Free The FitzOsbornes in Exile by Michelle Cooper

know anything about—”
    “The address is in the green book, on the Chippendale table in the library—”
    “Simon! Are you listening?”
    “—and could you please remind your aunt about that dinner invitation from Lady Bosworth?”
    “But—” I started again. “Pip, pip, pip!” said the telephone.
    “Sorry, my three minutes are up,” said Simon. “Must go—thanks awfully, Sophia. See you in a few days.” And he was gone, leaving me spluttering into the silence.
    I couldn’t see any way out of it. What if they sent Rebecca back ? If it were possible to be expelled from a mental asylum for bad behavior, Rebecca could probably manage it. So I ran downstairs to find Parker, quite forgetting that we were supposed to ring the bell to summon a footman if we needed anything. Bursting into the kitchen, I startled half a dozen maids sitting at the table with their midmorning mugs of tea. They all jumped to their feet and started curtseying.
    “Oh, I’m so sorry!” I blurted. “I was just looking for—”
    “Quick, fetch Mr. Harkness!” hissed the cook at the tiniest maid, who shot off through a doorway.
    “But I only wanted—”
    “Mr. Harkness will be here presently, Your Highness,” said the cook, crossing her hefty arms across the bib of her apron and not quite looking me in the eye. “Ethel, stop that racket! Show some respect!” A maid, abashed, put down the bowl of eggs she’d been beating. Meanwhile, I stared helplessly around the room at all the pale faces frozen into deferential masks. At Montmaray, we’d practically lived in the kitchen. It had been the warmest, most welcoming place in the castle. But in this kitchen, I was a fearsome stranger. Fortunately, the butler arrived almost at once, straightening his cuffs.
    “May I assist, Your Highness?” he intoned.
    I stammered out what I’d wanted, and the bootboy was sent off to find the chauffeur. And I retreated upstairs, my face burning, having learned an unpleasant lesson about Milford Park protocol.
    Eventually, Parker sent a message back that he would drive me to the clinic after luncheon. Veronica said she’d come, too, to watch him change gears and deal with traffic. “Don’t worry, I won’t go in,” she assured me. “I’ll wait outside. And we can visit Shaftesbury on the way! King Canute died there!” It was the most enthusiastic I’d seen her since we’d arrived—there’s nothing quite like long-dead kings to cheer up Veronica.
    Shaftesbury turned out to be a little town on a steep green hill, its rows of historic houses looking as though they might tumble down into Blackmore Vale. It was all very pretty and Veronica had a lot of interesting things to say about its Anglo-Saxon founders, but I was too anxious to listen attentively. Rebecca had nearly killed Veronica last week, and the woman wasn’t all that fond of me, despite what Simon had said. Of course, there were unlikely to be axes lying around a clinic, but still … The car plunged on towards the coast, and all too soon, the sea appeared, a gray-blue blanket scrunched up on the sandy seafront. It wasn’t the same sea as the one I’d known, though—it was too mild-mannered. It didn’t even smell right.
    The clinic was a friendly-looking white building, the front path edged with seashells, a bird feeder dangling from the bare branches of a nearby tree. Inside, however, were the unmistakable signs of an institution—a notice board reminding residents about fire drills, a reception desk littered with ringing telephones, and a lot of women marching about in crisp white uniforms (it was some comfort to think of all those highly trained professionals standing guard between Rebecca and me). It turned out Simon had given them my full royal title, which got me an immediate audience with the matron but also meant lots of heads popping out of doorways to stare as I was escorted to her office. Several people bobbed curtseys and looked mildly awestruck as I walked