by Follett, Ken
A few hundred yards along the Mall, Walter and Otto turned into St. James’s Palace. This sixteenth-century brick pile was older and less impressive than neighboring Buckingham Palace. They gave their names to a doorman who was dressed as they were.
Walter was mildly anxious. It was so easy to make a mistake of etiquette—and there were no minor errors when you were dealing with royalty.
Otto spoke to the doorman in English. “Is Señor Diaz here?”
“Yes, sir, he arrived a few moments ago.”
Walter frowned. Juan Carlos Diego Diaz was a representative of the Mexican government. “Why are you interested in Diaz?” he said in German as they walked on through a series of rooms decorated with wall displays of swords and guns.
“The British Royal Navy is converting its ships from coal power to oil.”
Walter nodded. Most advanced nations were doing the same. Oil was cheaper, cleaner, and easier to deal with—you just pumped it in, instead of employing armies of black-faced stokers. “And the British get oil from Mexico.”
“They have bought the Mexican oil wells in order to secure supplies for their navy.”
“But if we interfere in Mexico, what would the Americans think?”
Otto tapped the side of his nose. “Listen and learn. And, whatever you do, don’t say anything.”
The men about to be presented were waiting in an anteroom. Most had on the same velvet court dress, though one or two were in the comic-opera costumes of nineteenth-century generals, and one—presumably a Scot—wore full-dress uniform with a kilt. Walter and Otto strolled around the room, nodding to familiar faces on the diplomatic circuit, until they came to Diaz, a thickset man with a mustache that curled up at the tips.
After the usual pleasantries Otto said: “You must be glad that President Wilson has lifted the ban on arms sales to Mexico.”
“Arms sales to the rebels,” said Diaz, as if correcting him.
The American president, always inclined to take a moral stand, had refused to recognize General Huerta, who had come to power after the assassination of his predecessor. Calling Huerta a murderer, Wilson was backing a rebel group, the Constitutionalists.
Otto said: “If arms may be sold to the rebels, surely they may be sold to the government?”
Diaz looked startled. “Are you telling me that Germany would be willing to do that?”
“What do you need?”
“You must already know that we are desperate for rifles and ammunition.”
“We could talk further about it.”
Walter was as startled as Diaz. This would cause trouble. He said: “But, Father, the United States—”
“One moment!” His father held up a hand to silence him.
Diaz said: “By all means let us talk further. But tell me: what other subjects might come up?” He had guessed that Germany would want something in return.
The door to the throne room opened, and a footman came out carrying a list. The presentation was about to start. But Otto continued unhurriedly: “In time of war, a sovereign country is entitled to withhold strategic supplies.”
Diaz said: “You’re talking about oil.” It was the only strategic supply Mexico had.
Otto nodded.
Diaz said: “So you would give us guns—”
“Sell, not give,” Otto murmured.
“You would sell us guns now, in exchange for a promise that we would withhold oil from the British in the event of war.” Diaz was clearly not used to the elaborate waltz of normal diplomatic conversation.
“It might be worth discussing.” In the language of diplomacy that was a yes.
The footman called out: “Monsieur Honoré de Picard de la Fontaine!” and the presentations began.
Otto gave Diaz a direct look. “What I’d like to know from you is how such a proposal might be received in Mexico City.”
“I believe President Huerta would be interested.”
“So, if the German minister to Mexico, Admiral Paul von Hintze, were to make a formal approach to your president, he would not receive a rebuff.”
Walter could tell that his father was determined to get an unequivocal answer to this. He did not want the German government to risk the embarrassment of having such an offer flung back in their faces.
In Walter’s anxious view, embarrassment was not the greatest danger to Germany in this diplomatic ploy. It risked making an enemy of the United States. But it was frustratingly difficult to point this out in the presence of Diaz.
Answering the question, Diaz said: “He would not be rebuffed.”
“You’re sure?” Otto insisted.
“I guarantee it.”
Walter said: “Father, may I have a word—”
But the footman cried: “Herr Walter von Ulrich!”
Walter hesitated, and his father said: “Your turn. Go on!”
Walter turned away and stepped into the Throne Room.
The British liked to overawe their guests. The high coffered ceiling had diamond-patterned coving, the red plush walls were hung with enormous portraits, and at the far end the throne was overhung by a high canopy with dark velvet drapes. In front of the throne stood the king in a naval uniform. Walter was pleased to see the familiar face of Sir Alan Tite at the king’s side—no doubt whispering names in the royal ear.
Walter approached and bowed. The king said: “Good to see you again, von Ulrich.”
Walter had rehearsed what he would say. “I hope Your Majesty found the discussions at Tŷ Gwyn interesting.”
“Very! Although the party was dreadfully overshadowed, of course.”
“By the pit disaster. Indeed, so tragic.”
“I look forward to our next meeting.”
Walter understood this was his dismissal. He walked backward, bowing repeatedly in the required manner, until he reached the doorway.
His father was waiting for him in the next room.
“That was quick!” Walter said.
“On the contrary, it took longer than normal,” said Otto. “Usually the king says: ‘I’m glad to see you in London,’ and that’s the end of the conversation.”
They left the palace together. “Admirable people, the British, in many ways, but soft,” said Otto as they walked up St. James’s Street to Piccadilly. “The king is ruled by his ministers, the ministers are subject to Parliament, and members of Parliament are chosen by the ordinary men. What sort of way is that to run a country?”
Walter did not rise to that provocation. He believed that Germany’s political system was out of date, with its weak parliament that could not stand up to the kaiser or the generals; but he had had that argument with his father many times, and besides, he was still worried by the conversation with the Mexican envoy. “What you said to Diaz was risky,” he said. “President Wilson won’t like us selling rifles to Huerta.”
“What does it matter what Wilson thinks?”
“The danger is that we will make a friend of a weak nation, Mexico, by making an enemy of a strong nation, the United States.”
“There’s not going to be a war in America.”
Walter supposed that was true, but all the same he was uneasy. He did not like the idea of his country being at odds with the United States.
In his apartment they took off their antiquated costumes and dressed in tweed suits with soft-collared shirts and brown trilby hats. Back in Piccadilly they boarded a motorized omnibus heading east.
Otto had been impressed by Walter’s invitation to meet the king at Tŷ Gwyn in January. “Earl Fitzherbert is a good connection,” he had said. “If the Conservative Party comes to power he may be a minister, perhaps foreign secretary one day. You must keep up the friendship.”
Walter had been inspired. “I should visit his charity clinic, and make a small donation.”
“Excellent idea.”
“Perhaps you would like to come with me?”
His father had taken the bait. “Even better.”
Walter ha
d an ulterior motive, but his father was all unsuspecting.
The bus took them past the theaters of the Strand, the newspaper offices of Fleet Street, and the banks of the financial district. Then the streets became narrower and dirtier. Top hats and bowlers were replaced by cloth caps. Horse-drawn vehicles predominated, and motorcars were few. This was the East End.
They got off at Aldgate. Otto looked around disdainfully. “I didn’t know you were taking me to the slums,” he said.
“We’re going to a clinic for the poor,” Walter replied. “Where would you expect it to be?”
“Does Earl Fitzherbert himself come here?”
“I suspect he just pays for it.” Walter knew perfectly well that Fitz had never been there in his life. “But he will of course hear about our visit.”
They zigzagged through backstreets to a nonconformist chapel. A hand-painted wooden sign read: “Calvary Gospel Hall.” Pinned to the board was a sheet of paper with the words:Baby Clinic
Free of Charge
Today and
every Wednesday
Walter opened the door and they went in.
Otto made a disgusted noise, then took out a handkerchief and held it to his nose. Walter had been there before, so he had been expecting the smell, but even so it was startlingly unpleasant. The hall was full of ragged women and half-naked children, all filthy dirty. The women sat on benches and the children played on the floor. At the far end of the room were two doors, each with a temporary label, one saying “Doctor” and the other “Patroness.”
Near the door sat Fitz’s aunt Herm, listing names in a book. Walter introduced his father. “Lady Hermia Fitzherbert, my father, Herr Otto von Ulrich.”
At the other end of the room, the door marked “Doctor” opened and a ragged woman came out carrying a tiny baby and a medicine bottle. A nurse looked out and said: “Next, please.”
Lady Hermia consulted her list and called: “Mrs. Blatsky and Rosie!”
An older woman and a girl went into the doctor’s surgery.
Walter said: “Wait here a moment, please, Father, and I’ll fetch the boss.”
He hurried to the far end, stepping around the toddlers on the floor. He tapped on the door marked “Patroness,” and walked in.
The room was little more than a cupboard, and indeed there was a mop and bucket in a corner. Lady Maud Fitzherbert sat at a small table writing in a ledger. She wore a simple dove-gray dress and a broad-brimmed hat. She looked up, and the smile that lit up her face when she saw Walter was bright enough to bring tears to his eyes. She leaped out of her chair and threw her arms around him.
He had been looking forward to this all day. He kissed her mouth, which opened to him immediately. He had kissed several women, but she was the only one he had ever known to press her body against him this way. He felt embarrassed, fearing that she would feel his erection, and he arched his body away; but she only pressed more closely, as if she really wanted to feel it, so he gave in to the pleasure.
Maud was passionate about everything: poverty, women’s rights, music—and Walter. He felt amazed and privileged that she had fallen in love with him.
She broke the kiss, panting. “Aunt Herm will become suspicious,” she said.
Walter nodded. “My father is outside.”
Maud patted her hair and smoothed her dress. “All right.”
Walter opened the door and they went back into the hall. Otto was chatting amiably to Hermia: he liked respectable old ladies.
“Lady Maud Fitzherbert, may I present my father, Herr Otto von Ulrich.”
Otto bowed over her hand. He had learned not to click his heels: the English thought it comical.
Walter watched them size one another up. Maud smiled as if amused, and Walter guessed she was wondering if this was what he would look like in years to come. Otto took in Maud’s expensive cashmere dress and the fashionable hat with approval. So far, so good.
Otto did not know that they were in love. Walter’s plan was that his father would get to know Maud first. Otto approved of wealthy women doing charitable work, and insisted that Walter’s mother and his sister visit poor families at Zumwald, their country estate in East Prussia. He would find out what a wonderful and exceptional woman Maud was, then his defenses would be down by the time he learned that Walter wanted to marry her.
It was a little foolish, Walter knew, to be so nervous. He was twenty-eight years old: he had a right to choose the woman he loved. But eight years ago he had fallen in love with another woman. Tilde had been passionate and intelligent, like Maud, but she was seventeen and a Catholic. The von Ulrichs were Protestants. Both sets of parents had been angrily hostile to the romance, and Tilde had been unable to defy her father. Now Walter had fallen in love with an unsuitable woman for the second time. It was going to be difficult for his father to accept a feminist and a foreigner. But Walter was older and craftier now, and Maud was stronger and more independent than Tilde had been.
All the same, he was terrified. He had never felt like this about a woman, not even Tilde. He wanted to marry Maud and spend his life with her; in fact he could not imagine being without her. And he did not want his father to make trouble about it.
Maud was on her best behavior. “It is very kind of you to visit us, Herr von Ulrich,” she said. “You must be tremendously busy. For a trusted confidant of a monarch, as you are to your kaiser, I imagine work has no end.”
Otto was flattered, as she had intended. “I’m afraid this is true,” he said. “However your brother, the earl, is such a long-standing friend of Walter’s that I was very keen to come.”
“Let me introduce you to our doctor.” Maud led the way across the room and knocked at the surgery door. Walter was curious: he had never met the doctor. “May we come in?” she called.
They stepped into what must normally have been the pastor’s office, furnished with a small desk and a shelf of ledgers and hymnbooks. The doctor, a handsome young man with black eyebrows and a sensual mouth, was examining Rosie Blatsky’s hand. Walter felt a twinge of jealousy: Maud spent whole days with this attractive fellow.
Maud said: “Dr. Greenward, we have a most distinguished visitor. May I present Herr von Ulrich?”
Otto said stiffly: “How do you do?”
“The doctor works here for no fee,” Maud said. “We’re most grateful to him.”
Greenward nodded curtly. Walter wondered what was causing the evident tension between his father and the doctor.
The doctor returned his attention to his patient. There was an angry-looking cut across her palm, and the hand and wrist were swollen. He looked at the mother and said: “How did she do this?”
The child answered. “My mother doesn’t speak English,” she said. “I cut my hand at work.”
“And your father?”
“My father’s dead.”
Maud said quietly: “The clinic is for fatherless families, though in practise we never turn anyone away.”
Greenward said to Rosie: “How old are you?”
“Eleven.”
Walter murmured: “I thought children were not allowed to work under thirteen.”
“There are loopholes in the law,” Maud replied.
Greenward said: “What work do you do?”
“I clean up at Mannie Litov’s garment factory. There was a blade in the sweepings.”
“Whenever you cut yourself, you must wash the wound and put on a clean bandage. Then you have to change the bandage every day so that it doesn’t get too dirty.” Greenward’s manner was brisk, but not unkind.
The mother barked a question at the daughter in heavily accented Russian. Walter could not understand her, but he got the gist of the child’s reply, which was a translation of what the doctor had said.
The doctor turned to his nurse. “Clean the hand and bandage it, please.” To Rosie he said: “I’m going to give you some ointment. If your arm swells more you must come back and see me next week. Do you understand?”
“If you let the infection get worse, you may lose your hand.”
Tears came to Rosie’s eyes.
Greenward said: “I’m sorry to frighten you, but I want you to understand how important it is to keep your hand clean.”
The nurse prepared a bowl of what was presumably antiseptic fluid. Walter said: “May I express my admiration and respect for your work here, Doctor.”
“Thank you. I’m happy to give my time, but we need to buy medical supplies. Any help you can offer will be much appreciated.”
Maud said: “We must leave the doctor to get on—there are at least twenty patients waiting.”
The visitors left the surgery. Walter was bursting with pride. Maud had more than compassion. When told of young children working in sweatshops, many aristocratic ladies could wipe away a tear with an embroidered handkerchief; but Maud had the determination and the nerve to give real help.
And, he thought, she loves me!
Maud said: “May I offer you some refreshment, Herr von Ulrich? My office is cramped, but I do have a bottle of my brother’s best sherry.”
“Most kind, but we must be going.”
That was a bit quick, Walter thought. Maud’s charm had stopped working on Otto. He had a nasty feeling that something had gone wrong.
Otto took out his pocketbook and extracted a banknote. “Please accept a modest contribution to your excellent work here, Lady Maud.”
“How generous!” she said.
Walter gave her a similar note. “Perhaps I may be allowed to donate something too.”
“I appreciate anything you can offer me,” she said. Walter hoped he was the only one to notice the sly look she gave him as she said it.
Otto said: “Please be sure to give my respects to Earl Fitzherbert.”
They took their leave. Walter felt worried about his father’s reaction. “Isn’t Lady Maud wonderful?” he said breezily as they walked back toward Aldgate. “Fitz pays for everything, of course, but Maud does all the work.”
