Fall of Giants (The Century Trilogy) Page 6

  Fitz and Maud had always been close. Their father had been a distant hero, their mother his unhappy acolyte; the two children had got the affection they needed from each other. After both parents died they had clung together, sharing their grief. Fitz had been eighteen then, and had tried to protect his little sister from the cruel world. She, in turn, had worshipped him. In adulthood, she had become independent-minded, whereas he continued to believe that as head of the family he had authority over her. However, their affection for one another had proved strong enough to survive their differences--so far.

  Now she was drawing Walter's attention to a bronze cupid. Unlike Fitz, she understood such things. Fitz prayed she would talk about art all evening and keep off women's rights. George V hated liberals, everyone knew that. Monarchs were usually conservative, but events had sharpened this king's antipathy. He had come to the throne in the middle of a political crisis. Against his will he had been forced, by Liberal prime minister H. H. Asquith--strongly backed by public opinion--to curb the power of the House of Lords. This humiliation still rankled. His Majesty knew that Fitz, as a Conservative peer in the House of Lords, had fought to the last ditch against the so-called reform. All the same, if he were harangued by Maud tonight, he would never forgive Fitz.

  Walter was a junior diplomat, but his father was one of the kaiser's oldest friends. Robert, too, was well-connected: he was close to the archduke Franz Ferdinand, the heir to the throne of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Another guest who moved in exalted circles was the tall young American now talking to the duchess. His name was Gus Dewar, and his father, a senator, was intimate adviser to U.S. president Woodrow Wilson. Fitz felt he had done well in assembling such a group of young men, the ruling elite of the future. He hoped the king was pleased.

  Gus Dewar was amiable but awkward. He stooped, as if he would have preferred to be shorter and less conspicuous. He seemed unsure of himself, but he was pleasantly courteous to everyone. "The American people are concerned with domestic issues more than foreign policy," he was saying to the duchess. "But President Wilson is a liberal, and as such he is bound to sympathize with democracies such as France and Britain more than with authoritarian monarchies such as Austria and Germany."

  At that moment the double doors opened, the room fell silent, and the king and queen walked in. Princess Bea curtsied, Fitz bowed, and everyone else followed suit. There were a few moments of mildly embarrassed silence, for no one was allowed to speak until one of the royal couple had said something. At last the king said to Bea: "I stayed at this house twenty years ago, you know," and people began to relax.

  The king was a neat man, Fitz reflected as the four of them made small talk. His beard and mustache were carefully barbered. His hair was receding, but he had enough left on top to comb with a parting as straight as a ruler. Close-fitting evening clothes suited his slim figure: unlike his father, Edward VII, he was not a gourmet. He relaxed with hobbies that required precision: he liked to collect postage stamps, sticking them meticulously into albums, a pastime that drew mockery from disrespectful London intellectuals.

  The queen was a more formidable figure, with graying curls and a severe line to her mouth. She had a magnificent bosom, shown off to great advantage by the extremely low neckline that was currently de rigueur. She was the daughter of a German prince. Originally she had been engaged to George's older brother, Albert, but he had died of pneumonia before the wedding. When George became heir to the throne he also took over his brother's fiancee, an arrangement that was regarded by some people as a bit medieval.

  Bea was in her element. She was enticingly dressed in pink silk, and her fair curls were perfectly arranged to look slightly disordered, as if she had suddenly broken away from an illicit kiss. She talked animatedly to the king. Sensing that mindless chatter would not charm George V, she was telling him how Peter the Great had created the Russian navy, and he was nodding interestedly.

  Peel appeared in the dining room door, an expectant look on his freckled face. He caught Fitz's eye and gave an emphatic nod. Fitz said to the queen: "Would you care to go in to dinner, Your Majesty?"

  She gave him her arm. Behind them, the king stood arm in arm with Bea, and the rest of the party formed up in pairs according to precedence. When everyone was ready, they walked into the dining room in procession.

  "How pretty," the queen murmured when she saw the table.

  "Thank you," said Fitz, and breathed a silent sigh of relief. Bea had done a wonderful job. Three chandeliers hung low over the long table. Their reflections twinkled in the crystal glasses at each place. All the cutlery was gold, as were the salt and pepper containers and even the small boxes of matches for smokers. The white tablecloth was strewn with hothouse roses and, in a final dramatic touch, Bea had trailed delicate ferns from the chandeliers down to the pyramids of grapes on golden platters.

  Everyone sat down, the bishop said grace, and Fitz relaxed. A party that began well almost always continued successfully. Wine and food made people less disposed to find fault.

  The menu began with hors d'oeuvres Russes, a nod to Bea's home country: little blinis with caviar and cream, triangles of toast and smoked fish, crackers with soused herring, all washed down with the Perrier-Jouet 1892 champagne, which was as mellow and delicious as Peel had promised. Fitz kept an eye on Peel, and Peel watched the king. As soon as His Majesty put down his cutlery, Peel took away his plate, and that was the signal for the footmen to clear all the rest. Any guest who happened to be still tucking into the dish had to abandon it in deference.

  Soup followed, a pot-au-feu, served with a fine dry oloroso sherry from Sanlucar de Barrameda. The fish was sole, accompanied by a mature Meursault Charmes like a mouthful of gold. With the medallions of Welsh lamb Fitz had chosen the Chateau Lafite 1875--the 1870 was still not ready to drink. The red wine continued to be served with the parfait of goose liver that followed and with the final meat course, quails with grapes baked in pastry.

  No one ate all this. The men took what they fancied and ignored the rest. The women picked at one or two dishes. Many plates went back to the kitchen untouched.

  There was salad, a dessert, a savory, fruit, and petits fours. Finally, Princess Bea raised a discreet eyebrow to the queen, who replied with an almost imperceptible nod. They both got up, everyone else stood, and the ladies left the room.

  The men sat down again, the footmen brought boxes of cigars, and Peel placed a decanter of Ferreira 1847 port at the king's right hand. Fitz drew thankfully on a cigar. Things had gone well. The king was famously unsociable, feeling comfortable only with old shipmates from his happy navy days. But this evening he had been charming and nothing had gone wrong. Even the oranges had arrived.

  Fitz had spoken earlier with Sir Alan Tite, the king's equerry, a retired army officer with old-fashioned side-whiskers. They had agreed that tomorrow the king would have an hour or so alone with each of the men around the table, all of whom had inside knowledge of one government or another. This evening, Fitz was to break the ice with some general political conversation. He cleared his throat and addressed Walter von Ulrich. "Walter, you and I have been friends for fifteen years--we were together at Eton." He turned to Robert. "And I've known your cousin since the three of us shared an apartment in Vienna when we were students." Robert smiled and nodded. Fitz liked them both: Robert was a traditionalist, like Fitz; Walter, though not so conservative, was very clever. "Now we find the world talking about war between our countries," Fitz went on. "Is there really a chance of such a tragedy?"

  Walter answered: "If talking about war can make it happen, then yes, we will fight, for everyone is getting ready for it. But is there a real reason? I don't see it."

  Gus Dewar raised a tentative hand. Fitz liked Dewar, despite his liberal politics. Americans were supposed to be brash, but this one was well-mannered and a bit shy. He was also startlingly well-informed. Now he said: "Britain and Germany have many reasons to quarrel."

  Walter turned to him.
"Would you give me an example?"

  Gus blew out cigar smoke. "Naval rivalry."

  Walter nodded. "My kaiser does not believe there is a God-given law that the German navy should remain smaller than the British forever."

  Fitz glanced nervously at the king. He loved the Royal Navy and might easily be offended. On the other hand, Kaiser Wilhelm was his cousin. George's father and Willy's mother had been brother and sister, both children of Queen Victoria. Fitz was relieved to see that His Majesty was smiling indulgently.

  Walter went on: "This has caused friction in the past, but for two years now we have been in agreement, informally, about the relative size of our navies."

  Dewar said: "How about economic rivalry?"

  "It is true that Germany is daily growing more prosperous, and may soon catch up with Britain and the United States in economic production. But why should this be a problem? Germany is one of Britain's biggest customers. The more we have to spend, the more we buy. Our economic strength is good for British manufacturers!"

  Dewar tried again. "It's said that Germany wants more colonies."

  Fitz glanced at the king again, wondering if he minded the conversation being dominated by these two; but His Majesty appeared fascinated.

  Walter said: "There have been wars over colonies, notably in your home country, Mr. Dewar. But nowadays we seem able to decide such squabbles without firing our guns. Three years ago Germany, Great Britain, and France quarreled about Morocco, but the argument was settled without war. More recently, Britain and Germany have reached agreement about the thorny issue of the Baghdad Railway. If we simply carry on as we are, we will not go to war."

  Dewar said: "Would you forgive me if I used the term German militarism?"

  That was a bit strong, and Fitz winced. Walter colored, but he spoke smoothly. "I appreciate your frankness. The German Empire is dominated by Prussians, who play something of the role of the English in Your Majesty's United Kingdom."

  It was daring to compare Britain with Germany, and England with Prussia. Walter was right on the edge of what was permissible in a polite conversation, Fitz thought uneasily.

  Walter went on: "The Prussians have a strong military tradition, but do not go to war for no reason."

  Dewar said skeptically: "So Germany is not aggressive."

  "On the contrary," said Walter. "I put it to you that Germany is the only major power on mainland Europe that is not aggressive."

  There was a murmur of surprise around the table, and Fitz saw the king raise his eyebrows. Dewar sat back, startled, and said: "How do you figure that?"

  Walter's perfect manners and amiable tone took the edge off his provocative words. "First, consider Austria," he went on. "My Viennese cousin Robert will not deny that the Austro-Hungarian Empire would like to extend its borders to the southeast."

  "Not without reason," Robert protested. "That part of the world, which the British call the Balkans, has been part of the Ottoman domain for hundreds of years; but Ottoman rule has crumbled, and now the Balkans are unstable. The Austrian emperor believes it is his holy duty to maintain order and the Christian religion there."

  "Quite so," said Walter. "But Russia, too, wants territory in the Balkans."

  Fitz felt it was his job to defend the Russian government, perhaps because of Bea. "They, too, have good reasons," he said. "Half their foreign trade crosses the Black Sea, and passes from there through the straits to the Mediterranean Sea. Russia cannot allow any other great power to dominate the straits by acquiring territory in the eastern Balkans. It would be like a noose around the neck of the Russian economy."

  "Exactly so," said Walter. "Turning to the western end of Europe, France has ambitions to take from Germany the territories of Alsace and Lorraine."

  At this point the French guest, Jean-Pierre Charlois, bridled. "Stolen from France forty-three years ago!"

  "I will not argue about that," Walter said smoothly. "Let us say that Alsace-Lorraine was joined to the German Empire in 1871, after the defeat of France in the Franco-Prussian War. Whether stolen or not, you allow, Monsieur le Comte, that France wants those lands back."

  "Naturally." The Frenchman sat back and sipped his port.

  Walter said: "Even Italy would like to take, from Austria, the territories of Trentino--"

  "Where most people speak Italian!" cried Signor Falli.

  "--plus much of the Dalmatian coast--"

  "Full of Venetian lions, Catholic churches, and Roman columns!"

  "--and Tyrol, a province with a long history of self-government, where most people speak German."

  "Strategic necessity."

  "Of course."

  Fitz realized how clever Walter had been. Not rude, but discreetly provocative, he had stung the representatives of each nation into confirming, in more or less belligerent language, their territorial ambitions.

  Now Walter said: "But what new territory is Germany asking for?" He looked around the table, but no one spoke. "None," he said triumphantly. "And the only other major country in Europe that can say the same is Britain!"

  Gus Dewar passed the port and said in his American drawl: "I guess that's right."

  Walter said: "So why, my old friend Fitz, should we ever go to war?"

  { IV }

  On Sunday morning before breakfast Lady Maud sent for Ethel.

  Ethel had to suppress an exasperated sigh. She was terribly busy. It was early, but the staff were already hard at work. Before the guests got up all the fireplaces had to be cleaned, the fires relit, and the scuttles filled with coal. The principal rooms--dining room, morning room, library, smoking room, and the smaller public rooms--had to be cleaned and tidied. Ethel was checking the flowers in the billiard room, replacing those that were fading, when she was summoned. Much as she liked Fitz's radical sister, she hoped Maud did not have some elaborate commission for her.

  When Ethel had come to work at Ty Gwyn, at the age of thirteen, the Fitzherbert family and their guests were hardly real to her: they seemed like people in a story, or strange tribes in the Bible, Hittites perhaps, and they terrified her. She was frightened that she would do something wrong and lose her job, but also deeply curious to see these strange creatures close up.

  One day a kitchen maid had told her to go upstairs to the billiard room and bring down the tantalus. She had been too nervous to ask what a tantalus was. She had gone to the room and looked around, hoping it would be something obvious like a tray of dirty dishes, but she could see nothing that belonged downstairs. She had been in tears when Maud walked in.

  Maud was then a gangly fifteen-year-old, a woman in girl's clothes, unhappy and rebellious. It was not until later that she made sense of her life by turning her discontent into a crusade. But even at fifteen she had had the quick compassion that made her sensitive to injustice and oppression.

  She had asked Ethel what was the matter. The tantalus turned out to be a silver container with decanters of brandy and whisky. It tantalized, because it had a locking mechanism to prevent servants stealing sips, she explained. Ethel thanked her emotionally. It was the first of many kindnesses and, over the years, Ethel had come to worship the older girl.

  Ethel went up to Maud's room, tapped on the door, and walked in. The Gardenia Suite had elaborate flowery wallpaper of a kind that had gone out of fashion at the turn of the century. However, its bay window overlooked the most charming part of Fitz's garden, the West Walk, a long straight path through flower beds to a summerhouse.

  Maud was pulling on boots, Ethel saw with displeasure. "I'm going for a walk--you must be my chaperone," she said. "Help me with my hat and tell me the gossip."

  Ethel could hardly spare the time, but she was intrigued as well as bothered. Who was Maud going to walk with; where was her normal chaperone, Aunt Herm; and why was she putting on such a charming hat just to go into the garden? Could there be a man in the picture?

  As she pinned the hat to Maud's dark hair Ethel said: "There's a scandal below stairs this morn
ing." Maud collected gossip the way the king collected stamps. "Morrison didn't get to bed until four o'clock. He's one of the footmen--tall with a blond mustache."

  "I know Morrison. And I know where he spent the night." Maud hesitated.

  Ethel waited a moment, then said: "Aren't you going to tell me?"

  "You'll be shocked."

  Ethel grinned. "All the better."

  "He spent the night with Robert von Ulrich." Maud glanced at Ethel in the dressing-table mirror. "Are you horrified?"

  Ethel was fascinated. "Well, I never! I knew Morrison wasn't much of a ladies' man, but I didn't think he might be one of those, if you see what I mean."

  "Well, Robert is certainly one of those, and I saw him catch Morrison's eye several times during dinner."

  "In front of the king, too! How do you know about Robert?"

  "Walter told me."

  "What a thing for a gentleman to say to a lady! People tell you everything. What's the gossip in London?"

  "They're all talking about Mr. Lloyd George."

  David Lloyd George was the chancellor of the Exchequer, in charge of the country's finances. A Welshman, he was a fiery left-wing orator. Ethel's da said Lloyd George should have been in the Labour Party. During the coal strike of 1912 he had even talked about nationalizing the mines. "What are they saying about him?" Ethel asked.

  "He has a mistress."

  "No!" This time Ethel was really shocked. "But he was brought up a Baptist!"

  Maud laughed. "Would it be less outrageous if he were Anglican?"

  "Yes!" Ethel refrained from adding obviously. "Who is she?"

  "Frances Stevenson. She started as his daughter's governess, but she's a clever woman--she has a degree in classics--and now she's his private secretary."