A junior aide – a young man several years older than Aubrey – popped his head into the waiting room. ‘Sorry, Mr Fitzwilliam. The PM’s been caught up again. Sends his apologies. Cup of tea?’
‘Did he say how long he was going to be?’
The aide screwed up his face. ‘It’s hard to tell. There’s a lot going on.’
Aubrey noted how the aide hadn’t actually answered his question. He could go far in politics. ‘Tea would be appreciated, thank you.’
The tea was excellent, as was the light lunch that was brought an hour later. By two o’clock, Aubrey’s lack of sleep was catching up with him. Soon, it had caught up, gone past, and was threatening to lap him. His eyelids each weighed a pound. His chin was regularly sucked downward to meet his chest. Blinking was taking seconds to complete.
A cough made him jump. ‘Sorry,’ he said, automatically reaching for an excuse. ‘I was concentrating.’
A short, brisk woman looked over her glasses at him with the sort of polite disdain that only comes with years of practice. ‘I see,’ she said, clearly unconvinced, but quite happy to allow Aubrey his delusion. ‘A motorcar is waiting for you.’
Aubrey glanced at the window to see that evening was drawing in. The gas lamps in the street were glowing cheerfully. ‘My father wanted to see me.’
‘He sends his apologies. His post-luncheon meeting went longer than expected, then he was whisked into an emergency party session.’
‘What should I tell my mother?’
‘I believe they’ve been in communication.’ The woman pursed her lips. ‘She’s expecting you.’
The motorcar was an Oakleigh-Nash and Aubrey cursed its comfort. It made it even harder to stave off sleep as it rolled through the streets, past the Houses of Parliament, over the bridge, and made its way toward the family home in Fielding Cross with the subdued rumble of very expensive machinery, a noise Aubrey decided was purposely designed to send one to sleep.
He staggered out of the motorcar, mumbling thanks to the driver and treating Harris, the butler at Maidstone, to an incoherent greeting. Aubrey had visions of his bed, but he was brought up short at the foot of the grand stairs. ‘George,’ he said, with a fair stab at intelligibility. ‘What are you doing here?’
George Doyle was leaning against the newel-post, arms crossed on his chest. He was wearing a belted, striped Norfolk jacket and looked fit and vibrant. ‘I might ask you the same question, old man. Your Darnleigh House jaunt finish early?’
Aubrey tried again. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be at university?’
George sniffed the air. ‘You know, I think dinner is almost ready. Shall we go and see?’
With some bewilderment, Aubrey followed his friend only to run into Harris coming back the other way. ‘Dinner, young sirs,’ the butler announced. He glanced at George, to let him know that he knew that his summons was superfluous but wanting it understood that it was his job.
When they reached the dining room, Lady Rose was already there. She was wearing a favourite dress, a striking blue, high-necked and long-sleeved. Immediately, Aubrey could see the concern in her eyes. ‘Mother. What’s going on?’
‘Hello, Aubrey. I’m glad you’re here.’
There’s a wealth of commentary in that simple utterance, Aubrey thought and he began to grow very uneasy. ‘George, how long have you been here?’
George drew up a chair. One of the serving staff arranged his napkin on his lap. ‘A few hours, old man. Came as soon as I read the telegram.’
‘Ah. From my father?’
‘That’s the one. Said I should join you here. I was starting to wonder where you’d got to.’
His mother smiled a little, but Aubrey noted how she was fiddling with the gold charm bracelet around her wrist – the one his father had given her soon after they first met. ‘Your father telephoned and said he wanted you both to stay here until he could talk to you. After he’d received permission from your father, George, of course.’
Aubrey’s weariness had vanished. Something was awry, seriously awry. ‘Mother? Do you know what’s going on?’
Lady Rose was about to answer and the soup was brought out.
‘Potato and leek,’ George said. ‘Capital.’
George finished quickly, and allowed himself to be persuaded to have seconds, while Aubrey dawdled over his. It wasn’t that the soup was poor – it was excellent – but he spent most of his time watching his mother.
She barely lifted her spoon. She chatted absently with George about the putting together of the latest edition of the Luna, the student newspaper at Greythorn. George had received some favourable notice for his series of articles about the ordinary people of Holmland, and his prestige among the students working on the paper had grown considerably.
Engaging as she was, Aubrey couldn’t help but notice that his mother’s real attention was on the doorway that led to the entrance of the house. George hadn’t noticed this – devoted as he was to Lady Rose – but Aubrey saw the subtle shifts of posture and position that meant that Lady Rose could see the door without having to turn away from speaking to him.
When the doorknocker hammered, Lady Rose stiffened. George’s chat drained away when he saw the expression on her face. Harris appeared with a heavy, cream envelope on a silver tray. ‘M’lady?’
She held out a hand in the same way one might ask for a cobra and took the envelope and the letter opener that was also on the tray. Her lips were set in a grim line as she slit the envelope with quick, efficient movements.
It didn’t take long to read, and Aubrey was dismayed to see all the colour run from his mother’s face. ‘Mother?’
She didn’t respond. She put a hand to her mouth and scanned the letter again. Finally, she folded the letter and held it in both hands in front of her. ‘I have some distressing news.’ She took a breath. ‘Holmland has invaded the Low Countries.’
George smothered an oath. Aubrey clenched his fists and his heart pounded inside his chest. Nearly two years of tension, of plots and counter plots, had led to this moment. He’d hoped that it would never come, that a clever stroke would forestall it forever, but the tide was sweeping over them even as they did their best to resist it.
‘At ten o’clock,’ Lady Rose continued, visibly growing paler, ‘your father is due in the Lower House. He is going to announce that we are at war.’
There it is, Aubrey thought numbly. Such a simple statement: we are at war. Nation against nation, and misery would be the only inevitable outcome.
‘Holmland must be aiming to invade Gallia through the Low Countries,’ he said and he tried to remember his geography. Racing through the Low Countries would be easier than trying to force through the hilly terrain and fortified areas of north-eastern Gallia. ‘Our treaty with Gallia means we have no choice but to support the Low Countries.’
‘It was inevitable, I’m afraid,’ Lady Rose said, ‘after the assassination.’
Aubrey couldn’t help but agree. A few weeks after they’d fled Holmland, the Elektor’s nephew had been shot while touring the Goltans. Veltranian rebels had killed the well-meaning Duke Josef during a parade. Aubrey knew the loss would strike the Elektor hard. He held his nephew in high esteem, and it had been his idea for Duke Josef to visit the Goltans. It was the Elektor’s effort to reassure the Veltranians that Holmlanders weren’t all warmongers and barbarians, an effort than bravely ran counter to the more belligerent designs of the Holmland government.