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colours. His eyelashes, as long and thick as Veronica’s, were a terrible distraction. ‘Who did you say gave it to her?’ he asked.
    I shook my head. ‘Some Russian nobleman. Veronica will know.’
    ‘If he were one of the Romanovs, it might be worth more,’ he said. ‘The Bolsheviks sold some Imperial eggs a few years ago and the Americans paid a couple of hundred pounds each.’
    ‘Really? A couple of hundred pounds?’ I said, looking at the egg with new respect (even though I couldn’t help agreeing with Great-Aunt Elizabeth’s opinion). Imagine all the dresses and shoes and things that two hundred pounds could buy! Then the loudest and ugliest of the clocks started to toll and kept on going till thirteen o’clock. ‘It’s a pity you can’t take one of them to sell,’ I sighed. I put the egg back on its gold stand for the time being and two of the other clocks started up. ‘Or all of them,’ I added. Then Henry yelled that breakfast was ready and we went back to the kitchen.
    Simon must find us terribly primitive after living in London for so long. He rides an underground train to his office, and his landlady has a refrigerator and an electrical machine for making toast. Watching him eat scrambled eggs with one of the bent forks, I was painfully aware that our window pane, broken last Christmas, still hadn’t been mended, that our dishcloth was little more than a rag and that one of the cats had been sick on the doorstep again.
    Not that Simon gave any indication that he disapproved, or had even noticed. Although this may have been because he was too busy dealing with Rebecca’s questioning. Was his landlady giving him meat at every meal? He was so pale, was he sure he wasn’t anaemic? Had he been taking his tonic? Was his room wellaired and his mattress turned weekly? And on and on until Veronica couldn’t bear to hear another word, and asked for the latest news on the war in Spain. The news papers the Basque captain had given us had turned out to be mostly in Portuguese and Veronica was still trying to decipher them. At any rate, Simon said, how could anyone expect Portuguese newspapers to tell the unvarnished truth when everyone knew that Salazar supported Franco? Then he went on to inform us that Madrid was under attack, the Nationalists had closed Spain’s border with France, and the Basques had established an autonomous government in the north.
    This meant almost nothing to me, but Veronica started chewing on her lip.
    ‘There’s an international committee been set up in London to discuss the situation,’ he added. ‘No one wants it turning into another Great War. And if there’s a non-intervention agreement signed, as there will be, then I believe...’ He cleared his throat. ‘I believe that Montmaray should be part of it.’
    Veronica’s expression went from thoughtful to scathing in an instant.
    ‘As one of Spain’s closest neighbours,’ Simon continued, squaring his shoulders but unable to prevent a faint (and, in my opinion, rather attractive) flush creeping into his cheeks, ‘if any nation has an interest in avoiding an international conflict, then surely Montmaray–’
    ‘And how exactly is Montmaray going to contribute to this international effort?’ Veronica asked. ‘Send George out in the rowboat to stop German submarines smuggling arms to Franco? For that matter, whom do you propose to send to these diplomatic meetings in London?’
    Simon shifted in his seat. ‘Well, Toby is heir to the throne...’
    My brother Toby is the dearest person in the world, but I’m certain he has even less of an idea about Spanish politics than I do.
    ‘With you as his advisor, I suppose,’ scoffed Veronica.
    ‘And why not?’ said Rebecca indignantly, turning from the stove. ‘Henry, run and fetch some of that blackberry jam Simon likes from the pantry, and mind you don’t let the jar slip this time.’ Henry dropped her napkin in her egg and dashed out, not wanting to miss any