by Follett, Ken
“His section captured a German trench, then had to abandon it when they ran out of ammunition.”
Fitz had missed all the debriefing, being in hospital. “Did he get a medal?”
“No. The colonel told him he should have defended his position to the death. Billy said: ‘What, like you did?’ and he was put on a charge.”
Fitz was not surprised. Williams was trouble. “So what are you doing here?”
“I work with your sister.”
“She didn’t tell me.”
Ethel gave him a level look. “She wouldn’t think you’d be interested in news of your former servants.”
It was a jibe, but he ignored it. “What do you do?”
“I’m managing editor of The Soldier’s Wife. I arrange printing and distribution, and edit the letters page. And I take care of the money.”
He was impressed. It was a big step up from housekeeper. But she had always been an extraordinarily capable organizer. “My money, I suppose?”
“I don’t think so. Maud is careful. She knows you don’t mind paying for tea and cake, and doctoring for soldiers’ children, but she wouldn’t use your money for antiwar propaganda.”
He kept the conversation going just for the pleasure of watching her face as she talked. “Is that what is in the newspaper?” he asked. “Antiwar propaganda?”
“We discuss publicly what you speak of only in secret: the possibility of peace.”
She was right. Fitz knew that senior politicians in both major parties had been talking about peace, and it angered him. But he did not want to have a row with Ethel. “Your hero, Lloyd George, is in favor of fighting harder.”
“Will he become prime minister, do you think?”
“The king doesn’t want him. But he may be the only candidate who can unite Parliament.”
“I fear he may prolong the war.”
Maud came out of her office. The tea party was breaking up, the women clearing up the cups and saucers and marshaling their children. Fitz marveled to see Aunt Herm carrying a stack of dirty plates. How the war had changed people!
He looked again at Ethel. She was still the most attractive woman he had ever met. He yielded to an impulse. Speaking in a lowered voice he said: “Will you meet me tomorrow?”
She looked shocked. “What for?” she said quietly.
“Yes or no?”
“Where?”
“Victoria Station. One o’clock. At the entrance to platform three.”
Before she could reply the man in thick glasses came over, and Ethel introduced him. “Earl Fitzherbert, may I present Mr. Bernie Leckwith, chairman of the Aldgate branch of the Independent Labour Party.”
Fitz shook hands. Leckwith was in his twenties. Fitz guessed that poor eyesight had kept him out of the armed forces.
“I’m sorry to see you wounded, Lord Fitzherbert,” Leckwith said in a cockney accent.
“I was one of thousands, and lucky to be alive.”
“With hindsight, is there anything we could have done differently at the Somme, that would have greatly altered the outcome?”
Fitz thought for a moment. It was a damned good question.
While he considered, Leckwith said: “Did we need more men and ammunition, as the generals claim? Or more flexible tactics and better communications, as the politicians say?”
Fitz said thoughtfully: “All those things would have helped but, frankly, I don’t think they would have brought us victory. The assault was doomed from the start. But we could not possibly have known that in advance. We had to try.”
Leckwith nodded, as if his own view had been confirmed. “I appreciate your candor,” he said, almost as if Fitz had made a confession.
They left the chapel. Fitz handed Aunt Herm and Maud into the waiting car, then got in himself, and the chauffeur drove away.
Fitz found himself breathing hard. He had suffered a small shock. Three years ago Ethel had been counting pillowcases at Tŷ Gwyn. Today she was the managing editor of a newspaper that, although small, was considered by senior ministers to be a thorn in the flesh of the government.
What was her relationship with the surprisingly intelligent Bernie Leckwith? “Who was that chap Leckwith?” he asked Maud.
“An important local politician.”
“Is he Williams’s husband?”
Maud laughed. “No, though everyone thinks he should be. He’s a clever man who shares her ideals, and he’s devoted to her son. I don’t know why Ethel didn’t marry him years ago.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t make her heart beat faster.”
Maud raised her eyebrows, and Fitz realized he had been dangerously candid.
He added hastily: “Girls of that type want romance, don’t they? She’ll marry a war hero, not a librarian.”
“She’s not a girl of that type or any other type,” Maud said rather frostily. “She’s nothing if not exceptional. You don’t meet two like her in a lifetime.”
Fitz looked away. He knew that was true.
He wondered what the child was like. It must have been one of the dirty-faced toddlers playing on the floor of the chapel. He had probably seen his own son this afternoon. He was strangely moved by the thought. For some reason it made him want to cry.
The car was passing through Trafalgar Square. He told the driver to stop. “I’d better drop in at the office,” he explained to Maud.
He limped into the Old Admiralty Building and up the stairs. His desk was in the diplomatic section, which inhabited Room 45. Sublieutenant Carver, a student of Latin and Greek who had come down from Cambridge to help decode German signals, told him that not many intercepts had come in during the afternoon, as usual, and there was nothing he needed to deal with. However, there was some political news. “Have you heard?” said Carver. “The king has summoned Lloyd George.”
{ II }
All the next morning, Ethel told herself she was not going to meet Fitz. How dared he suggest such a thing? For more than two years she had heard nothing from him. Then when they met he had not even asked about Lloyd—his own child! He was the same selfish, thoughtless deceiver as always.
All the same, she had been thrown into a whirl. Fitz had looked at her with his intense green eyes, and asked her questions about her life that made her feel she was important to him—contrary to all the evidence. He was no longer the perfect, godlike man he had once been: his beautiful face was marred by one half-closed eye, and he stooped over his walking stick. But his weakness only made her want to take care of him. She told herself she was a fool. He had all the care money could buy. She would not go to meet him.
At twelve noon she left the premises of The Soldier’s Wife—two small rooms over a print shop, shared with the Independent Labour Party—and caught a bus. Maud was not at the office that morning, which saved Ethel the trouble of inventing an excuse.
It was a long journey by bus and underground train from Aldgate to Victoria, and Ethel arrived at the rendezvous a few minutes after one o’clock. She wondered if Fitz might have grown impatient and left, and the thought made her feel slightly ill; but he was there, wearing a tweed suit as if he were going into the country, and she immediately felt better.
He smiled. “I was afraid you weren’t coming,” he said.
“I don’t know why I did,” she replied. “Why did you ask me?”
“I want to show you something.” He took her arm.
They walked out of the station. Ethel felt foolishly pleased to be arm in arm with Fitz. She wondered at his boldness. He was an easily recognizable figure. What if they ran into one of his friends? She supposed they would pretend not to see one another. In Fitz’s social class, a man who had been married a few years was not expected to be faithful.
They rode a bus a few stops and got off in the raffish suburb of Chelsea, a low-rent neighborhood of artists and writers. Ethel wondered what he wanted her to see. They walked along a street of small villas. Fitz said: “Have you ever watched a debate in Parliament?�
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“No,” she said. “But I’d love to.”
“You have to be invited by an M.P. or a peer. Shall I arrange it?”
“Yes, please!”
He looked happy that she had accepted. “I’ll check when there’s going to be something interesting. You might like to see Lloyd George in action.”
“Yes!”
“He is putting his government together today. I should think he will kiss the king’s hand as prime minister tonight.”
Ethel gazed about her thoughtfully. In parts, Chelsea still looked like the country village it had been a hundred years ago. The older buildings were cottages and farmhouses, low-built with large gardens and orchards. There was not much greenery in December, but even so the neighborhood had a pleasant semirural feel. “Politics is a funny business,” she said. “I’ve wanted Lloyd George for prime minister ever since I was old enough to read the newspaper, but now that it’s happened I’m dismayed.”
“Why?”
“He’s the most belligerent senior figure in the government. His appointment might kill off any chance of peace. On the other hand . . . ”
Fitz looked intrigued. “What?”
“He’s the only man who could agree to peace talks without being crucified by Northcliffe’s bloodthirsty newspapers.”
“That’s a point,” Fitz said, looking worried. “If anyone else did it, the headlines would scream: ‘Fire Asquith—or Balfour, or Bonar Law—and bring in Lloyd George!’ But if they attack Lloyd George there’s no one left.”
“So maybe there is a hope of peace.”
He allowed his tone of voice to become testy. “Why aren’t you hoping for victory, rather than peace?”
“Because that’s how we got into this mess,” she said equably. “What are you going to show me?”
“This.” He unlatched a gate and held it open. They entered the grounds of a detached two-story house. The garden was overgrown and the place needed painting, but it was a charming medium-size home, the kind of place that might be owned by a successful musician, Ethel imagined, or perhaps a well-known actor. Fitz took a key from his pocket and opened the door. They stepped inside, and he closed the door and kissed her.
She gave herself up to it. She had not been kissed for a long time, and she felt like a thirsty traveler in a desert. She stroked his long neck and pressed her breasts against his chest. She sensed that he was as desperate as she. Before she lost control she pushed him away. “Stop,” she said breathlessly. “Stop.”
“Why?”
“Last time we did this I ended up talking to your bloody lawyer.” She moved away from him. “I’m not as innocent as I used to be.”
“It will be different this time,” he said, panting. “I was a fool to let you go. I see that now. I was young, too.”
To help her calm down she looked into the rooms. They were full of dowdy old furniture. “Whose house is this?” she said.
“Yours,” he replied. “If you want it.”
She stared at him. What did he mean?
“You could live here with the baby,” he explained. “It was occupied for years by an old lady who used to be my father’s housekeeper. She died a few months ago. You could redecorate it and buy new furniture.”
“Live here?” she said. “As what?”
He could not quite bring himself to say it.
“As your mistress?” she said.
“You can have a nurse, and a couple of housemaids, and a gardener. Even a motorcar with a chauffeur, if that appeals to you.”
The part of it that appealed to her was him.
He misinterpreted her thoughtful look. “Is the house too small? Would you prefer Kensington? Do you want a butler and a housekeeper? I’ll give you anything you want, don’t you understand? My life is empty without you.”
He meant it, she saw. At least, he meant it now, when he was aroused and unsatisfied. She knew from bitter experience how fast he could change.
The trouble was, she wanted him just as badly.
He must have seen that in her face, for he took her in his arms again. She turned up her face to be kissed. I want more of this, she thought.
Once again she broke the embrace before she lost control.
“Well?” he said.
She could not make a sensible decision while he was kissing her. “I’ve got to be alone,” she said. She forced herself to walk away from him before it was too late. “I’m going home,” she said. She opened the door. “I need time to think.” She hesitated on the doorstep.
“Think as long as you want,” he said. “I’ll wait.”
She closed the door and ran away.
{ III }
Gus Dewar was in the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, standing in front of Rembrandt’s Self-Portrait at the Age of Sixty-three, when a woman standing next to him said: “Extraordinarily ugly man.”
Gus turned and was surprised to recognize Maud Fitzherbert. He said: “Me, or Rembrandt?” and she laughed.
They strolled through the gallery together. “What a delightful coincidence,” he said. “Meeting you here.”
“As a matter of fact, I saw you and followed you in,” she said. She lowered her voice. “I wanted to ask you why the Germans haven’t yet made the peace offer you told me was coming.”
He did not know the answer. “They may have changed their minds,” he said gloomily. “There as here, there is a peace faction and a war faction. Perhaps the war faction has gained the upper hand, and succeeded in changing the kaiser’s mind.”
“Surely they must see that battles no longer make a difference!” she said with exasperation. “Did you read in this morning’s papers that the Germans have taken Bucharest?”
Gus nodded. Rumania had declared war in August, and for a while the British had hoped their new partner might strike a mighty blow, but Germany had invaded back in September and now the Rumanian capital had fallen. “In fact the upshot is good for Germany, which now has Rumania’s oil.”
“Exactly,” said Maud. “It’s the same old one step forward, one step back. When will we learn?”
“The appointment of Lloyd George as prime minister isn’t encouraging,” Gus said.
“Ah. There you might be wrong.”
“Really? He has built his political reputation on being more aggressive than everyone else. It would be hard for him to make peace after that.”
“Don’t be so sure. Lloyd George is unpredictable. He could do a volteface. It would surprise only those naïve enough to have thought him sincere.”
“Well, that’s hopeful.”
“All the same, I wish we had a woman prime minister.”
Gus did not think that was ever likely to happen, but he did not say so.
“There’s something else I want to ask you,” she said, and she halted. Gus turned to face her. Perhaps because the paintings had sensitized him, he found himself admiring her face. He noticed the sharp lines of her nose and chin, the high cheekbones, the long neck. The angularity of her features was softened by her full lips and large green eyes. “Anything you like,” he said.
“What did Walter tell you?”
Gus’s mind went back to that surprising conversation in the bar of the Adlon Hotel in Berlin. “He said he was obliged to let me into a secret. But then he didn’t tell me what the secret was.”
“He thought you would be able to guess.”
“I guessed he must be in love with you. And from your reaction when I gave you the letter at Tŷ Gwyn, I could see that his love is returned.” Gus smiled. “If I may say so, he’s a lucky man.”
She nodded, and Gus read something like relief on her face. There must be more to the secret, he realized; that was why she needed to find out how much he knew. He wondered what else they were hiding. Perhaps they were engaged.
They walked on. I understand why he loves you, Gus thought. I could fall for you in a heartbeat.
She surprised him again by suddenly saying: “Have you ever been in love
, Mr. Dewar?”
It was an intrusive question, but he answered anyway. “Yes, I have—twice.”
“But no longer.”
He felt an urge to confide in her. “The year the war broke out, I was wicked enough to fall in love with a woman who was already married.”
“Did she love you?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“I asked her to leave her husband for me. That was very wrong of me, and you will be shocked, I know. But she was a better person than I, and she rejected my immoral offer.”
“I’m not so easily shocked. When was the second time?”
“Last year I became engaged to someone in my hometown, Buffalo; but she married someone else.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry. Perhaps I should not have asked. I have revived a painful memory.”
“Extremely painful.”
“Forgive me if I say that makes me feel better. It’s just that you know what sorrow love can bring.”
“Yes, I do.”
“But perhaps there will be peace after all, and my sorrow will soon be over.”
“I very much hope so, Lady Maud,” said Gus.
{ IV }
Ethel agonized for days over Fitz’s proposition. As she stood freezing in her backyard, turning the mangle to wring out the washing, she imagined herself in that pretty house in Chelsea, with Lloyd running around the garden watched over by an attentive nurse. “I’ll give you anything you want,” Fitz had said, and she knew it was true. He would put the house in her name. He would take her to Switzerland and the south of France. If she set her mind to it, she could make him give her an annuity so that she would have an income until she died, even if he got bored with her—although she also knew she could make sure he never got bored.
It was shameful and disgusting, she told herself sternly. She would be a woman paid for sex, and what else did the word prostitute mean? She could never invite her parents to her Chelsea hideaway: they would know immediately what it meant.
Did she care about that? Perhaps not, but there were other things. She wanted more from life than comfort. As a millionaire’s mistress she could hardly continue to campaign on behalf of working-class women. Her political life would be over. She would lose touch with Bernie and Mildred, and it would be awkward even to see Maud.
