by Follett, Ken
The hymn ended and the service came to a close. As Anton stood up, Walter held his arm. “I have to see you more often,” he said.
Anton looked panicky. “We’ve been through that—”
“I don’t care. Europe is on the brink of war. You say the Russians are preparing to mobilize in some districts. What if they authorize other districts to prepare? What other steps will they take? When does preparation turn into the real thing? I have to have daily reports. Hourly would be better.”
“I can’t take the risk.” Anton tried to withdraw his arm.
Walter tightened his grip. “Meet me at Westminster Abbey every morning before you go to your embassy. Poet’s Corner, in the south transept. The church is so big that no one will notice us.”
“Absolutely not.”
Walter sighed. He would have to threaten, which he did not like doing, not least because it risked the complete withdrawal of the spy. But he had to take the chance. “If you aren’t there tomorrow I’ll come to your embassy and ask for you.”
Anton went pale. “You can’t do that! They will kill me!”
“I must have the information! I’m trying to prevent a war.”
“I hope there is a war,” the little clerk said savagely. His voice dropped to a hiss. “I hope my country is flattened and destroyed by the German army.” Walter stared at him, astonished. “I hope the tsar is killed, brutally murdered, and all his family with him. And I hope they all go to hell, as they deserve.”
He turned on his heel and scurried out of the church into the hubbub of Trafalgar Square.
{ IV }
Princess Bea was “at home” on Tuesday afternoons at teatime. This was when her friends called to discuss the parties they had been to and show off their daytime clothes. Maud was obliged to attend, as was Aunt Herm, both being poor relations who lived on Fitz’s generosity. Maud found the conversation particularly stultifying today, when all she wanted to talk about was whether there would be a war.
The morning room at the Mayfair house was modern. Bea was attentive to decorating trends. Matching bamboo chairs and sofas were arranged in small conversational groups, with plenty of space between for people to move around. The upholstery had a quiet mauve pattern and the carpet was light brown. The walls were not papered, but painted a restful beige. There was no Victorian clutter of framed photographs, ornaments, cushions, and vases. One did not need to show off one’s prosperity, fashionable people said, by cramming one’s rooms full of stuff. Maud agreed.
Bea was talking to the Duchess of Sussex, gossiping about the prime minister’s mistress, Venetia Stanley. Bea ought to be worried, Maud thought; if Russia joins in the war, her brother, Prince Andrei, will have to fight. But Bea appeared carefree. In fact she looked particularly bonny today. Perhaps she had a lover. It was not uncommon in the highest social circles, where many marriages were arranged. Some people disapproved of adulterers—the duchess would cross such a woman off her invitation list for all eternity—but others turned a blind eye. However, Maud did not really think Bea was the type.
Fitz came in for tea, having escaped from the House of Lords for an hour, and Walter was right behind him. They both looked elegant in their gray suits and double-breasted waistcoats. Involuntarily, in her imagination Maud saw them in army uniforms. If the war spread, both might have to fight—almost certainly on opposite sides. They would be officers, but neither would slyly wangle a safe job at headquarters: they would want to lead their men from the front. The two men she loved might end up shooting at one another. She shuddered. It did not bear thinking about.
Maud avoided Walter’s eye. She had a feeling that the more intuitive women in Bea’s circle had noticed how much time she spent talking to him. She did not mind their suspicions—they would learn the truth soon enough—but she did not want rumors to reach Fitz before he had been officially told. He would be mightily offended. So she was trying not to let her feelings show.
Fitz sat beside her. Casting about for a topic of conversation that did not involve Walter, she thought of Tŷ Gwyn, and asked: “Whatever happened to your Welsh housekeeper, Williams? She disappeared, and when I asked the other servants, they went all vague.”
“I had to get rid of her,” Fitz said.
“Oh!” Maud was surprised. “Somehow I had the impression you liked her.”
“Not especially.” He seemed embarrassed.
“What did she do to displease you?”
“She suffered the consequences of unchastity.”
“Fitz, don’t be pompous!” Maud laughed. “Do you mean she got pregnant?”
“Keep your voice down, please. You know what the duchess is like.”
“Poor Williams. Who’s the father?”
“My dear, do you imagine I asked?”
“No, of course not. I hope he’s going to ‘stand by her,’ as they say.”
“I have no idea. She’s a servant, for goodness’ sake.”
“You’re not normally callous about your servants.”
“One mustn’t reward immorality.”
“I liked Williams. She was more intelligent and interesting than most of these society women.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
Maud gave up. For some reason, Fitz was pretending he did not care about Williams. But he never liked explaining himself, and it was useless to press him.
Walter came over, balancing a cup and saucer and a plate with cake in one hand. He smiled at Maud, but spoke to Fitz. “You know Churchill, don’t you?”
“Little Winston?” said Fitz. “I certainly do. He started out in my party, but switched to the Liberals. I think his heart is still with us Conservatives.”
“Last Friday he had dinner with Albert Ballin. I’d love to know what Ballin had to say.”
“I can enlighten you—Winston has been telling everyone. If there is a war, Ballin said that if Britain will stay out of it, Germany will promise to leave France intact afterward, taking no extra territory—by contrast with last time, when they helped themselves to Alsace and Lorraine.”
“Ah,” said Walter with satisfaction. “Thank you. I’ve been trying to find that out for days.”
“Your embassy doesn’t know?”
“This message was intended to bypass normal diplomatic channels, obviously.”
Maud was intrigued. It seemed like a hopeful formula for keeping Britain out of any European war. Perhaps Fitz and Walter would not have to shoot at one another, after all. She said: “How did Winston respond?”
“Noncommittally,” said Fitz. “He reported the conversation to the cabinet, but it was not discussed.”
Maud was about to ask indignantly why not when Robert von Ulrich appeared, looking aghast, as if he had just learned of the death of a loved one. “What on earth is the matter with Robert?” Maud said as he bowed to Bea.
He turned to speak to everyone in the room. “Austria has declared war on Serbia,” he announced.
For a moment Maud felt as if the world had stopped. No one moved and no one spoke. She stared at Robert’s mouth under that curled mustache and willed him to unsay the words. Then the clock on the mantelpiece struck, and a buzz of consternation rose from the men and women in the room.
Tears welled up in Maud’s eyes. Walter offered her a neatly folded white linen handkerchief. She said to Robert: “You will have to fight.”
“I certainly will,” Robert said. He said it briskly, as if stating the obvious, but he looked scared.
Fitz stood up. “I’d better get back to the Lords and find out what’s going on.”
Several others took their leave. In the general hubbub, Walter spoke quietly to Maud. “Albert Ballin’s proposal has suddenly become ten times more important.”
Maud thought so too. “Is there anything we can do?”
“I need to know what the British government really thinks of it.”
“I’ll try to find out.” She was glad of a chance to do something.
“I have to get
back to the embassy.”
Maud watched Walter go, wishing she could kiss him good-bye. Most of the guests went at the same time, and Maud slipped upstairs to her room.
She took off her dress and lay down. The thought of Walter going to war made her weep helplessly. After a while she cried herself to sleep.
When she woke up it was time to go out. She was invited to Lady Glenconner’s musical soiree. She was tempted to stay home, then it struck her that there might be a government minister or two at the Glenconners’ house. She might learn something useful to Walter. She got up and dressed.
She and Aunt Herm took Fitz’s carriage through Hyde Park to Queen Anne’s Gate, where the Glenconners lived. Among the guests was Maud’s friend Johnny Remarc, a War Office minister; but, more importantly, Sir Edward Grey was there. She made up her mind to speak to him about Albert Ballin.
The music began before she had a chance, and she sat down to listen. Campbell McInnes was singing selections from Handel—a German composer who had lived most of his life in London, Maud thought wryly.
She watched Sir Edward covertly during the recital. She did not like him much: he belonged to a political group called the Liberal Imperialists, more traditional and conservative than most of the party. However, she felt a pang of sympathy for him. He was never very jolly, but tonight his cadaverous face looked ashen, as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders—which he did, of course.
McInnes sang well, and Maud thought with regret how much Walter would have enjoyed this, had he not been too busy to come.
As soon as the music finished, she buttonholed the foreign secretary. “Mr. Churchill tells me he gave you an interesting message from Albert Ballin,” she said. She saw Grey’s face stiffen, but she plowed on. “If we stay out of any European war, the Germans promise not to grab any French territory.”
“Something like that,” Grey said coldly.
Clearly she had raised a distasteful topic. Etiquette demanded that she abandon it instantly. But this was not just a diplomatic maneuver: it was about whether Fitz and Walter would have to go to war. She pressed on. “I understood that our main concern was that the balance of power in Europe should not be disturbed, and I imagined that Herr Ballin’s proposal might satisfy us. Was I wrong?”
“You most certainly were,” he said. “It is an infamous proposal.” He was almost emotional.
Maud was downcast. How could he dismiss it? It offered a glimpse of hope! She said: “Will you explain, to a mere woman who does not grasp these matters as quickly as you, why you say that so definitely?”
“To do as Ballin suggested would be to pave the way for France to be invaded by Germany. We would be complicit. It would be a squalid betrayal of a friend.”
“Ah,” she said. “I think I see. It is as if someone said: ‘I’m going to burgle your neighbor, but if you stand back and don’t interfere, I promise not to burn his house down too.’ Is that it?”
Grey warmed up a little. “A good analogy,” he said with a skeletal smile. “I shall use it myself.”
“Thank you,” said Maud. She felt dreadfully disappointed, and she knew it was showing on her face, but she could not help it. She said gloomily: “Unfortunately, this leaves us perilously close to war.”
“I’m afraid it does,” said the foreign secretary.
{ V }
Like most parliaments around the world, the British had two chambers. Fitz belonged to the House of Lords, which included the higher aristocracy, the bishops, and the senior judges. The House of Commons was made up of elected representatives known as members of Parliament, or M.P.s. Both chambers met in the Palace of Westminster, a purpose-built Victorian Gothic building with a clock tower. The clock was called Big Ben, although Fitz was fond of pointing out that that was actually the name of the great bell.
As Big Ben struck twelve noon on Wednesday, July 29, Fitz and Walter ordered a prelunch sherry on the terrace beside the smelly river Thames. Fitz looked at the palace with satisfaction, as always: it was extraordinarily large, rich, and solid, like the empire that was ruled from its corridors and chambers. The building looked as if it might last a thousand years—but would the empire survive? Fitz trembled when he thought of the threats to it: rabble-rousing trade unionists, striking coal miners, the kaiser, the Labour Party, the Irish, militant feminists—even his own sister.
However, he did not give utterance to such solemn thoughts, especially as his guest was a foreigner. “This place is like a club,” he said lightheartedly. “It has bars, dining rooms, and a jolly good library; and only the right sort of people are allowed in.” Just then a Labour M.P. walked past with a Liberal peer, and Fitz added: “Although sometimes the riffraff sneak past the doorman.”
Walter was bursting with news. “Have you heard?” he said. “The kaiser has done a complete volte-face.”
Fitz had not heard. “In what way?”
“He says the Serbian reply leaves no further reason for war, and the Austrians must halt at Belgrade.”
Fitz was suspicious of peace plans. His main concern was that Britain should maintain its position as the most powerful nation in the world. He was afraid the Liberal government might let that position slip, out of some foolish belief that all nations were equally sovereign. Sir Edward Grey was fairly sound, but he could be ousted by the left wing of the party—led by Lloyd George, in all likelihood—and then anything could happen.
“Halt at Belgrade,” he said musingly. The capital was on the border: to capture it, the Austrian army would have to venture only a mile inside Serbian territory. The Russians might be persuaded to regard that as a local police action that did not threaten them. “I wonder.”
Fitz did not want war, but there was a part of him that secretly relished the prospect. It would be his chance to prove his courage. His father had won distinction in naval actions, but Fitz had never seen combat. There were certain things one had to do before one could really call oneself a man, and fighting for king and country was among them.
They were approached by a messenger wearing court dress—velvet knee breeches and white silk stockings. “Good afternoon, Earl Fitzherbert,” he said. “Your guests have arrived and gone straight to the dining room, my lord.”
When he had gone Walter said: “Why do you make them dress like that?”
“Tradition,” said Fitz.
They drained their glasses and went inside. The corridor had a thick red carpet and walls with linenfold paneling. They walked to the Peers’ Dining Room. Maud and Aunt Herm were already seated.
This lunch had been Maud’s idea: Walter had never been inside the palace, she said. As Walter bowed, and Maud smiled warmly at him, a stray thought crossed Fitz’s mind: could there be a little tendresse between them? No, it was ridiculous. Maud might do anything, of course, but Walter was much too sensible to contemplate an Anglo-German marriage at this time of tension. Besides, they were like brother and sister.
As they sat down, Maud said: “I was at your baby clinic this morning, Fitz.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Is it my clinic?”
“You pay for it.”
“My recollection is that you told me there ought to be a clinic in the East End for mothers and children who had no man to support them, and I said indeed there should, and the next thing I knew the bills were coming to me.”
“You’re so generous.”
Fitz did not mind. A man in his position had to give to charity, and it was useful to have Maud do all the work. He did not broadcast the fact that most of the mothers were not married and never had been: he did not want his aunt the duchess to be offended.
“You’ll never guess who came in this morning,” Maud went on. “Williams, the housekeeper from Tŷ Gwyn.” Fitz went cold. Maud added cheerfully: “We were talking about her only last night!”
Fitz tried to keep a look of stony indifference on his face. Maud, like most women, was quite good at reading him. He did not want her to suspect the true depth of hi
s involvement with Ethel: it was too embarrassing.
He knew Ethel was in London. She had found a house in Aldgate, and Fitz had instructed Solman to buy it in her name. Fitz feared the embarrassment of meeting Ethel on the street, but it was Maud who had run into her.
Why had she gone to the clinic? He hoped she was all right. “I trust she’s not ill,” he said, trying to make it sound no more than a courteous inquiry.
“Nothing serious,” Maud said.
Fitz knew that pregnant women suffered minor ailments. Bea had had a little bleeding and had been worried, but Professor Rathbone had said it often happened at about three months and usually meant nothing, though she should not overexert herself—not that there was much danger of Bea’s doing that.
Walter said: “I remember Williams—curly hair and a cheeky smile. Who is her husband?”
Maud answered: “A valet who visited Tŷ Gwyn with his master some months ago. His name is Teddy Williams.”
Fitz felt a slight flush. So she was calling her fictional husband Teddy! He wished Maud had not met her. He wanted to forget Ethel. But she would not go away. To conceal his embarrassment he made a show of looking around for a waiter.
He told himself not to be so sensitive. Ethel was a servant girl and he was an earl. Men of high rank had always taken their pleasures where they found them. This kind of thing had been going on for hundreds of years, probably thousands. It was foolish to get sentimental about it.
He changed the subject by repeating, for the benefit of the ladies, Walter’s news about the kaiser.
“I heard that, too,” said Maud. “Goodness, I hope the Austrians will listen,” she added fervently.
Fitz raised an eyebrow at her. “Why so passionate?”
“I don’t want you to be shot at!” she said. “And I don’t want Walter to be our enemy.” There was a catch in her voice. Women were so emotional.
Walter said: “Do you happen to know, Lady Maud, how the kaiser’s suggestion has been received by Asquith and Grey?”
Maud pulled herself together. “Grey says that in combination with his proposal of a four-power conference, it could prevent war.”
