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Authors: Michelle Cooper
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“Because we need her out of the room while we figure out what to do for her birthday.”
“Aunt Charlotte’s giving her a three-strand pearl necklace,” said Henry. “I overheard her talking to Barnes about it.”
“You shouldn’t have been eavesdropping,” I told her.
“It’s practice for when I become a private detective,” said Henry. “Toby, can I borrow a shilling? I know what I’m getting her, but it’s a secret.”
“What are we getting her?” I asked Toby as he handed over a coin. “Books, I suppose.”
“Probably,” he said. “But I do have one surprise up my sleeve—I got Simon to look up the address of her Communist paramour.”
“Don’t call Daniel that ,” I said crossly. I was starting to regret ever having told Toby about Daniel. “And we don’t even know if he is a Communist.”
“Well, apparently he runs a newspaper distributed by the International Alliance for the Promotion of Socialist Beliefs, so I doubt he’ll be campaigning for the Conservatives at the next election. You’d better write to him—he doesn’t know me.”
After further debate about Veronica’s birthday present, Toby and I decided on a subscription to The Manchester Guardian , because she’d complained that The Times was biased and kept spelling the names of Spanish towns incorrectly. However, given the current state of the world, I hardly think a newspaper will cheer her up. And I so want her to feel better—if not actually happy, then at least as though there’s a point to getting out of bed in the morning. I do think I understand a little of how she must feel. Montmaray would have ceased to function if Veronica had stayed in bed all day, but here there’s Aunt Charlotte to make all the decisions, and a small army of servants to take care of the house and grounds. To feel superfluous, on top of everything else …
For now I wonder if Veronica actually blames herself for what happened to Montmaray. It would explain her refusing even to talk about it. She’s so used to being responsible for everything, perhaps she thinks she could have, should have, done something differently, something that would have changed how it all turned out. Which is absurd, of course. The Germans were always going to come up to the castle, regardless of what she said or did; her father was bound to go berserk when he discovered them; and whether we’d told the truth about Hans Brandt’s death or not, Gebhardt would still have been determined to make us pay for it …
How depressing, the image of the greatest tragedy of one’s life as a series of toppling dominoes, the whole thing started off by the careless nudge of an elbow, and not even one’s own elbow. It almost makes me want to climb into bed and pull the covers up over my head, too. I shouldn’t be surprised that Veronica can barely muster the energy to have a decent argument with Simon nowadays.
It might be easier for Veronica if she enjoyed some of the activities I use as distractions—experimenting with new hairstyles, for instance, or talking Barnes into letting me try on all Aunt Charlotte’s jewelry. But feminine frippery merely serves to remind Veronica that here her value lies in her looks, not her brain (that, indeed, her brain will be a serious liability when it comes to husband-hunting, unless she’s clever enough to disguise how clever she is). But fortunately, Toby has talked Parker into giving Veronica driving lessons. So, between that and Veronica trying to prepare Toby for his exams, she should be too busy to succumb to despair—I hope .
I also wrote to Daniel explaining our new circumstances and reminding him that Veronica’s birthday is on Saturday, adding a subtle hint that he send something cheering, or at least intriguing enough to be a distraction. I then spent some time puzzling over the conundrum of Rupert’s linen handkerchief, now washed and ironed (although not by me). In books, weeping females are often lent handkerchiefs
“Aunt Charlotte’s giving her a three-strand pearl necklace,” said Henry. “I overheard her talking to Barnes about it.”
“You shouldn’t have been eavesdropping,” I told her.
“It’s practice for when I become a private detective,” said Henry. “Toby, can I borrow a shilling? I know what I’m getting her, but it’s a secret.”
“What are we getting her?” I asked Toby as he handed over a coin. “Books, I suppose.”
“Probably,” he said. “But I do have one surprise up my sleeve—I got Simon to look up the address of her Communist paramour.”
“Don’t call Daniel that ,” I said crossly. I was starting to regret ever having told Toby about Daniel. “And we don’t even know if he is a Communist.”
“Well, apparently he runs a newspaper distributed by the International Alliance for the Promotion of Socialist Beliefs, so I doubt he’ll be campaigning for the Conservatives at the next election. You’d better write to him—he doesn’t know me.”
After further debate about Veronica’s birthday present, Toby and I decided on a subscription to The Manchester Guardian , because she’d complained that The Times was biased and kept spelling the names of Spanish towns incorrectly. However, given the current state of the world, I hardly think a newspaper will cheer her up. And I so want her to feel better—if not actually happy, then at least as though there’s a point to getting out of bed in the morning. I do think I understand a little of how she must feel. Montmaray would have ceased to function if Veronica had stayed in bed all day, but here there’s Aunt Charlotte to make all the decisions, and a small army of servants to take care of the house and grounds. To feel superfluous, on top of everything else …
For now I wonder if Veronica actually blames herself for what happened to Montmaray. It would explain her refusing even to talk about it. She’s so used to being responsible for everything, perhaps she thinks she could have, should have, done something differently, something that would have changed how it all turned out. Which is absurd, of course. The Germans were always going to come up to the castle, regardless of what she said or did; her father was bound to go berserk when he discovered them; and whether we’d told the truth about Hans Brandt’s death or not, Gebhardt would still have been determined to make us pay for it …
How depressing, the image of the greatest tragedy of one’s life as a series of toppling dominoes, the whole thing started off by the careless nudge of an elbow, and not even one’s own elbow. It almost makes me want to climb into bed and pull the covers up over my head, too. I shouldn’t be surprised that Veronica can barely muster the energy to have a decent argument with Simon nowadays.
It might be easier for Veronica if she enjoyed some of the activities I use as distractions—experimenting with new hairstyles, for instance, or talking Barnes into letting me try on all Aunt Charlotte’s jewelry. But feminine frippery merely serves to remind Veronica that here her value lies in her looks, not her brain (that, indeed, her brain will be a serious liability when it comes to husband-hunting, unless she’s clever enough to disguise how clever she is). But fortunately, Toby has talked Parker into giving Veronica driving lessons. So, between that and Veronica trying to prepare Toby for his exams, she should be too busy to succumb to despair—I hope .
I also wrote to Daniel explaining our new circumstances and reminding him that Veronica’s birthday is on Saturday, adding a subtle hint that he send something cheering, or at least intriguing enough to be a distraction. I then spent some time puzzling over the conundrum of Rupert’s linen handkerchief, now washed and ironed (although not by me). In books, weeping females are often lent handkerchiefs
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