Fall of Giants (The Century Trilogy)

by Ken Follett

  { 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?"

  "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 naive 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 Ty 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.

  But who was she, to ask for so much from life? She was Ethel Williams, born in a coal miner's cottage! How could she turn up her nose at a lifetime of ease? You should be so lucky, she told herself, using one of Bernie's sayings.

  And then there was Lloyd. He would have a governess, and later Fitz would pay for him to go to a posh school. He would grow up among the elite and lead a life of privilege. Did Ethel have the right to deny him that?

  She was no nearer an answer when she opened the newspapers in the office she shared with Maud and learned of another dramatic offer. On December 12 the German chancellor, Theobald von Bethmann-Hollweg, proposed peace talks with the Allies.

  Ethel was elated. Peace! Was it really possible? Might Billy come home?

  The French premier immediately described the note as a crafty move, and the Russian foreign minister denounced the Germans' "lying proposals," but Ethel believed it was the British reaction that would count.

  Lloyd George was not making public speeches of any kind, claiming he had a sore throat. In London in December half the population had coughs and colds, but all the same Ethel suspected Lloyd George just wanted time to think. She took that as a good sign. An immediate response would have been a rejection; anything else was hopeful. He was at least considering peace, she thought optimistically.

  Meanwhile President Wilson threw America's weight into the balance on the side of peace. He suggested that as a preliminary to talks all the warring powers state their aims--what they were trying to achieve by fighting.

  "That's embarrassed them," said Bernie Leckwith that evening. "They've forgotten why they started it. They're fighting now just because they want to win."

  Ethel remembered what Mrs. Dai Ponies had said about the strike: These men--once they get into a fight, all they care about is winning. They won't give in, whatever the cost. She wondered how a woman prime minister might have reacted to a peace proposal.

  But Bernie was right, she realized over the next few days. President Wilson's suggestion met with a strange silence. No country answered immediately. That made Ethel more angry. How could they carry on if they did not even know what they were fighting for?

  At the end of the week Bernie organized a public meeting to debate the German note. On the day of the meeting, Ethel woke up to see her brother standing beside her bed in his khaki uniform. "Billy!" she cried. "You're alive!"

  "And on a week's leave," he said. "Get out of bed, you lazy cow."

  She jumped up, put on a dressing gown over her nightdress, and hugged him. "Oh, Billy, I'm so happy to see you." She noticed the stripes on his sleeve. "Sergeant, now, is it?"

  "Aye."

  "How did you get into the house?"

  "Mildred opened the door. Actually, I been here since last night."

  "Where did you sleep?"

  He looked bashful. "Upstairs."

  Ethel grinned. "Lucky lad."

  "I really like her, Eth."

  "So do I," Ethel said. "Mildred is solid gold. Are you going to marry her?"

  "Aye, if I survive the war."

  "You don't mind about the age difference?"

  "She's twenty-three. It's not like she's really old, thirty or something."

  "And the children?"

  Billy shrugged. "They're nice kids, but even if they weren't I'd put up with them for her sake."

  "You really do love her."

  "It's not difficult."

  "She's started a little business, you must have seen all the hats up there in her room."

  "Aye. Going well, too, it is, she says."

  "Very well. She's a hard worker. Is Tommy with you?"

  "He come over on the boat with me, but now he've gone to Aberowen on the train."

  Lloyd woke up, saw a strange man in the room, and began to cry. Ethel picked him up and quieted him. "Come in the kitchen," she said to Billy. "I'll make us some breakfast."

  Billy sat and r
ead the paper while she made porridge. After a moment he said: "Bloody hell."

  "What?"

  "Bloody Fitzherbert's been opening his big mouth, I see." He glanced at Lloyd, almost as if the baby might be offended at this scornful reference to his father.

  Ethel looked over his shoulder. She read:

  PEACE: A SOLDIER'SPLEA

  "Don't Give Up on Us Now!" Wounded Earl Speaks Out

  A moving speech was made yesterday in the House of Lords against the current proposal of the German Chancellor for peace talks. The speaker was Earl Fitzherbert, a Major in the Welsh Rifles, who is in London recovering from wounds received at the Battle of the Somme.

  Lord Fitzherbert said that to talk peace with the Germans would be a betrayal of all the men who have given their lives in the war. "We believe we are winning and can achieve complete victory provided you don't give up on us now," he said.

  Wearing his uniform, with an eye patch, and leaning on a crutch, the earl made a striking figure in the debating chamber. He was listened to in absolute silence, and cheered when he sat down.

  There was a lot more of the same. Ethel was aghast. It was sentimental claptrap, but it would be effective. Fitz did not normally wear the eye patch--he must have put it on for effect. The speech would prejudice a lot of people against the peace plan.

  She ate breakfast with Billy, then dressed Lloyd and herself and went out. Billy was going to spend the day with Mildred, but he promised to come to the meeting that evening.

  When Ethel arrived at the office of The Soldier's Wife she saw that all the newspapers had reported Fitz's speech. Several made it the subject of a leading article. They took different views, but agreed he had struck a powerful blow.

  "How can anyone be against the mere discussion of peace?" she said to Maud.