by Follett, Ken
“Not soon enough, then.”
“How long have you known?”
“I just realized. I looked in my drawer and saw my clean rags.” He winced. Evidently he did not like talk of menstruation. Well, he would have to put up with it. “I worked out that I haven’t had the curse since I moved into Mrs. Jevons’s old room, and that’s ten weeks ago.”
“Two cycles. That makes it definite. That’s what Bea said. Oh, hell.” He touched the cigar to his lips, found that it had gone out, and dropped it on the floor with a grunt of irritation.
A wry thought occurred to her. “You might have two heirs.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said sharply. “A bastard doesn’t inherit.”
“Oh,” she said. She had not seriously intended to make a claim for her child. On the other hand, she had not until now thought of it as a bastard. “Poor little thing,” she said. “My baby, the bastard.”
He looked guilty. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean that. Forgive me.”
She could see that his better nature was at war with his selfish instincts. She touched his arm. “Poor Fitz.”
“God forbid that Bea should find out about this,” he said.
She felt mortally wounded. Why should his main concern be the other woman? Bea would be all right: she was rich and married, and carrying the loved and honored child of the Fitzherbert clan.
Fitz went on: “The shock might be too much for her.”
Ethel recalled a rumor that Bea had suffered a miscarriage last year. All the female servants had discussed it. According to Nina, the Russian maid, the princess blamed the miscarriage on Fitz, who had upset her by canceling a planned trip to Russia.
Ethel felt terribly rejected. “So your main concern is that the news of our baby might upset your wife.”
He stared at her. “I don’t want her to miscarry—it’s important!”
He had no idea how callous he was being. “Damn you,” Ethel said.
“What do you expect? The child Bea is carrying is one I have been hoping and praying for. Yours is not wanted by you, me, or anyone else.”
“That’s not how I see it,” she said in a small voice, and she began to cry again.
“I’ve got to think about this,” he said. “I need to be alone.” He took her by the shoulders. “We’ll talk again tomorrow. In the meantime, tell no one. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Good girl,” he said, and he left the room.
Ethel bent down and picked up the dead cigar.
{ II }
She told no one, but she was unable to pretend that everything was all right, so she feigned illness and went to bed. As she lay alone, hour after hour, grief slowly gave way to anxiety. How would she and her baby live?
She would lose her job here at Tŷ Gwyn—that was automatic, even if her baby had not been the earl’s. That alone hurt. She had been so proud of herself when she was made housekeeper. Gramper was fond of saying that pride comes before a fall. He was right in this case.
She was not sure she could return to her parents’ house: the disgrace would kill her father. She was almost as upset about that as she was about her own shame. It would wound him more than her, in a way; he was so rigid about this sort of thing.
Anyway, she did not want to live as an unmarried mother in Aberowen. There were two already: Maisie Owen and Gladys Pritchard. They were sad figures with no proper place in the town’s social order. They were single, but no man was interested in them; they were mothers, but they lived with their parents as if they were still children; they were not welcome in any church, pub, shop, or club. How could she, Ethel Williams, who had always considered herself a cut above the rest, sink to the lowest level of all?
She had to leave Aberowen, then. She was not sorry. She would be glad to turn her back on the rows of grim houses, the prim little chapels, and the endless quarrels between miners and management. But where would she go? And would she be able to see Fitz?
As darkness fell she lay awake looking through the window at the stars, and at last she made a plan. She would start a new life in a new place. She would wear a wedding ring and tell a story about a dead husband. She would find someone to mind the baby, get a job of some kind, and earn money. She would send her child to school. It would be a girl, she felt, and she would be clever, a writer or a doctor, or perhaps a campaigner like Mrs. Pankhurst, championing women’s rights and getting arrested outside Buckingham Palace.
She had thought she would not sleep, but emotion had drained her, and she drifted off around midnight and fell into a heavy, dreamless slumber.
The rising sun woke her. She sat upright, looking forward to the new day as always; then she remembered that her old life was over, ruined, and she was in the middle of a tragedy. She almost succumbed to grief again, but fought against it. She could not afford the luxury of tears. She had to start a new life.
She got dressed and went down to the servants’ hall, where she announced that she was fully recovered from yesterday’s malady and fit to do her normal work.
Lady Maud sent for her before breakfast. Ethel made up a coffee tray and took it to the Pink Room. Maud was at her dressing table in a purple silk negligee. She had been crying. Ethel had troubles of her own, but all the same her sympathy quickened. “What’s the matter, my lady?”
“Oh, Williams, I’ve had to give him up.”
Ethel assumed she meant Walter von Ulrich. “But why?”
“His father came to see me. I hadn’t really faced the fact that Britain and Germany are enemies, and marriage to me would ruin Walter’s career—and possibly his father’s, too.”
“But everyone says there’s not going to be a war, Serbia’s not important enough.”
“If not now, it will be later; and even if it never happens, the threat is enough.” There was a frill of pink lace around the dressing table, and Maud was picking at it nervously, tearing the expensive lace. It was going to take hours to mend, Ethel thought. Maud went on: “No one in the German foreign ministry would trust Walter with secrets if he were married to an Englishwoman.”
Ethel poured the coffee and handed Maud a cup. “Herr von Ulrich will give up his job if he really loves you.”
“But I don’t want him to!” Maud stopped tearing the lace and drank some coffee. “I can’t be the person that ended his career. What kind of basis is that for marriage?”
He could have another career, Ethel thought; and if he really loved you, he would. Then she thought of the man she loved, and how quickly his passion had cooled when it became inconvenient. I’ll keep my opinions to myself, she thought; I don’t know a bloody thing. She asked: “What did Walter say?”
“I haven’t seen him. I wrote him a letter. I stopped going to all the places where I usually meet him. Then he started to call at the house, and it became embarrassing to keep telling the servants I was not at home, so I came down here with Fitz.”
“Why won’t you talk to him?”
“Because I know what will happen. He will take me in his arms and kiss me, and I’ll give in.”
I know that feeling, Ethel thought.
Maud sighed. “You’re quiet this morning, Williams. You’ve probably got worries of your own. Are things very hard with this strike?”
“Yes, my lady. The whole town is on short rations.”
“Are you still feeding the miners’ children?”
“Every day.”
“Good. My brother is very generous.”
“Yes, my lady.” When it suits him, she thought.
“Well, you’d better get on with your work. Thank you for the coffee. I expect I’m boring you with my problems.”
Impulsively, Ethel seized Maud’s hand. “Please don’t say that. You’ve always been good to me. I’m very sorry about Walter, and I hope you will always tell me your troubles.”
“What a kind thing to say.” Fresh tears ca
me to Maud’s eyes. “Thank you very much, Williams.” She squeezed Ethel’s hand, then released it.
Ethel picked up the tray and left. When she reached the kitchen Peel, the butler, said: “Have you done something wrong?”
Little do you know, she thought. “Why do you ask?”
“His lordship wants to see you in the library at half past ten.”
So it was to be a formal talk, Ethel thought. Perhaps that was better. They would be separated by a desk, and she would not be tempted to throw herself into his arms. That would help her keep back the tears. She would need to be cool and unemotional. The entire course of the rest of her life would be set by this discussion.
She went about her household duties. She was going to miss Tŷ Gwyn. In the years she had worked there she had come to love the gracious old furniture. She had picked up the names of the pieces, and learned to recognize a torchère, a buffet, an armoire, or a canterbury. As she dusted and polished she noticed the marquetry, the swags and scrolls, the feet shaped like lions’ paws clasping balls. Occasionally, someone like Peel would say: “That’s French—Louis Quinze,” and she had realized that every room was decorated and furnished consistently in a style, baroque or neoclassical or Gothic. She would never live with such furniture again.
After an hour she made her way to the library. The books had been collected by Fitz’s ancestors. Nowadays the room was not much used: Bea read only French novels, and Fitz did not read at all. Houseguests sometimes came here for peace and quiet, or to use the ivory chess set on the center table. This morning the blinds were pulled halfway down, on Ethel’s instructions, to shade the room from the July sun and keep it cool. Consequently the room was gloomy.
Fitz sat in a green leather armchair. To Ethel’s surprise, Albert Solman was there too, in a black suit and a stiff-collared shirt. A lawyer by training, Solman was what Edwardian gentlemen called a man of business. He managed Fitz’s money, checking his income from coal royalties and rents, paying the bills, and issuing cash for staff wages. He also dealt with leases and other contracts, and occasionally brought lawsuits against people who tried to cheat Fitz. Ethel had met him before and did not like him. She thought he was a know-all. Perhaps all lawyers were, she did not know: he was the only one she had ever met.
Fitz stood up, looking embarrassed. “I have taken Mr. Solman into my confidence,” he said.
“Why?” said Ethel. She had had to promise to tell no one. Fitz’s telling this lawyer seemed like a betrayal.
Fitz looked ashamed of himself—a rare sight. “Solman will tell you what I propose,” he said.
“Why?” Ethel said again.
Fitz gave her a pleading look, as if to beg her not to make this any worse for him.
But she felt unsympathetic. It was not easy for her—why should it be easy for him? “What is it that you’re frightened to tell me yourself?” she said, challenging him.
He had lost all his arrogant confidence. “I will leave him to explain,” he said; and to her astonishment he left the room.
When the door closed behind him she stared at Solman, thinking: How can I talk about my baby’s future with this stranger?
Solman smiled at her. “So, you’ve been naughty, have you?”
That stung her. “Did you say that to the earl?”
“Of course not!”
“Because he did the same thing, you know. It takes two people to make a baby.”
“All right, there’s no need to go into all that.”
“Just don’t speak as if I did this all on my own.”
“Very well.”
Ethel took a seat, then looked at him again. “You may sit down, if you wish,” she said, just as if she were the lady of the house condescending to the butler.
He reddened. He did not know whether to sit, and look as if he had been waiting for permission, or remain standing, like a servant. In the end he paced up and down. “His lordship has instructed me to make you an offer,” he said. Pacing did not really work, so he stopped and stood in front of her. “It is a generous offer, and I advise you to accept it.”
Ethel said nothing. Fitz’s callousness had one useful effect: it made her realize she was in a negotiation. This was familiar territory to her. Her father was always in negotiations, arguing and dealing with the mine management, always trying to get higher wages, shorter hours, and better safety precautions. One of his maxims was “Never speak unless you have to.” So she remained silent.
Solman looked at her expectantly. When he gathered that she was not going to respond he looked put out. He resumed: “His lordship is willing to give you a pension of twenty-four pounds a year, paid monthly in advance. I think that’s very good of him, don’t you?”
The lousy rotten miser, Ethel thought. How could he be so mean to me? Twenty-four pounds was a housemaid’s wage. It was half what Ethel was getting as housekeeper, and she would be losing her room and board.
Why did men think they could get away with this? Probably because they usually could. A woman had no rights. It took two people to make a baby, but only one was obliged to look after it. How had women let themselves get into such a weak position? It made her angry.
Still she did not speak.
Solman pulled up a chair and sat close to her. “Now, you must look on the bright side. You’ll have ten shillings a week—”
“Not quite,” she said quickly.
“Well, say we make it twenty-six pounds a year—that’s ten shillings a week. What do you say?”
Ethel said nothing.
“You can find a nice little room in Cardiff for two or three shillings, and you can spend the rest on yourself.” He patted her knee. “And, who knows, you may find another generous man to make life a little easier for you . . . eh? You’re a very attractive girl, you know.”
She pretended not to take his meaning. The idea of being the lover of a creepy lawyer such as Solman disgusted her. Did he really think he could take the place of Fitz? She did not respond to his innuendo. “Are there conditions?” she said coldly.
“Conditions?”
“Attached to the earl’s offer.”
Solman coughed. “The usual ones, of course.”
“The usual? So you’ve done this before.”
“Not for Earl Fitzherbert,” he said quickly.
“But for someone else.”
“Let us stick to the business at hand, please.”
“You may go on.”
“You must not put the earl’s name on the child’s birth certificate, or in any other way reveal to anyone that he is the father.”
“And in your experience, Mr. Solman, do women usually accept these conditions of yours?”
“Yes.”
Of course they do, she thought bitterly. What choice have they got? They are not entitled to anything, so they take what they can get. Of course they accept the conditions. “Are there any more?”
“After you leave Tŷ Gwyn, you must not attempt in any way to get in touch with his lordship.”
So, Ethel thought, he doesn’t want to see me or his child. Disappointment surged up inside her like a wave of weakness: if she had not been sitting down she might have fallen. She clenched her jaw to stop the tears. When she had herself under control she said: “Anything else?”
“I believe that’s all.”
Ethel stood up.
Solman said: “You must contact me about where the monthly payments should be made.” He took out a small silver box and extracted a card.
“No,” she said when he offered it to her.
“But you will need to get in touch with me—”
“No, I won’t,” she said again.
“What do you mean?”
“The offer is not acceptable.”
“Now, don’t be foolish, Miss Williams—”
“I’ll say it again, Mr. Solman, so there can be no doubt in your mind. The offer is not acceptable. My answer is no. I got nothing more to say to you. Good day.” She went out and
banged the door.
She returned to her room, locked her door, and cried her heart out.
How could Fitz be so cruel? Did he really never want to see her again? Or his baby? Did he think that everything that had happened between them could be wiped out by twenty-four pounds a year?
Did he really not love her any longer? Had he ever loved her? Was she a fool?
She had thought he loved her. She had felt sure that meant something. Perhaps he had been playacting all the time, and had deceived her—but she did not think so. A woman could tell when a man was faking.
So what was he doing now? He must be suppressing his feelings. Perhaps he was a man of shallow emotions. That was possible. He might have loved her, genuinely, but with a love that was easily forgotten when it became inconvenient. Such weakness of character might have escaped her notice in the throes of passion.
At least his hard-heartedness made it easier for her to bargain. She had no need to think of his feelings. She could concentrate on trying to get the best for herself and the baby. She must always think how Da would have handled things. A woman was not quite powerless, despite the law.
Fitz would be worried now, she guessed. He must have expected her to take the offer, or at worst hold out for a higher price; then he would have felt his secret was safe. Now he would be baffled as well as anxious.
She had not given Solman a chance to ask what she did want. Let them flounder around in the dark for a while. Fitz would begin to fear that Ethel intended to get revenge by telling Princess Bea about the baby.
She looked out of the window at the clock on the roof of the stable. It was a few minutes before twelve. On the front lawn, the staff would be getting ready to serve dinner to the miners’ children. Princess Bea usually liked to see the housekeeper at about twelve. She often had complaints: she did not like the flowers in the hall, the footmen’s uniforms were not pressed, the paintwork on the landing was flaking. In her turn the housekeeper had questions to ask about allocating rooms to guests, renewing china and glassware, hiring and firing maids and kitchen girls. Fitz usually came into the morning room at about half past twelve for a glass of sherry before lunch.
