The FitzOsbornes in Exile by Michelle Cooper

she said, dragging me up. Under the pretense of visiting the loo (although why we’d need to go together , I’ve no idea), we escaped into the hall. Luckily, the footman was coming out of the dining room, looking for me—he’d rescued my poor heel. I thanked him profusely.
    “And if Your Highness will permit me, the shoe can be mended.”
    So I sat on the marble staircase like Cinderella, one shoe on and one shoe off, waiting for the footman to return, while Veronica stalked along the hall, gazing up at the paintings.
    “Look, Sophie!” she kept saying. “It’s a Caravaggio!” Or a Rubens. Or a Van Dyck. It seemed extraordinary that people who’d grown up with such beautiful, thoughtful pictures could enjoy the company of that horrible Mosley man. The footman eventually came back, and I slipped my shoe on, apologizing to him for all the trouble I’d caused. Then, thank heavens, the gentlemen filed back into the drawing room and we were able to depart.
    “ What an eventful evening,” said Toby once Parker had stowed away his crutches and gone round to the front of the car. “We never had dinner parties like that before the girls arrived, did we, Simon?”
    “Hmm,” said Simon.
    “I mixed up the name of Cynthia’s brother with that of her horse, so she glared daggers at me all night,” said Toby. “Veronica insulted the leader of a gang of vicious hooligans. Simon, what did you do to poor old Lord Londonderry? He kept giving you the filthiest looks.”
    “I kicked him in the shin when I was trying to get Veronica to shut up,” said Simon.
    “Soph, how was your evening?”
    I recounted my shoe saga.
    “I was wondering why you smelled of glue,” Toby said. “Well, an excellent evening all round for the House of FitzOsborne. Unless—” He slid open the glass window separating us from the chauffeur. “Parker, how did you go at cards tonight?”
    “Lost three bob, sir,” said Parker.
    “Oh dear,” sympathized Toby. “It wasn’t to one of those Blackshirts who drive Mosley around, was it?”
    “Indeed it was, sir,” said Parker. “Indeed it was.”
    “Rotten luck,” said Toby, then leaned back in his seat. “We’ll probably never get invited back to the Bosworths’ again.” He smiled broadly. “So, well done, all of you!”
    Of course, Aunt Charlotte was absolutely furious when she found out. Lucky for us that she’s too busy with preparations for our London Season to do much reprimanding. She is trying to compile a guest list for our coming-out ball in May (a most arduous task, as she keeps reminding us) while supervising the packing and trying to run a household with two-thirds of her staff (several carloads of servants have already been dispatched to London to open up Montmaray House). At least Henry has now calmed down about being left behind at Milford Park with Miss Bullock—her pony and the impending arrival of Cleopatra’s piglets seem to have helped, and of course, Carlos will stay here …
    Oh dear, Phoebe has just knocked a bottle of cologne into my handkerchief drawer. Never mind, they’ll smell extra-nice now!
    It’s no good, the poor girl’s still oozing tears. Better go and cheer her up …

25th February 1937
    Their Royal Highnesses
Princesses Veronica and Sophia of Montmaray,
accompanied by the Princess Royal,
Princess Charlotte of Montmaray,
have arrived at Montmaray House
in anticipation of the Season.
    It seemed an extraordinary thing for The Times to print on their front page—who on earth would care? (Especially as hardly anyone here seems to know where Montmaray is , let alone what’s happened to it. Toby says that people at school were always mistakenly thinking he came from Montenegro or Montserrat, or getting him mixed up with Prince Rainier of Monaco.) But then this morning, an absolute avalanche of envelopes descended upon Montmaray House. Advertisements from dress shops and tea shops and businesses that hire out gilt chairs and marquees; offers of