Fall of Giants

by Follett, Ken

Fitz said: “So much for the British government’s polite request.”

  “It’s madness,” said Maud desolately. “Thousands of men are going to be killed in a war no one wants.”

  “I should have thought you might have supported the war,” Fitz said argumentatively. “After all, we will be defending France, which is the only other real democracy in Europe. And our enemies will be Germany and Austria, whose elected parliaments are virtually powerless.”

  “But our ally will be Russia,” Maud said bitterly. “So we will be fighting to preserve the most brutal and backward monarchy in Europe.”

  “I see your point.”

  “Everyone at the embassy has been told to pack,” she said. “We may not see Walter again.” She casually put the letter down.

  It did not work. Fitz said: “May I see?”

  Maud froze. She could not possibly show it to him. Not only would he lock her up: if he read the sentence about one night of happiness he might take a gun and shoot Walter.

  “May I?” Fitz repeated, holding out his hand.

  “Of course,” she said. She hesitated another second, then reached for the letter. At the last moment she was inspired, and she knocked over her cup, spilling coffee on the sheet of paper. “Oh, dash it,” she said, noting with relief that the coffee had caused the blue ink to run and the words had already become illegible.

  Grout stepped forward and began to clear up the mess. Pretending to be helpful, Maud picked up the letter and folded it, ensuring that any writing that might so far have escaped the coffee was now soaked. “I’m sorry, Fitz,” she said. “But in fact there was no further information.”

  “Never mind,” he said, and went back to his newspaper.

  Maud put her hands in her lap to hide their shaking.

  { II }

  That was only the beginning.

  It was going to be difficult for Maud to get out of the house alone. Like all upper-class ladies, she was not supposed to go anywhere unescorted. Men pretended this was because they were so concerned to protect their women, but in truth it was a means of control. No doubt it would remain until women won the vote.

  Maud had spent half her life finding ways to flout this rule. She would have to sneak out without being seen. This was quite difficult. Although only four family members lived in Fitz’s Mayfair mansion, there were at least a dozen servants in the house at any time.

  And then she had to stay out all night without anyone’s knowledge.

  She put her plan into place carefully.

  “I have a headache,” she said at the end of lunch. “Bea, will you forgive me if I don’t come down to dinner tonight?”

  “Of course,” said Bea. “Is there anything I can do? Shall I send for Professor Rathbone?”

  “No, thank you, it’s nothing serious.” A headache that was not serious was the usual euphemism for a menstrual period, and everyone accepted this without further comment.

  So far, so good.

  She went up to her room and rang for her maid. “I’m going to bed, Sanderson,” she said, beginning a speech she had worked out carefully. “I’ll probably stay there for the rest of the day. Please tell the other servants that I’m not to be disturbed for any reason. I may ring for a dinner tray, but I doubt it: I feel as if I could sleep the clock round.”

  That should ensure that her absence was not noticed for the rest of the day.

  “Are you sick, my lady?” Sanderson asked, looking concerned. Some ladies took to their beds frequently, but it was rare for Maud.

  “It’s the normal female affliction, just worse than usual.”

  Sanderson did not believe her, Maud could tell. Already today the maid had been sent out with a secret message, something that had never happened before. Sanderson knew something unusual was going on. But maids were not permitted to cross-examine their mistresses. Sanderson would just have to wonder.

  “And don’t wake me in the morning,” Maud added. She did not know what time she would get back, or how she would sneak unobserved into the house.

  Sanderson left. It was a quarter past three. Maud undressed quickly, then looked in her wardrobe.

  She was not used to getting her own clothes out—normally Sanderson did it. Her black walking dress had a hat with a veil, but she could not wear black for her wedding.

  She looked at the clock above the fireplace: twenty past three. There was no time to dither.

  She chose a stylish French outfit. She put on a tight-fitting white lace blouse with a high collar, to emphasize her long neck. Over it she wore a dress of a sky blue so pale it was almost white. In the latest daring fashion it ended an inch or two above her ankles. She added a broad-brimmed straw hat in dark blue with a veil the same color, and a gay blue parasol with a white lining. She had a blue velvet drawstring bag that matched the outfit. Into it she put a comb, a small vial of perfume, and a clean pair of drawers.

  The clock struck half past three. Walter would be outside now, waiting. She felt her heart beating hard.

  She pulled down the veil and examined herself in a full-length mirror. It was not quite a wedding dress, but it would look just right, she imagined, in a register office. She had never been to a civil wedding so she was not sure.

  She took the key from the lock and stood by the closed door, listening. She did not want to meet anyone who might question her. It might not matter if she were seen by a footman or a boot boy, who would not care what she did, but all the maids would know by now that she was supposed to be unwell, and if she ran into one of the family her deception would be exposed instantly. She hardly cared about the embarrassment, but she was afraid they would try to stop her.

  She was about to open the door when she heard heavy footsteps and caught a whiff of smoke. It must be Fitz, still finishing his after-lunch cigar, leaving for the House of Lords or perhaps White’s club. She waited impatiently.

  After a few moments of silence she looked out. The broad corridor was deserted. She stepped out, closed the door, locked it, and dropped the key into her velvet bag. Now anyone trying the door would assume she was asleep inside.

  She walked silently along the carpeted corridor to the top of the stairs and looked down. There was no one in the hall below. She went quickly down the steps. As she reached the half landing she heard a noise and froze. The door to the basement swung open and Grout emerged. Maud held her breath. She looked down at the bald dome of Grout’s head as he crossed the hall carrying two decanters of port. He had his back to the stairs, and he entered the dining room without looking up.

  As the door closed behind him, she ran down the last flight, throwing caution to the wind. She opened the front door, stepped out, and slammed it behind her. Too late, she wished she had thought to close it quietly.

  The quiet Mayfair street baked in the August sun. She looked up and down and saw a horse-drawn fishmonger’s cart, a nanny with a perambulator, and a cabbie changing the wheel of a motor taxi. A hundred yards along, on the opposite side of the road, stood a white car with a blue canvas canopy. Maud liked cars, and she recognized this as a Benz 10/30 belonging to Walter’s cousin Robert.

  As she crossed the road, Walter got out, and her heart filled with joy. He was wearing a light gray morning suit with a white carnation. He met her eye and she saw, from his expression, that until this moment he had not been sure she would come. The thought brought a tear to her eye.

  Now, though, his face lit up with delight. How strange and wonderful it was, she thought, to be able to bring such happiness to another person.

  She glanced anxiously back to the house. Grout was in the doorway, looking up and down the road with a puzzled frown. He had heard the door slam, she guessed. She turned her face resolutely forward, and the thought that came into her head was: Free at last!

  Walter kissed her hand. She wanted to kiss him properly, but her veil was in the way. Besides, it was inappropriate before the wedding. There was no need to throw all the proprieties out of the window.

 
; Robert was at the wheel, she saw. He touched his gray top hat to her. Walter trusted him. He would be one of the witnesses.

  Walter opened the door and Maud got into the backseat. Someone was already there, and Maud recognized the housekeeper from Tŷ Gwyn. “Williams!” she cried.

  Williams smiled. “You’d better call me Ethel now,” she said. “I’m to be a witness at your wedding.”

  “Of course—I’m sorry.” Impulsively, Maud hugged her. “Thank you for coming.”

  The car pulled away.

  Maud leaned forward and spoke to Walter. “How did you find Ethel?”

  “You told me she had come to your clinic. I got her address from Dr. Greenward. I knew you trusted her because you chose her to chaperone us at Tŷ Gwyn.”

  Ethel handed Maud a small posy of flowers. “Your bouquet.”

  They were roses, coral-pink—the flower of passion. Did Walter know the language of flowers? “Who chose them?”

  “It was my suggestion,” said Ethel. “And Walter liked it when I explained the meaning.” Ethel blushed.

  Ethel knew how passionate they were because she had seen them kiss, Maud realized. “They’re perfect,” she said.

  Ethel was wearing a pale pink dress that looked new and a hat decorated with more pink roses. Walter must have paid for that. How thoughtful he was.

  They drove down Park Lane and headed for Chelsea. I’m getting married, Maud thought. In the past, whenever she had imagined her wedding, she had assumed it would be like those of all her friends, a long day of tedious ceremony. This was a better way to do things. There had been no planning, no guest list, and no caterer. There would be no hymns, no speeches, and no drunk relations trying to kiss her: just the bride and groom and two people they liked and trusted.

  She thrust from her mind all thoughts about the future. Europe was at war, and anything might happen. She was just going to enjoy the day—and night.

  They drove down King’s Road and suddenly she felt nervous. She took Ethel’s hand for courage. She had a nightmare vision of Fitz following behind in his Cadillac, shouting: “Stop that woman!” She glanced back. Of course neither Fitz nor his car was in sight.

  They pulled up outside the classical façade of the Chelsea town hall. Robert took Maud’s arm and led her up the steps to the entrance, and Walter followed with Ethel. Passersby stopped to watch: everyone loved a wedding.

  Inside, the building was extravagantly decorated in the Victorian manner, with colored floor tiles and plaster moldings on the walls. It felt like the right sort of place to get married.

  They had to wait in the lobby: another wedding had taken place at half past three and had not yet finished. The four of them stood in a little circle and no one could think of anything to say. Maud inhaled the scent of her roses, and the perfume went to her head, making her feel as if she had gulped a glass of champagne.

  After a few minutes the earlier wedding party emerged, the bride wearing an everyday dress and the groom in the uniform of an army sergeant. Perhaps they, too, had made a sudden decision because of the war.

  Maud and her party went in. The registrar sat at a plain table, wearing a morning coat and a silver tie. He had a carnation in his buttonhole, which was a nice touch, Maud thought. Beside him was a clerk in a lounge suit. They gave their names as Mr. von Ulrich and Miss Maud Fitzherbert. Maud raised her veil.

  The registrar said: “Miss Fitzherbert, can you provide evidence of identity?”

  She did not know what he was talking about.

  Seeing her blank look, he said: “Your birth certificate, perhaps?”

  She did not have her birth certificate. She had not known it was required, and even if she had she would not have been able to get hold of it, for Fitz kept it in the safe, along with other family documents such as his will. Panic seized her.

  Then Walter said: “I think this will serve.” He took from his pocket a stamped and franked envelope addressed to Miss Maud Fitzherbert at the street address of the baby clinic. He must have picked it up when he went to see Dr. Greenward. How clever of him.

  The registrar handed the envelope back without comment. He said: “It is my duty to remind you of the solemn and binding nature of the vows you are about to take.”

  Maud felt mildly offended at the suggestion that she might not know what she was doing, then she realized that was something he had to say to everyone.

  Walter stood more upright. This is it, Maud thought; no turning back. She felt quite sure she wanted to marry Walter—but, more than that, she was acutely aware that she had reached the age of twenty-three without meeting anyone else she would remotely have considered as a husband. Every other man she had ever met had treated her and all women like overgrown children. Only Walter was different. It was him or no one.

  The registrar was speaking words for Walter to repeat. “I do solemnly declare that I know not of any lawful impediment why I, Walter von Ulrich, may not be joined in matrimony to Maud Elizabeth Fitzherbert.” Walter pronounced his own name the English way, “Wall-ter,” rather than the correct German “Val-ter.”

  Maud watched his face as he spoke. His voice was firm and clear.

  In his turn he watched her solemnly as she made her declaration. She loved his seriousness. Most men, even quite clever ones, became silly when they talked to women. Walter spoke to her just as intelligently as he spoke to Robert or Fitz, and—even more unusually—he listened to her answers.

  Next came the vows. Walter looked her in the eye as he took her for his wife, and this time she heard a little shake of emotion in his voice. That was the other thing she loved: she knew she could undermine his seriousness. She could make him tremble with love or happiness or desire.

  She made the same vow. “I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, Maud Elizabeth Fitzherbert, do take thee, Walter von Ulrich, to be my lawful wedded husband.” There was no unsteadiness in her voice, and she felt a little embarrassed that she was not visibly moved—but that was not her style. She preferred to appear cool even when she was not. Walter understood that, and he more than anyone knew about the storms of unseen passion that blew through her heart.

  “Do you have a ring?” said the registrar. Maud had not even thought about it—but Walter had. He drew a plain gold wedding band from his waistcoat pocket, took her hand, and slipped it onto her finger. He must have guessed the size, but it was a near fit, perhaps just one size too big. As their marriage was to be secret, she would not be wearing it for a while after today.

  “I now pronounce you man and wife,” said the registrar. “You may kiss the bride.”

  Walter kissed her lips softly. She put her arm around his waist and drew him closer. “I love you,” she whispered.

  The registrar said: “And now for the marriage certificate. Perhaps you would like to sit down . . . Mrs. Ulrich.”

  Walter smiled, Robert giggled, and Ethel gave a little cheer. Maud guessed the registrar enjoyed being the first person to call the bride by her married name. They all sat down, and the registrar’s clerk began to fill out the certificate. Walter gave his father’s occupation as army officer and his place of birth as Danzig. Maud put her father down as George Fitzherbert, farmer—there was, in fact, a small flock of sheep at Tŷ Gwyn, so the description was not actually false—and her place of birth as London. Robert and Ethel signed as witnesses.

  Suddenly it was over, and they were walking out of the room and through the lobby—where another pretty bride was waiting with a nervous groom to make a lifelong commitment. As they walked arm in arm down the steps to the car parked at the curb, Ethel threw a handful of confetti over them. Among the bystanders, Maud noticed a middle-class woman of her own age carrying a parcel from a shop. The woman looked hard at Walter, then turned her gaze on Maud, and what Maud saw in her eyes was envy. Yes, Maud thought, I’m a lucky girl.

  Walter and Maud sat in the back of the car, and Robert and Ethel rode up front. As they drove away, Walter took Maud’s hand and k
issed it. They looked into one another’s eyes and laughed. Maud had seen couples do that, and had always thought it was stupid and sentimental, but now it seemed the most natural thing in the world.

  In a few minutes they arrived at the Hyde Hotel. Maud dropped her veil. Walter took her arm and they walked through the lobby to the stairs. Robert said: “I’ll order the champagne.”

  Walter had taken the best suite and filled it with flowers. There must have been a hundred coral-pink roses. Tears came to Maud’s eyes, and Ethel gasped in awe. On a sideboard was a big bowl of fruit and a box of chocolates. The afternoon sun shone through large windows onto chairs and sofas upholstered in gay fabrics.

  “Let’s make ourselves comfortable!” Walter said jovially.

  While Maud and Ethel were inspecting the suite, Robert came in, followed by a waiter with champagne and glasses on a tray. Walter popped the cork and poured. When they each had a glass, Robert said: “I would like to propose a toast.” He cleared his throat, and Maud realized with amusement that he was going to make a speech.

  “My cousin Walter is an unusual man,” he began. “He has always seemed older than me, although in fact we are the same age. When we were students together in Vienna, he never got drunk. If a group of us went out in the evening, to visit certain houses in the city, he would stay home and study. I thought perhaps he was the type of man who does not love women.” Robert gave a wry smile. “In fact it was I who was made that way—but that’s another story, as the English say. Walter loves his family and his work, and he loves Germany, but he has never loved a woman—until now. He has changed.” Robert grinned mischievously. “He buys new ties. He asks me questions—when do you kiss a girl, should men wear cologne, what colors flatter him—as if I knew anything about what women like. And—most terrible of all, in my view . . . ” Robert paused dramatically. “He plays ragtime!”

  The others laughed. Robert raised his glass. “Let us toast the woman who has wrought such changes—the bride!”

  They drank and then, to Maud’s surprise, Ethel spoke. “It falls to me to propose the toast to the groom,” she said as if she had been making speeches all her life. How had a servant from Wales acquired such confidence? Then Maud remembered that her father was a preacher and a political activist, so she had an example to follow.