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Authors: Michelle Cooper
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by gallant gentlemen, but hardly ever does the reader find out what happens to the handkerchief afterwards (unless it sparks off some catastrophe, as with poor Desdemona). What’s the correct etiquette for such an occasion? Should I post it back to Rupert with a letter of thanks? Or is he desperately trying to forget all about the incident, and me? He was so easy to talk to, once we got started, but the whole thing’s really quite embarrassing … I suppose I should just give it to Toby and ask him to return it, but I’ll need to brace myself for the teasing that will probably result. In any case, subsequent events pushed such trivial matters as handkerchiefs from my mind.
Firstly, Miss Thompson bolted (on the same early-morning London train as Simon, it turned out). Her resignation letter, brought in at breakfast by a footman, cited a mother who’d suddenly developed a grave illness. While Miss Thompson’s departure came as no great surprise, it did make Aunt Charlotte very cross, because it meant she had to find another governess. The situation, already tense, was not improved when Henry started shrieking at Toby, who’d just put a rasher of bacon on her plate.
“But it comes from pigs!” she cried. “ Dead pigs! Pigs who’ve been killed !”
“Better than coming from pigs that haven’t been killed,” he said. “And what about the ham you’ve eaten every Christmas for the past ten years?”
“But I hadn’t met any pigs then!” she wailed. “I didn’t know they had personalities, like dogs! You wouldn’t eat Carlos , would you?”
Toby sighed. “I suppose sheep and cows have personalities, too?” he said, peering inside the remaining silver dishes. “What about chickens?”
“Spartacus had a personality,” she sniffed, recalling our ferocious rooster at Montmaray. “Remember how he teased the cats? Oh, poor, poor Spartacus—do you think he was squashed by the bombs?”
Aunt Charlotte was becoming more and more annoyed, and Veronica looked as though she were about to throw down her newspaper and do a bolt of her own, so I hurried Henry into her seat and handed her my piece of toast.
“There’s scrambled eggs,” mused Toby, still at the sideboard. “They’re not actually chickens. Potential chickens, perhaps …”
After some thought, Henry decided fish didn’t have personalities unless they were extremely large, like Moby Dick, so she had half of Toby’s kippers. Aunt Charlotte, muttering under her breath, stomped away to telephone the agency about a new governess, and Toby and Veronica returned to the declining Roman Empire. I went off to the music room, where I was trying to teach myself to waltz with the aid of Aunt Charlotte’s gramophone and a booklet Julia had lent me. Unfortunately, transforming little black shoe-shapes and curly arrows on a page into actual movement was proving difficult. I was deep in a dizzy muddle when the footman came in to announce I was wanted on the telephone.
“Me?” I gasped, dropping the tasseled bolster I’d been using as a dance partner.
“Mr. Simon Chester expressly asked for Your Highness,” he said.
I followed him to the little room under the stairs where the telephone was kept and gingerly picked up the speaking part.
“Hello?” I shouted, first in one end, then the other.
“Oh, there you are,” said Simon, sounding as though he were in the next room instead of all the way up in London. “Sophia, the clinic called—I’m afraid Mother’s not at all settled, so could you please go over and sort it out? Parker can drive you—”
“What?” I said, aghast. “Simon, how would I be any help? Your mother hates me!”
“No, no, it’s Veronica she can’t stand. And Toby’s supposed to be studying, and I’m stuck here, meant to be meeting the bank manager at noon … But you’re much the best person for the job, anyway. The matron’s expecting you, and there’s a therapist wanting a chat, too.”
“But I don’t
Firstly, Miss Thompson bolted (on the same early-morning London train as Simon, it turned out). Her resignation letter, brought in at breakfast by a footman, cited a mother who’d suddenly developed a grave illness. While Miss Thompson’s departure came as no great surprise, it did make Aunt Charlotte very cross, because it meant she had to find another governess. The situation, already tense, was not improved when Henry started shrieking at Toby, who’d just put a rasher of bacon on her plate.
“But it comes from pigs!” she cried. “ Dead pigs! Pigs who’ve been killed !”
“Better than coming from pigs that haven’t been killed,” he said. “And what about the ham you’ve eaten every Christmas for the past ten years?”
“But I hadn’t met any pigs then!” she wailed. “I didn’t know they had personalities, like dogs! You wouldn’t eat Carlos , would you?”
Toby sighed. “I suppose sheep and cows have personalities, too?” he said, peering inside the remaining silver dishes. “What about chickens?”
“Spartacus had a personality,” she sniffed, recalling our ferocious rooster at Montmaray. “Remember how he teased the cats? Oh, poor, poor Spartacus—do you think he was squashed by the bombs?”
Aunt Charlotte was becoming more and more annoyed, and Veronica looked as though she were about to throw down her newspaper and do a bolt of her own, so I hurried Henry into her seat and handed her my piece of toast.
“There’s scrambled eggs,” mused Toby, still at the sideboard. “They’re not actually chickens. Potential chickens, perhaps …”
After some thought, Henry decided fish didn’t have personalities unless they were extremely large, like Moby Dick, so she had half of Toby’s kippers. Aunt Charlotte, muttering under her breath, stomped away to telephone the agency about a new governess, and Toby and Veronica returned to the declining Roman Empire. I went off to the music room, where I was trying to teach myself to waltz with the aid of Aunt Charlotte’s gramophone and a booklet Julia had lent me. Unfortunately, transforming little black shoe-shapes and curly arrows on a page into actual movement was proving difficult. I was deep in a dizzy muddle when the footman came in to announce I was wanted on the telephone.
“Me?” I gasped, dropping the tasseled bolster I’d been using as a dance partner.
“Mr. Simon Chester expressly asked for Your Highness,” he said.
I followed him to the little room under the stairs where the telephone was kept and gingerly picked up the speaking part.
“Hello?” I shouted, first in one end, then the other.
“Oh, there you are,” said Simon, sounding as though he were in the next room instead of all the way up in London. “Sophia, the clinic called—I’m afraid Mother’s not at all settled, so could you please go over and sort it out? Parker can drive you—”
“What?” I said, aghast. “Simon, how would I be any help? Your mother hates me!”
“No, no, it’s Veronica she can’t stand. And Toby’s supposed to be studying, and I’m stuck here, meant to be meeting the bank manager at noon … But you’re much the best person for the job, anyway. The matron’s expecting you, and there’s a therapist wanting a chat, too.”
“But I don’t
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