to talk about odd families! Even the nicest ones, such as the Stanley-Rosses, have a black sheep or two. And Kick is a
lovely
girl, despite what Aunt Charlotte says.

Aunt Charlotte was just getting back from a dinner of her own as we arrived home last night, and she wanted to hear all the details of our evening. One good thing about our second Season is that Aunt Charlotte is a little more relaxed regarding letting us go places without her as a chaperone. I’m not sure if it’s because Veronica and I have been on our very best ladylike behavior lately or because Toby’s now around to escort us. (Of course, it’s possible that our aunt was exhausted from the strain of supervising us and simply needed a rest.)

“Elizabeth Elchester says she hears Billy Hartington is making an absolute
fool
of himself over that Kennedy girl,” Aunt Charlotte announced after herding us into the drawing room. She perched on a sofa, spine straight as a poker, and fanned herself briskly. “Not that it will come to anything. Imagine, the heir to the Duke of Devonshire marrying a
commoner
! And, of course, with the Duke’s poor grandfather having been murdered in cold blood by Irish Republicans—”

“It wasn’t his grandfather. It was his great-uncle,” said Veronica.

“—it’s
completely
out of the question that an Irish Catholic girl could ever become the next Duchess of Devonshire,” Aunt Charlotte went on, frowning at Veronica. “Particularly
that
girl. A gum-chewing American whose father splashes money around in that vulgar fashion.” Our aunt turned to me. “I suppose she’s gloating about having snared the most eligible bachelor in England.”

“No, she’s not,” I said stoutly. “Kick has dozens of boys after her, she might not even have noticed Billy Hartington. Besides, her family would hate for her to marry a Protestant.”

“Of course they would,” said Aunt Charlotte. “They’d expect him to convert. It’s all part of their Popish plot, you see, marrying English peers and bringing up the heirs as Catholics. Those Roman Catholics have never given up hope of reclaiming the British throne. It’s Guy Fawkes all over again—”

Veronica opened her mouth, no doubt to explain the political context of the Gunpowder Plot, but Aunt Charlotte held up an imperious finger, decorated with diamonds and emeralds and a sapphire the size of a quail’s egg.

“I do not wish to argue about it,” Aunt Charlotte said, “and stop contradicting me, Veronica. It’s most disrespectful of you. Besides, you’re distracting me from my point—which is that this situation is entirely
your
fault. I told you last year that Billy Hartington was perfect for you. You really ought to have done something about it, saved the poor Devonshires all this worry …”

Our aunt might seem sane and sensible in comparison to her elder brother most of the time, but a distinct streak of lunacy becomes apparent whenever she contemplates Veronica’s or my marriage prospects. Still, I’d rather she occupy herself with us than with Toby, who is showing his own streak of FitzOsborne contrariness at the moment. Thank heavens Aunt Charlotte hasn’t yet discovered that he won’t be going back to Oxford in the autumn. He got the letter from Christ Church on Tuesday.

“You’ve been sent down?” cried Veronica, snatching the letter from his hand.

“No, I have not,” Toby said calmly. “I’ve simply decided I’m not suited to an academic—”

“You didn’t even
turn up
to your examinations?” Veronica said faintly, her head bent over the paper.

“No point. Waste of time for me, for the invigilator, for the poor don who’d have to mark the exam—”

“Aunt Charlotte is going to have a fit,” I said, looking over Veronica’s shoulder. “Although … No, it’s not as bad as it seems. They’re offering you a second chance, Toby. You just need to work really, really hard next term.”

“I don’t want a second chance,” Toby said. “I didn’t even want a first chance. I oughtn’t to be there. It should be Simon, or you, Veronica—”

Veronica threw the letter onto my bed and walked out of the room.

“You really are the absolute
limit
, Toby!” I said, turning on him in a fury. I could just imagine how Veronica felt. “Tossing this opportunity away when you know how much it would mean to Simon or Veronica!”

“But that’s why I’m doing it!” he said, blinking. “So that one of them can—”

“How can you be so
stupid
?” I shouted, almost stamping my foot. “Aunt Charlotte isn’t going to let either one of them take your place!”

“We’ll see about that,” he said, setting his jaw in that stubborn way that Henry does. “Anyway, I’m just doing what you told me to do. I’ve stopped wallowing in misery. I’m taking charge of my life.”

“
I
didn’t tell you to, to …” I was going to say “ruin your life,” but of course, it wouldn’t ruin Toby’s life. Plenty of gentlemen leave Oxford without taking a degree. It wasn’t as though he’d planned to become a doctor or an engineer or a professor. The really infuriating thing was that I knew Aunt Charlotte would forgive Toby, sooner or later—probably sooner. It was possible he might actually succeed in coaxing her into funding Simon’s higher education … but no, that was surely beyond even Toby’s powers of persuasion. I scowled at my brother. “Well, what on earth are you going to do with yourself now?”

“Do?” he said. “I’m the King of Montmaray, isn’t that enough? And I’m sure it’ll be easier to rule Montmaray from here, compared to being cloistered away in Oxford. I can help you with the campaign.”

I knew perfectly well that he just wanted to be closer to Simon, so I continued to glare.

“Oh,
Soph
,” Toby said, in his most cajoling voice. It seemed to bend through the air and beckon me closer—but I resisted. “Now, don’t look like that, darling. I really
do
want to help.”

I suddenly remembered Rupert and asked what he thought of all this.

“He’s a bit cross about it,” Toby conceded. “But he’ll come round eventually, he always does. He’s so sweet, he’s just like you. Now, you’ll go and talk to Veronica, won’t you, help her understand?”

“If I do discuss this with her,” I said, “it’ll be to make
her
feel better, not you!”

I sometimes feel like a one-person League of Nations, trying to mediate between all the feuding members of this family.

Then I went to visit Julia at her newly finished house in Belgravia this afternoon, and
she’d
just had a tiff with Anthony.

“He tells me it’s
counter-revolutionary
to be presented at Court, even though absolutely everyone gets presented again once they’re married—Mummy would’ve been mortified if I hadn’t gone ahead with it—and besides,
he’s
a viscount, for heaven’s sake! What does he think Marx would have to say about
that
? Oh, darling, don’t let anyone tell you that men are more logical than women, it’s utter rubbish! Now, I thought I’d use this as my sitting room. Oh, do you like that carved screen? Isn’t it gorgeous, it’s my favorite thing in the whole room! It’s Indian, and so are the miniatures over the desk. I had the chairs covered in that cerise silk to complement the curtains, and look, I found this carpet in the attics at Ant’s family place, isn’t it perfect in here? Let me show you the bedrooms …”

The house was a beautiful mixture of antique furniture and modern art, original oak paneling and bright silk curtains, freshly painted cream walls and lovely faded Persian rugs. I told Julia that if she ever grew bored or lost all her money, she could have a very successful career as an interior decorator.

“Aren’t you sweet to say so! Do you really like it? I thought the house would
never
be done, but here it is, finally—only, of course, Ant complains the place is too big and cost far too much, and he hates my dear little Picasso sketch, says it doesn’t look anything like a face. He’s about as cultured as a football—my husband, that is, not Picasso,
he’s
an absolute genius. You’re staying for tea, aren’t you, darling? Oh, don’t worry about that, I’ll telephone your aunt, and I can drive you home afterwards. We haven’t had a proper chat for ages, and I need to find out all about your current admirers … Nonsense, darling, I’m sure there are dozens of them! Well, I do know at least
one
of them, but you can do far better than my awkward little brother—”

My face coloring to match the curtains, I protested that Rupert was neither awkward nor interested in me, and tried to change the subject. But Julia was, as usual, unstoppable.

“Frankly, it’s a relief to find out he’s interested in human beings. We were starting to think he’d end up marrying a badger or a tufted owl or something. Thank God Toby’s at Christ Church, too, otherwise Rupert would stay locked away in his room with his books and his animals and never go out at all. Now, Sophie, tell me whom you’re in love with. Then I can invite him over and keep throwing you two together … I know! We’ll have a dinner party and play Sardines! I’ll shove you both into a cupboard, and he’ll be proposing in no time at all.”

Given that Julia hadn’t been sounding very enthusiastic about matrimony, I couldn’t understand why she was so keen to marry me off, and I said as much to her.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t advise marrying
my
husband,” she said. “Although perhaps
you’d
be more suited to—No, he needs someone like Veronica, bossy
and
interested in politics. I’m just bossy. Veronica’s far too clever for him, though, she wouldn’t have the patience to … Hmm, whom can we find for
her
? It’s a pity Anthony Eden’s still married—which reminds me!” Julia suddenly looked stern. “I hear you’re at the American Embassy
all
the time these days!”

“Please, don’t you start,” I said. “Just because Kick’s a Catholic—”

“Never mind about that. I’m talking about her brother. The eldest one, Joe. Stay away from him. No, I’m serious.” Julia leaned in, a rare frown creasing her perfect brow. “I’m warning you, he’s NST.”

“He’s
what
?”

“Not Safe in Taxis. A friend of mine had to fight him off the other night, he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Ripped her new Vionnet evening gown, too, she was furious … Oh, don’t look so shocked, Soph, you need to know about this sort of thing! I don’t suppose your aunt’s told you
anything
useful. If only
I’d
understood the Facts of Life as a debutante, all the peculiar things that boys do might have made more sense … Tell me, is there anything you’ve been wondering about?”

Well! Thanks to Julia, I now know exactly how married women avoid having babies. Suffice to say it requires a round rubber object that one has to obtain from a doctor, except doctors refuse to hand them over or even discuss the issue till immediately before one’s wedding day. The whole business sounds horribly messy, not at
all
romantic … although I suppose having a baby would be even more messy and unromantic. Anyway, it was very fortunate that Julia had finished her explanation by the time the footman came in to announce Simon had arrived.