by Ken Follett
Maud's fate would be decided this afternoon, as well as the fate of thousands of men of fighting age. Depending on what Grey said, and how Parliament reacted, women all over Europe could become widows, their children orphans.
Maud had stopped being angry--worn out with it, perhaps. Now she was just frightened. War or peace, marriage or loneliness, life or death: her destiny.
It was a holiday, so the city's huge population of bank clerks, civil servants, lawyers, stockbrokers, and merchants all had the day off. Most of them seemed to have gathered near the great departments of government in Westminster, hoping to be the first to hear news. The chauffeur steered Fitz's seven-passenger Cadillac limousine slowly through the vast crowds in Trafalgar Square, Whitehall, and Parliament Square. The weather was cloudy but warm, and the more fashionable young men wore straw boaters. Maud glimpsed a placard for the Evening Standard that read: ON THE BRINK OF CATASTROPHE.
The crowd cheered as the car drew up outside the Palace of Westminster, then there was a little groan of disappointment when it disgorged nothing more interesting than two ladies. The onlookers wanted to see their heroes, men such as Lloyd George and Keir Hardie.
The palace epitomized the Victorian mania for decoration, Maud thought. The stone was elaborately carved, there was linenfold paneling everywhere, the floor tiles were multicolored, the glass was stained, and the carpets were patterned.
Although it was a holiday, the House was sitting and the place was crowded with members and peers, most of them in the parliamentary uniform of black morning coat and black silk top hat. Only the Labour members defied the dress code by wearing tweeds or lounge suits.
The peace faction was still a majority in cabinet, Maud knew. Lloyd George had won his point last night, and the government would stand aside if Germany committed a merely technical violation of Belgian territory.
Helpfully, the Italians had declared neutrality, saying their treaty with Austria obliged them to join only in a defensive war, whereas Austria's action in Serbia was clearly aggressive. So far, Maud thought, Italy was the only country to have shown common sense.
Fitz and Walter were waiting in the octagonal Central Lobby. Maud immediately said: "I haven't heard what happened at this morning's cabinet--have you?"
"Three more resignations," Fitz said. "Morley, Simon, and Beauchamp."
All three were antiwar. Maud was discouraged, and also puzzled. "Not Lloyd George?"
"No."
"Strange." Maud felt a chill of foreboding. Was there a split in the peace faction? "What is Lloyd George up to?"
Walter said: "I don't know, but I can guess." He looked solemn. "Last night, Germany demanded free passage through Belgium for our troops."
Maud gasped.
Walter went on: "The Belgian cabinet sat from nine o'clock yesterday evening until four this morning, then rejected the demand and said they would fight."
This was dreadful.
Fitz said: "So Lloyd George was wrong--the German army is not going to commit a merely technical violation."
Walter said nothing, but spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
Maud feared that the brutal German ultimatum, and the Belgian government's foolhardy defiance, might have undermined the peace faction in the cabinet. Belgium and Germany looked too much like David and Goliath. Lloyd George had a nose for public opinion: had he sensed that the mood was about to change?
"We must take our places," said Fitz.
Full of apprehension, Maud passed through a small door and climbed a long staircase to emerge in the Strangers' Gallery overlooking the chamber of the House of Commons. Here sat the sovereign government of the British empire. In this room, matters of life and death were decided for the 444 million people who lived under some form of British rule. Every time she came here Maud was struck by how small it was, with less room than the average London church.
Government and opposition faced each other on tiered rows of benches, separated by a gap that--according to legend--was two sword lengths, so that opponents could not fight. For most debates the chamber was almost empty, with no more than a dozen or so members sprawled comfortably on the green leather upholstery. Today, however, the benches were packed, and M.P.s who could not find seats were standing at the entrance. Only the front rows were vacant, those places being reserved by tradition for cabinet ministers, on the government side, and opposition leaders on the other.
It was significant, Maud thought, that today's debate was to take place in this chamber, not in the House of Lords. In fact many of the peers were, like Fitz, here in the gallery, watching. The House of Commons had the authority that came from being elected by the people--even though not much more than half of adult men had the vote, and no women. Much of Asquith's time as prime minister had been spent fighting the Lords, especially over Lloyd George's plan to give all old people a small pension. The battles had been fierce but, each time, the Commons had won. The underlying reason, Maud believed, was that the English aristocracy were terrified that the French revolution would be repeated here, so in the end they always accepted a compromise.
The front-benchers came in, and Maud was immediately struck by the atmosphere among the Liberals. The prime minister, Asquith, was smiling at something said by the Quaker Joseph Pease, and Lloyd George was talking to Sir Edward Grey. "Oh, God," Maud muttered.
Walter, sitting next to her, said: "What?"
"Look at them," she said. "They're all pals together. They've made up their differences."
"You can't tell that just by looking."
"Yes, I can."
The speaker entered in an old-fashioned wig and sat on the raised throne. He called on the foreign secretary, and Grey stood up, his gaunt face pale and careworn.
He had no skill as a speaker. He was wordy and ponderous. Nevertheless, the members squeezed along the benches, and the visitors in the packed gallery listened in attentive silence, waiting patiently for the important part.
He spoke for three-quarters of an hour before mentioning Belgium. Then, at last, he revealed the details of the German ultimatum that Walter had told Maud about an hour earlier. The M.P.s were electrified. Maud saw that, as she had feared, this changed everything. Both sides of the Liberal Party--the right-wing imperialists and the left-wing defenders of the rights of small nations--were outraged.
Grey quoted Gladstone, asking "whether, under the circumstances of the case, this country, endowed as it is with influence and power, would quietly stand by and witness the perpetration of the direst crime that ever stained the pages of history, and thus become participators in the sin?"
This was rubbish, Maud thought. An invasion of Belgium would not be the direst crime in history--what about the Cawnpore Massacre? What about the slave trade? Britain did not intervene every time a country was invaded. It was ludicrous to say that such inaction made the British people participants in the sin.
But few present saw things her way. Members on both sides cheered. Maud stared in consternation at the government front bench. All the ministers who had been fervently against war yesterday were now nodding agreement: young Herbert Samuel; Lewis "Lulu" Harcourt; the Quaker Joseph Pease, who was president of the Peace Society; and, worst of all, Lloyd George himself. The fact that Lloyd George was supporting Grey meant that the political battle was over, Maud realized in despair. The German threat to Belgium had united the opposing factions.
Grey could not play on his audience's emotions, as Lloyd George did, nor could he sound like an Old Testament prophet, as Churchill did; but today he did not need such skills, Maud reflected: the facts were doing all the work. She turned to Walter and said in a fierce whisper: "Why? Why has Germany done this?"
His face twisted in an agonized expression, but he answered with his usual calm logic. "South of Belgium, the border between Germany and France is heavily fortified. If we attacked there, we would win, but it would take too long--Russia would have time to mobilize and attack us from behind. The only way for us to
be sure of a quick victory is to go through Belgium."
"But it also ensures that Britain will go to war against you!"
Walter nodded. "But the British army is small. You rely on your navy, and this is not a sea war. Our generals think Britain will make little difference."
"Do you agree?"
"I believe it's never smart to make an enemy of a rich and powerful neighbor. But I lost that argument."
And that was what had happened repeatedly over the last two weeks, Maud thought despairingly. In every country, those who were against war had been overruled. The Austrians had attacked Serbia when they might have held back; the Russians had mobilized instead of negotiating; the Germans had refused to attend an international conference to settle the issue; the French had been offered the chance to remain neutral and had spurned it; and now the British were about to join in when they might easily have remained on the sidelines.
Grey had reached his peroration. "I have put the vital facts before the House, and if, as seems not improbable, we are forced, and rapidly forced, to take our stand upon these issues, then I believe, when the country realizes what is at stake, what the real issues are, the magnitude of the impending dangers in the west of Europe, which I have endeavored to describe to the House, we shall be supported throughout, not only by the House of Commons, but by the determination, the resolution, the courage, and the endurance of the whole country."
He sat down to cheers from all sides. There had been no vote, and Grey had not even proposed anything; but it was clear from the reaction that the M.P.s were ready for war.
The leader of the opposition, Andrew Bonar Law, got up to say that the government could rely on the support of the Conservatives. Maud was not surprised: they were always more warlike than the Liberals. But she was amazed, as was everyone else, when the Irish Nationalist leader said the same thing. Maud felt as if she was living in a madhouse. Was she the only person in the world who wanted peace?
Only the Labour Party leader dissented. "I think he is wrong," said Ramsay MacDonald, speaking of Grey. "I think the government which he represents and for which he speaks is wrong. I think the verdict of history will be that they are wrong."
But no one was listening. Some M.P.s were already leaving the chamber. The gallery was also emptying. Fitz stood up, and the rest of his group followed suit. Maud went along listlessly. Down in the chamber, MacDonald was saying: "If the right honorable gentleman had come here today and told us that our country is in danger, I do not care what party he appealed to, or to what class he appealed, we would be with him . . . What is the use of talking about coming to the aid of Belgium, when, as a matter of fact, you are engaging in a whole European war?" Maud passed out of the gallery and heard no more.
This was the worst day of her life. Her country was going to fight an unnecessary war; her brother and the man she loved were going to risk their lives; and she was going to be separated from her fiance, perhaps forever. All hope was lost and she was in total despair.
They went down the stairs, Fitz leading the way. "Most interesting, Fitz dear," said Aunt Herm politely, as if she had been taken to an art exhibition that had turned out better than expected.
Walter grasped Maud's arm and held her back. She let three or four other people get ahead of them, so that Fitz was out of earshot. But she was not prepared for what came next.
"Marry me," Walter said quietly.
Her heart raced. "What?" she whispered. "How?"
"Marry me, please, tomorrow."
"It can't be done--"
"I have a special license." He tapped the breast pocket of his coat. "I went to Chelsea Register Office on Friday."
Her mind was in a whirl. All she could think of to say was: "We agreed to wait." As soon as it was out, she wanted to take it back.
But he was already speaking. "We have waited. The crisis is over. Your country and mine will be at war tomorrow or the day after. I will have to leave Britain. I want to marry you before I go."
"We don't know what's going to happen!" she said.
"Indeed we don't. But, however the future turns out, I want you to be my wife."
"But--" Maud stopped speaking. Why was she voicing objections? He was right. No one knew what was going to happen, but that made no difference now. She wanted to be his wife, and no future that she could imagine would change that.
Before she could say more they reached the foot of the stairs and emerged into the Central Lobby, where a crowd was abuzz with excited conversation. Maud desperately wanted to ask Walter more questions, but Fitz gallantly insisted on escorting her and Aunt Herm out, because of the crowds. In Parliament Square Fitz handed the two women into the car. The chauffeur activated the automatic crank, the engine rumbled, and the car pulled smoothly away, leaving Fitz and Walter standing on the pavement, with the crowd of bystanders waiting to hear their fate.
{ VII }
Maud wanted to be Walter's wife. It was the only thing she was sure of. She held on to that thought while questions and speculations buzzed around her head. Should she fall in with Walter's plan, or would it be better to wait? If she agreed to marry him tomorrow, whom would she tell? Where would they go after the ceremony? Would they live together? If so, where?
That evening before dinner her maid brought her an envelope on a silver tray. It contained a single sheet of heavy cream-colored paper covered with Walter's precise, upright handwriting in blue ink.
Six o'clock p.m.
My dearest love,
At half past three tomorrow I will wait for you in a car across the road from Fitz's house. I will bring with me the requisite two witnesses. The registrar is booked for four o'clock. I have a suite at the Hyde Hotel. I have checked in already, so that we can go to our room without delaying in the lobby. We are to be Mr. and Mrs. Woolridge. Wear a veil.
I love you, Maud.
Your betrothed,
W.
With a shaky hand, she put the sheet of paper down on the polished mahogany top of her dressing table. Her breath was coming fast. She stared at the floral wallpaper and tried to think calmly.
He had chosen the time well: midafternoon was a quiet moment when Maud might be able to slip out of the house unnoticed. Aunt Herm took a nap after lunch, and Fitz would be at the House of Lords.
Fitz must not know in advance, for he would try to stop her. He might simply lock her in her room. He could even get her committed to a lunatic asylum. A wealthy upper-class man could have a female relative put away without much difficulty. All Fitz would have to do was to find two doctors willing to agree with him that she must be mad to want to marry a German.
She would not tell anyone.
The false name and the veil indicated that Walter meant to be clandestine. The Hyde was a discreet hotel in Knightsbridge, where they were unlikely to meet anyone they knew. She shivered with a thrill of anticipation when she thought of spending the night with Walter.
But what would they do the next day? A marriage could not be secret forever. Walter would be leaving Britain in two or three days. Would she go with him? She was afraid she would blight his career. How could he be trusted to fight for his country if he was married to an Englishwoman? And if he did fight, he would be away from home--so what was the point of her going to Germany?
Despite all the unknowns, she was full of delicious excitement. "Mrs. Woolridge," she said to the bedroom, and she hugged herself with joy.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
August 4, 1914
At sunrise Maud got up and sat at her dressing table to write a letter. She had a stack of Fitz's blue paper in her drawer, and the silver inkwell was filled every day. My darling, she began, then she stopped to think.
She caught sight of herself in the oval mirror. Her hair was tousled and her nightdress rumpled. A frown creased her forehead and turned down the corners of her mouth. She picked a fragment of some green vegetable from between her teeth. If he could see me now, she thought, he might not want to marry me. Then she real
ized that if she went along with his plan he would see her exactly like this tomorrow morning. It was a strange thought, scary and thrilling at the same time.
She wrote:
Yes, with all my heart, I want to marry you. But what is your plan? Where would we live?
She had been thinking about this half the night. The obstacles seemed immense.
If you stay in Britain they will put you in a prison camp. If we go to Germany I will never see you because you will be away from home, with the army.
Their relatives might create more trouble than the authorities.
When are we to tell our families about the marriage? Not beforehand, please, because Fitz will find a way to stop us. Even afterwards there will be difficulties with him and with your father. Tell me what you are thinking.
I love you dearly.
She sealed the envelope and addressed it to his flat, which was a quarter of a mile away. She rang the bell and a few minutes later her maid tapped on the door. Sanderson was a plump girl with a big smile. Maud said: "If Mr. Ulrich is out, go to the German embassy in Carlton House Terrace. Either way, wait for his reply. Is that clear?"
"Yes, my lady."
"No need to tell any of the other servants what you're doing."
A worried look came over Sanderson's young face. Many maids were party to their mistresses' intrigues, but Maud had never had secret romances, and Sanderson was not used to deception. "What shall I say when Mr. Grout asks me where I'm going?"
Maud thought for a moment. "Tell him you have to buy me certain feminine articles." Embarrassment would curb Grout's curiosity.
