The FitzOsbornes at War (49 page)

Getting ready for the big invasion of France, no doubt, but we’d arrived at the stables by then, so we didn’t have to talk about the horrible war any further. Rupert handed over the mare to the stable girls, the youngest of whom
definitely
tried to flirt with him. I suppose they’re a bit starved of male company, and he’s so nice and so good-looking (those beautiful hazel eyes, that firm jaw, his hair burnished gold where the light hit it) that I couldn’t really blame her. I was surprised at how irritated I felt, though – in a sort of ‘Hands off, he’s mine!’ way. I didn’t
say
anything, of course, but I realised I’d experienced a muted version of that feeling several times in the past. What an idiot I’d been, to fail to understand the reason behind it!

Barnes had been right all along, it turned out – and I must say, she positively
radiated
smugness when Rupert and I arrived back at the gatehouse, still holding hands. She ushered us into the sitting room (fortunately, she’d already whisked away the clothes horse dripping with underclothes), and brought us cups of tea, then took herself off to the kitchen to start dinner, even though it was my turn to cook. Aunt Charlotte had been unable to resist going over to the stables to inspect the new horse, so Carlos was our only chaperone (and a sleepy one, at that). Rupert and I had a lovely long chat, in which he said a lot of admiring things about me, and I said similar things about him. He said he’d fallen in love with me ages ago, so I asked why he hadn’t
said
anything, and he admitted that, for a long time, he’d felt it was hopeless.

‘I mean, the first time we met, I made you
cry
,’ he pointed out.

‘Oh, so you did!’ I said, remembering the scene in his pigeon loft. ‘Except that wasn’t really your fault. And I needed a good cry at the time. I felt much better afterwards.’

‘And then your aunt was determined to find you some rich, titled husband, and didn’t seem to approve of me at all. And also . . .’ He trailed off and looked down at our clasped hands.

‘What?’

He glanced up at me. ‘Well, sometimes I got the impression that um, you and Simon . . .’

‘Heavens, if you think Aunt Charlotte disapproved of
you
, you ought to hear her on the subject of Simon!’ I said. ‘Anyway, whatever I felt about him, it’s over now.’

‘Good,’ said Rupert, his gaze clearing.

‘I’ll tell you about it some day, if you like,’ I added.

‘I don’t
need
to know. But you can always tell me anything you like.’ And he gave me one of his sweet, serious smiles.

‘And
you
can tell
me
anything,’ I said, because regardless of how muddled the notion of truth seems to be in the wider world, I feel Rupert and I ought to be completely honest with each other. But just as he was saying that he didn’t have anything very interesting to tell, Aunt Charlotte walked in with Mr Herbert, who said he was driving to Salisbury the next morning and could give Rupert a lift back to the Bosworths’. Mr Herbert also kindly offered to ring Lady Astley from the vicarage to tell her, as our telephone hasn’t been working all week (I suspect the wires have succumbed to the perpetual damp).

So Rupert stayed for dinner, and was absolutely charming, and showed admirable composure when Aunt Charlotte started interrogating him about his ‘prospects’. (There’s a
war
on, for Heaven’s sake – no one knows
anything
about his prospects! We could all get wiped out tomorrow by that secret weapon the Nazis are rumoured to have invented!) Still, it was nice to see a return of the old Aunt Charlotte, because she’s been so very sad and weary and diminished of late. She
did
object to Rupert staying overnight in Toby’s room, though. She regards it as a sort of shrine, and we’re only supposed to go in there to clean. Henry’s room is also a shrine, albeit to a slightly lesser deity, but Barnes and Aunt Charlotte weren’t comfortable with Rupert staying in there anyway, as it’s separated from my room by a mere plywood partition and curtained doorway, so he could easily sneak in and ravish me. (Mercifully, this ridiculous conversation occurred in the kitchen, out of earshot of Rupert.) But I couldn’t see why poor Rupert should have to sleep on the sofa and put up with Carlos’s snoring all night, when
Toby
wouldn’t have minded his best friend borrowing his pyjamas or sleeping in his room. I had my way in the end.

After Aunt Charlotte and Barnes had gone upstairs to get ready for bed, Rupert and I remained in the sitting room a while longer, and there
was
kissing this time, and it was blissful. Rupert is
so
sweet and gentle and considerate. The only problem was that Carlos kept trying to climb onto our laps, so we finally gave up on the kissing (probably a sensible move, as Barnes and Aunt Charlotte kept thumping downstairs to do completely unnecessary tasks like fetching glasses of water and checking that the back door was latched) and we let Carlos drape himself over us. I asked Rupert about dogs and arthritis, because Carlos seems so much slower than he was even a few months ago. But Rupert thought we were already doing as much as we could.

‘He’s not overweight, which helps, and you say he’s still going for walks. He’s got a warm, comfortable bed, but I suppose you could give him a hot water bottle as well. Does he have a good appetite? Carlos? Do you enjoy your dinner?’

Carlos grinned and said, ‘Ha ha ha!’, the way he always does when anyone mentions food. He hadn’t had two people’s undivided attention for quite a while, and he was enjoying every second of it.

‘Yes, he loves his food, and everyone else’s food, too,’ I said. ‘But I’ve noticed him limping, and some mornings, it takes forever for him to get going. I hate the thought of him in any pain, but it’s even worse to imagine him being . . . you know, put down. I realise he’s very old and that it’s silly to be fussing over a dog when we’re in the middle of a war, but . . . well, he was
Henry’s
dog.’

And my eyes unexpectedly filled with tears and I found I couldn’t say anything else. But Rupert was very understanding, and after I’d wiped my face, he talked a bit about Henry and, more importantly,
asked
me about her. And I realised I hadn’t talked about her death to
anyone
. I hadn’t needed to tell people in the family, because they all knew about it, obviously, and Veronica was the one who’d let all our friends and acquaintances know. Then, at the funeral, I’d been so angry and spiky that no one had wanted to broach the subject with me afterwards.

So, when Rupert asked me how I was feeling, it all surged out: how I still had moments when I forgot Henry was dead and how awful it was when I remembered; how I hadn’t ever appreciated her properly until it was too late; how guilty I felt because I hadn’t kept her safe. Rupert was a very good listener. It wasn’t that he
agreed
with me, just that he didn’t dismiss what I said as irrational or stupid, even though some of it probably is. In fact, he said it sounded quite natural, in the circumstances. As I spoke, I began to feel lighter. Sad rather than anguished, not
quite
so filled with fury and bitterness when I thought of her . . .

Then Barnes came in for about the fifth time and suggested that Rupert should get some sleep, because Mr Herbert was leaving
very early
the next morning. So we obediently went upstairs, to Carlos’s great disappointment.

14th January, 1944

I
’VE COME UP TO
L
ONDON
for a week, because Veronica is back from Spain, and already it’s been far more eventful than I could possibly have anticipated. I’d planned to arrive before her, so that I could make the flat a bit more welcoming – turn on the electricity and gas, go out to buy some food, that sort of thing – but my train was late. Well, to be honest, I
missed
the train. After Aunt Charlotte dropped me off outside Salisbury station, I sat down on a bench to read Rupert’s latest letter again, and I sort of lost track of time. But then the next train
was
late, and when I arrived in London, I couldn’t find a taxi for ages, and all the buses were packed.

Anyway, when I eventually climbed the steps to our flat, I saw that the front door was ajar, with Veronica’s suitcase blocking the way. I could also hear what sounded like Daniel’s voice. I nudged the door open and stepped over the suitcase, then noticed the filled kettle sitting on the stove and the gaping cutlery drawer. Veronica and Daniel seemed to be having a loud debate in the sitting room – although there was nothing unusual about that. Probably politics, I thought, as I set my own suitcase down. Then I heard Veronica say,

‘But what about Sophie? Should I tell her or not?’

I gasped and rushed into the next room.

‘Tell me what?’ I demanded. ‘What’s going on?’

Veronica leapt to her feet and flung her arms around me. ‘Oh, Sophie!’ she cried, in a muffled way, into my hair.

‘Hello, Sophie!’ Daniel said. ‘Um . . . I’ll just finish making that tea then, shall I?’ And he hastened into the kitchen.

‘What is it?’ I asked, tugging away from Veronica so I could search her face for clues. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’

‘Oh, it’s not
bad
news,’ she said. ‘Truly, it’s not. Here, sit down. It’s just . . . well, I didn’t want you getting your hopes up and having it all come to nothing. I thought it would be better if I kept quiet until I knew for certain . . . but now I suppose I
have
to tell you.’

Then she stopped and chewed her lip, gazing at me with anxious intensity. I was ready to strangle her from sheer frustration.

‘Veronica! Just
say
it!’

‘Well, it’s a long story. It’s about . . . That is, it
may
be about . . . about Toby.’

I stared at her, all the words in my mouth drying up.

‘You see, I’ve been in the northern bit of Spain – Basque country – for the past few weeks,’ she began. ‘Michael’s up there most of the time, now. It’s pretty much his full-time job, liaising with the people who bring Allied pilots across the mountains from France, then getting the pilots out of prison once the Spanish authorities catch them, which they generally do. We were based at the consulate in Bilbao, but we went to San Sebastián quite a lot. Anyway, a British intelligence person arrived last week and he needed to talk to one of Michael’s Basque contacts. The Basques aren’t just bringing pilots across the border, but all sorts of information valuable to the Allies as well. Michael was busy with something else, so I went along to introduce them and to interpret.’

Daniel came in and handed us mugs of tea, then tactfully disappeared back into the kitchen. Veronica continued.

‘So, this intelligence officer – I’m not supposed to be telling you any of this, of course, but let’s call him Tom – sits down next to me at the agreed place, and we wait and wait, and finally, the Basque man – José – turns up, except he has a young man with him, someone I’ve never seen before. But José says, “No, no, it’s fine, he’s my wife’s cousin.” And you know how clannish the Basques are, so I nod at Tom and he starts asking his questions and I’m interpreting away, when suddenly the young man leans over to me and says, “Are you from Montmaray?”’

I gaped at Veronica. ‘But how would he know that?’

‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Everyone just calls me “Miss FitzOsborne” at the Embassy. Older Spaniards sometimes know about my mother’s family, but no one
ever
mentions Montmaray. So I looked about in a wild panic, expecting to see Gestapo agents running over to
kidnap
me or something. Tom didn’t have a clue what was going on, of course, but José hit the young man on the shoulder and said, “You idiot! You’re scaring her! Tell her properly!”’