Fall of Giants (The Century Trilogy)

by Ken Follett

"You're exaggerating," she said, but she was beginning to lose confidence.

  "He certainly could not work in any area that required secrecy. Men would not speak of confidential matters in his presence. He would be finished."

  "He doesn't have to be in military intelligence. He can switch to other areas of diplomacy."

  "All diplomacy requires secrecy. And then there is my own position."

  Maud was surprised by this. She and Walter had not considered Otto's career.

  "I am a close confidant of the kaiser's. Would he continue to place absolute trust in me if my son were married to an enemy alien?"

  "He ought to."

  "He would, perhaps, if I took firm, positive action, and disowned my son."

  Maud gasped. "You would not do that."

  Otto raised his voice. "I would be obliged to!"

  She shook her head. "You would have a choice," she said desperately. "A man always has a choice."

  "I will not sacrifice everything I have earned--my position, my career, the respect of my countrymen--for a girl," he said contemptuously.

  Maud felt as if she had been slapped.

  Otto went on: "But Walter will, of course."

  "What are you saying?"

  "If Walter were to marry you he would lose his family, his country, and his career. But he will do it. He has declared his love for you without fully thinking through the consequences, and sooner or later he will understand what a catastrophic mistake he has made. But he undoubtedly considers himself unofficially engaged to you, and he will not back out of a commitment. He is too much of a gentleman. 'Go ahead, disown me,' he will say to me. He would consider himself a coward otherwise."

  "That's true," Maud said. She felt bewildered. This horrible old man saw the truth more clearly than she did.

  Otto went on: "So you must break off the engagement."

  She felt stabbed. "No!"

  "It is the only way to save him. You must give him up."

  Maud opened her mouth to object again, but Otto was right, and she could not think of anything to say.

  Otto leaned forward and spoke with pressing intensity. "Will you break with him?"

  Tears ran down Maud's face. She knew what she had to do. She could not ruin Walter's life, even out of love. "Yes," she sobbed. Her dignity was gone, and she did not care; the pain was too much. "Yes, I will break with him."

  "Do you promise?"

  "Yes, I promise."

  Otto stood up. "Thank you for your courtesy in listening to me." He bowed. "I bid you good afternoon." He went out.

  Maud buried her face in her hands.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mid-July 1914

  There was a cheval glass in Ethel's new bedroom at Ty Gwyn. It was old, the woodwork cracked and the glass misted, but she could see herself full-length. She considered it a great luxury.

  She looked at herself in her underwear. She seemed to have become more voluptuous since falling in love. She had put on a little weight around her waist and hips, and her breasts seemed fuller, perhaps because Fitz stroked and squeezed them so much. When she thought about him her nipples hurt.

  Fitz had arrived that morning, with Princess Bea and Lady Maud, and had whispered that he would meet her in the Gardenia Suite after lunch. Ethel had put Maud in the Pink Room, making up an excuse about repairs to the floorboards in Maud's usual apartment.

  Now Ethel had come to her room to wash and put on clean underwear. She loved preparing herself for him like this, anticipating how he would touch her body and kiss her mouth, hearing in advance the way he would groan with desire and pleasure, thinking of the smell of his skin and the voluptuous texture of his clothes.

  She opened a drawer to take out fresh stockings, and her eye fell on a pile of clean strips of white cotton, the rags she used when menstruating. It occurred to her that she had not washed them since she had moved into this room. Suddenly there was a tiny seed of pure dread in her mind. She sat down heavily on the narrow bed. It was now the middle of July. Mrs. Jevons had left at the beginning of May. That was ten weeks ago. In that time Ethel should have used the rags not once but twice. "Oh, no," she said aloud. "Oh, please, no!"

  She forced herself to think calmly and worked it out again. The king's visit had taken place in January. Ethel had been made housekeeper immediately afterward, but Mrs. Jevons had been too ill to move then. Fitz had gone to Russia in February, and had come back in March, which was when they had first made love properly. In April Mrs. Jevons had rallied, and Fitz's man of business, Albert Solman, had come down from London to explain her pension to her. She had left at the beginning of May, and that was when Ethel had moved into this room and put that frightening little pile of white cotton strips into the drawer. It was ten weeks ago. Ethel could not make the arithmetic come out any differently.

  How many times had they met in the Gardenia Suite? At least eight. Each time, Fitz withdrew before the end, but sometimes he left it a bit late, and she felt the first of his spasms while he was still inside her. She had been deliriously happy to be with him that way, and in her ecstasy she had closed her eyes to the risk. Now she had been caught.

  "Oh, God forgive me," she said aloud.

  Her friend Dilys Pugh had fallen for a baby. Dilys was the same age as Ethel. She had been working as a housemaid for Perceval Jones's wife and walking out with Johnny Bevan. Ethel recalled how Dilys's breasts had got larger around the time she realized that you could, in fact, get pregnant from doing it standing up. They were married now.

  What was going to happen to Ethel? She could not marry the father of her child. Apart from anything else, he was already married.

  It was time to go and meet him. There would be no rolling on the bed today. They would have to talk about the future. She put on her housekeeper's black silk dress.

  What would he say? He had no children: would he be pleased, or horrified? Would he cherish his love child, or be embarrassed by it? Would he love Ethel more for conceiving, or would he hate her?

  She left her attic room and went along the narrow corridor and down the back stairs to the west wing. The familiar wallpaper with its pattern of gardenias quickened her desire, in the same way that the sight of her knickers aroused Fitz.

  He was already there, standing by the window, looking over the sunlit garden, smoking a cigar; and when she saw him she was struck again by how beautiful he was. She threw her arms around his neck. His brown tweed suit was soft to the touch because, she had discovered, it was made of cashmere. "Oh, Teddy, my lovely, I'm so happy to see you," she said. She liked being the only person who called him Teddy.

  "And I to see you," he said, but he did not immediately stroke her breasts.

  She kissed his ear. "I got something to say to you," she said solemnly.

  "And I have something to tell you! May I go first?"

  She was about to say no, but he detached himself from her embrace and took a step back, and suddenly her heart filled with foreboding. "What?" she said. "What is it?"

  "Bea is expecting a baby." He drew on his cigar and blew out smoke like a sigh.

  At first she could make no sense of his words. "What?" she said in a bewildered tone.

  "The princess Bea, my wife, is pregnant. She is going to have a baby."

  "You mean you've been at it with her at the same time as with me?" Ethel said angrily.

  He looked startled. It seemed he had not expected her to resent that. "I must!" he protested. "I need an heir."

  "But you said you loved me!"

  "I do, and in a way I always will."

  "No, Teddy!" she cried. "Don't say it like that--please don't!"

  "Keep your voice down!"

  "Keep my voice down? You're throwing me over! What is it to me now if people know?"

  "It's everything to me."

  Ethel was distraught. "Teddy, please, I love you."

  "But it's over now. I have to be a good husband and a father to my child. You must understand."

  "Under
stand, hell!" she raged. "How can you say it so easily? I've seen you show more emotion over a dog that had to be shot!"

  "It's not true," he said, and there was a catch in his voice.

  "I gave myself to you, in this room, on that bed by there."

  "And I shan't--" He stopped. His face, frozen until now in an expression of rigid self-control, suddenly showed anguish. He turned away, hiding from her gaze. "I shan't ever forget that," he whispered.

  She moved closer to him, and saw tears on his cheeks, and her anger evaporated. "Oh, Teddy, I'm so sorry," she said.

  He tried to pull himself together. "I care for you very much, but I must do my duty," he said. The words were cold, but his voice was tormented.

  "Oh, God." She tried to stop crying. She had not told him her news yet. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, sniffed, and swallowed. "Duty?" she said. "You don't know the half."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I'm pregnant, too."

  "Oh, my good God." He put his cigar to his lips, mechanically, then lowered it again without puffing on it. "But I always withdrew!"

  "Not soon enough, then."

  "How long have you known?"

  "I just realized. I looked in my drawer and saw my clean rags." He winced. Evidently he did not like talk of menstruation. Well, he would have to put up with it. "I worked out that I haven't had the curse since I moved into Mrs. Jevons's old room, and that's ten weeks ago."

  "Two cycles. That makes it definite. That's what Bea said. Oh, hell." He touched the cigar to his lips, found that it had gone out, and dropped it on the floor with a grunt of irritation.

  A wry thought occurred to her. "You might have two heirs."

  "Don't be ridiculous," he said sharply. "A bastard doesn't inherit."

  "Oh," she said. She had not seriously intended to make a claim for her child. On the other hand, she had not until now thought of it as a bastard. "Poor little thing," she said. "My baby, the bastard."

  He looked guilty. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean that. Forgive me."

  She could see that his better nature was at war with his selfish instincts. She touched his arm. "Poor Fitz."

  "God forbid that Bea should find out about this," he said.

  She felt mortally wounded. Why should his main concern be the other woman? Bea would be all right: she was rich and married, and carrying the loved and honored child of the Fitzherbert clan.

  Fitz went on: "The shock might be too much for her."

  Ethel recalled a rumor that Bea had suffered a miscarriage last year. All the female servants had discussed it. According to Nina, the Russian maid, the princess blamed the miscarriage on Fitz, who had upset her by canceling a planned trip to Russia.

  Ethel felt terribly rejected. "So your main concern is that the news of our baby might upset your wife."

  He stared at her. "I don't want her to miscarry--it's important!"

  He had no idea how callous he was being. "Damn you," Ethel said.

  "What do you expect? The child Bea is carrying is one I have been hoping and praying for. Yours is not wanted by you, me, or anyone else."

  "That's not how I see it," she said in a small voice, and she began to cry again.

  "I've got to think about this," he said. "I need to be alone." He took her by the shoulders. "We'll talk again tomorrow. In the meantime, tell no one. Do you understand?"

  She nodded.

  "Promise me."

  "I promise."

  "Good girl," he said, and he left the room.

  Ethel bent down and picked up the dead cigar.

  { II }

  She told no one, but she was unable to pretend that everything was all right, so she feigned illness and went to bed. As she lay alone, hour after hour, grief slowly gave way to anxiety. How would she and her baby live?

  She would lose her job here at Ty Gwyn--that was automatic, even if her baby had not been the earl's. That alone hurt. She had been so proud of herself when she was made housekeeper. Gramper was fond of saying that pride comes before a fall. He was right in this case.

  She was not sure she could return to her parents' house: the disgrace would kill her father. She was almost as upset about that as she was about her own shame. It would wound him more than her, in a way; he was so rigid about this sort of thing.

  Anyway, she did not want to live as an unmarried mother in Aberowen. There were two already: Maisie Owen and Gladys Pritchard. They were sad figures with no proper place in the town's social order. They were single, but no man was interested in them; they were mothers, but they lived with their parents as if they were still children; they were not welcome in any church, pub, shop, or club. How could she, Ethel Williams, who had always considered herself a cut above the rest, sink to the lowest level of all?

  She had to leave Aberowen, then. She was not sorry. She would be glad to turn her back on the rows of grim houses, the prim little chapels, and the endless quarrels between miners and management. But where would she go? And would she be able to see Fitz?

  As darkness fell she lay awake looking through the window at the stars, and at last she made a plan. She would start a new life in a new place. She would wear a wedding ring and tell a story about a dead husband. She would find someone to mind the baby, get a job of some kind, and earn money. She would send her child to school. It would be a girl, she felt, and she would be clever, a writer or a doctor, or perhaps a campaigner like Mrs. Pankhurst, championing women's rights and getting arrested outside Buckingham Palace.

  She had thought she would not sleep, but emotion had drained her, and she drifted off around midnight and fell into a heavy, dreamless slumber.

  The rising sun woke her. She sat upright, looking forward to the new day as always; then she remembered that her old life was over, ruined, and she was in the middle of a tragedy. She almost succumbed to grief again, but fought against it. She could not afford the luxury of tears. She had to start a new life.

  She got dressed and went down to the servants' hall, where she announced that she was fully recovered from yesterday's malady and fit to do her normal work.

  Lady Maud sent for her before breakfast. Ethel made up a coffee tray and took it to the Pink Room. Maud was at her dressing table in a purple silk negligee. She had been crying. Ethel had troubles of her own, but all the same her sympathy quickened. "What's the matter, my lady?"

  "Oh, Williams, I've had to give him up."

  Ethel assumed she meant Walter von Ulrich. "But why?"

  "His father came to see me. I hadn't really faced the fact that Britain and Germany are enemies, and marriage to me would ruin Walter's career--and possibly his father's, too."

  "But everyone says there's not going to be a war, Serbia's not important enough."

  "If not now, it will be later; and even if it never happens, the threat is enough." There was a frill of pink lace around the dressing table, and Maud was picking at it nervously, tearing the expensive lace. It was going to take hours to mend, Ethel thought. Maud went on: "No one in the German foreign ministry would trust Walter with secrets if he were married to an Englishwoman."

  Ethel poured the coffee and handed Maud a cup. "Herr von Ulrich will give up his job if he really loves you."

  "But I don't want him to!" Maud stopped tearing the lace and drank some coffee. "I can't be the person that ended his career. What kind of basis is that for marriage?"

  He could have another career, Ethel thought; and if he really loved you, he would. Then she thought of the man she loved, and how quickly his passion had cooled when it became inconvenient. I'll keep my opinions to myself, she thought; I don't know a bloody thing. She asked: "What did Walter say?"

  "I haven't seen him. I wrote him a letter. I stopped going to all the places where I usually meet him. Then he started to call at the house, and it became embarrassing to keep telling the servants I was not at home, so I came down here with Fitz."

  "Why won't you talk to him?"

  "Because I know what will
happen. He will take me in his arms and kiss me, and I'll give in."

  I know that feeling, Ethel thought.

  Maud sighed. "You're quiet this morning, Williams. You've probably got worries of your own. Are things very hard with this strike?"

  "Yes, my lady. The whole town is on short rations."

  "Are you still feeding the miners' children?"

  "Every day."

  "Good. My brother is very generous."

  "Yes, my lady." When it suits him, she thought.

  "Well, you'd better get on with your work. Thank you for the coffee. I expect I'm boring you with my problems."

  Impulsively, Ethel seized Maud's hand. "Please don't say that. You've always been good to me. I'm very sorry about Walter, and I hope you will always tell me your troubles."

  "What a kind thing to say." Fresh tears came to Maud's eyes. "Thank you very much, Williams." She squeezed Ethel's hand, then released it.

  Ethel picked up the tray and left. When she reached the kitchen Peel, the butler, said: "Have you done something wrong?"

  Little do you know, she thought. "Why do you ask?"

  "His lordship wants to see you in the library at half past ten."

  So it was to be a formal talk, Ethel thought. Perhaps that was better. They would be separated by a desk, and she would not be tempted to throw herself into his arms. That would help her keep back the tears. She would need to be cool and unemotional. The entire course of the rest of her life would be set by this discussion.

  She went about her household duties. She was going to miss Ty Gwyn. In the years she had worked there she had come to love the gracious old furniture. She had picked up the names of the pieces, and learned to recognize a torchere, a buffet, an armoire, or a canterbury. As she dusted and polished she noticed the marquetry, the swags and scrolls, the feet shaped like lions' paws clasping balls. Occasionally, someone like Peel would say: "That's French--Louis Quinze," and she had realized that every room was decorated and furnished consistently in a style, baroque or neoclassical or Gothic. She would never live with such furniture again.

  After an hour she made her way to the library. The books had been collected by Fitz's ancestors. Nowadays the room was not much used: Bea read only French novels, and Fitz did not read at all. Houseguests sometimes came here for peace and quiet, or to use the ivory chess set on the center table. This morning the blinds were pulled halfway down, on Ethel's instructions, to shade the room from the July sun and keep it cool. Consequently the room was gloomy.