Fall of Giants (The Century Trilogy)

by Ken Follett

  "Yes, my lady."

  Sanderson left and Maud got dressed.

  She was not sure how she was going to maintain a semblance of normality in front of her family. Fitz might not notice her mood--men rarely did--but Aunt Herm was not completely oblivious.

  She went downstairs at breakfast time, although she was too tense to feel hungry. Aunt Herm was eating a kipper and the smell made Maud feel rather ill. She sipped coffee.

  Fitz appeared a minute later. He took a kipper from the sideboard and opened The Times. What do I normally do? Maud asked herself. I talk about politics. Then I must do that now. "Did anything happen last night?" she said.

  "I saw Winston after cabinet," Fitz replied. "We are asking the German government to withdraw its ultimatum to Belgium." He gave a contemptuous emphasis to the word asking.

  Maud did not dare to feel hope. "Does that mean we have not completely given up working for peace?"

  "We might as well," he said scornfully. "Whatever the Germans may be thinking, they're not likely to change their minds because of a polite request."

  "A drowning man may clutch at a straw."

  "We're not clutching at straws. We're going through the ritual preliminaries to a declaration of war."

  He was right, she thought dismally. All governments would want to say that they had not wanted war, but had been forced into it. Fitz showed no awareness of the danger to himself, no sign that this diplomatic fencing might result in a mortal wound to himself. She longed to protect him and at the same time she wanted to strangle him for his foolish obstinacy.

  To distract herself she looked through The Manchester Guardian. It contained a full-page advertisement placed by the Neutrality League with the slogan "Britons, do your duty and keep your country out of a wicked and stupid war." Maud was glad to know there were still people who thought as she did. But they had no chance of prevailing.

  Sanderson came in with an envelope on a silver tray. With a shock, Maud recognized Walter's handwriting. She was aghast. What was the maid thinking of? Did she not realize that if the original note was a secret, the reply must be too?

  She could not read Walter's note in front of Fitz. Heart racing, she took it with pretended carelessness and dropped it beside her plate, then asked Grout for more coffee.

  She looked at her newspaper to hide her panic. Fitz did not censor her mail but, as the head of the family, he had the right to read any letter addressed to a female relative living in his house. No respectable woman would object.

  She had to finish breakfast as fast as possible and take the note away unopened. She tried to eat a piece of toast, forcing the crumbs down her dry throat.

  Fitz looked up from The Times. "Aren't you going to read your letter?" he said. And then, to her horror, he added: "That looks like von Ulrich's handwriting."

  She had no choice. She slit the envelope with a clean butter knife and tried to fix her face in a neutral expression.

  Nine o'clock a.m.

  My dear love,

  All of us at the embassy have been told to pack our bags, pay our bills, and be ready to leave Britain at a few hours' notice.

  You and I should tell no one of our plan. After tonight I will return to Germany and you will remain here, living with your brother. Everyone agrees this war cannot last more than a few weeks or, at most, months. As soon as it is over, if we are both still alive, we will tell the world our happy tidings and start our new life together.

  And in case we do not survive the war, oh, please, let us have one night of happiness as husband and wife.

  I love you.

  W.

  P.S. Germany invaded Belgium an hour ago.

  Maud's mind was in a whirl. Married secretly! No one would know. Walter's superiors would still trust him, not knowing about his marriage to an enemy, and he could fight as his honor demanded, and even work in secret intelligence. Men would continue to court Maud, thinking her single, but she could deal with that: she had been giving suitors the brush-off for years. They would live apart until the end of the war, which would come in a few months at most.

  Fitz interrupted her thoughts. "What does he say?"

  Maud's mind went blank. She could not tell Fitz any of this. How was she to answer his question? She looked down at the sheet of heavy cream-colored paper and the upright handwriting, and her eye fell on the P.S. "He says Germany invaded Belgium at eight o'clock this morning."

  Fitz put down his fork. "That's it, then." For once even he looked shocked.

  Aunt Herm said: "Little Belgium! I think those Germans are the most frightful bullies." Then she looked confused and said: "Except Herr von Ulrich, of course. He's charming."

  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 Ty 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 Ty 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 facade 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 h
e 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.