Ken Follett - Fall of Giants

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 morning.” 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.”

“That’s terrible.”

“He calls her Pussy.”

Ethel almost blushed. She did not know what to say to that. Maud stood up, and Ethel helped her with her coat. Ethel asked: “What about his wife, Margaret?”

“She stays here in Wales with their four children.”

“Five, it was, only one died. Poor woman.”

Maud was ready. They went along the corridor and down the grand staircase. Walter von Ulrich was waiting in the hall, wrapped in a long dark coat. He had a small mustache and soft hazel eyes. He looked dashing in a buttoned-up, German sort of way, the kind of man who would bow, click his heels, and then give you a little wink, Ethel thought. So this was why Maud did not want Lady Hermia as her chaperone.

Maud said to Walter: “Williams came to work here when I was a girl, and we’ve been friends ever since.”

Ethel liked Maud, but it was going too far to say they were friends. Maud was kind, and Ethel admired her, but they were still mistress and servant. Maud was really saying that Ethel could be trusted.

Walter addressed Ethel with the elaborate politeness such people employed when speaking to their inferiors. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Williams. How do you do?”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll get my coat.”

She ran downstairs. She did not really want to be going for a walk while the king was there-she would have preferred to be on hand to supervise the housemaids-but she could not refuse.

In the kitchen Princess Bea’s maid, Nina, was making tea Russian style for her mistress. Ethel spoke to a chambermaid. “Herr Walter is up,” she said. “You can do the Gray Room.” As soon as the guests appeared, the maids needed to go into the bedrooms to clean, make the beds, empty the chamber pots, and put out fresh water for washing. She saw Peel, the butler, counting plates. “Any movement upstairs?” she asked him.

“Nineteen, twenty,” he said. “Mr. Dewar have rung for hot water for shaving, and Signor Falli asked for coffee.”

“Lady Maud wants me to go outside with her.”

“That’s inconvenient,” Peel said crossly. “You’re needed in the house.”

Ethel knew that. She said sarcastically: “What shall I do, Mr. Peel, tell her to go and get knotted?”

“None of your sauce. Be back as quick as you can.”

When she went back upstairs the earl’s dog, Gelert, was standing at the front door, panting eagerly, having divined that a walk was in prospect. They all went out and crossed the East Lawn to the woods.

Walter said to Ethel: “I suppose Lady Maud has taught you to be a suffragette.”

“It was the other way around,” Maud told him. “Williams was the first person to introduce me to liberal ideas.”

Ethel said: “I learned it all from my father.”

Ethel knew they did not really want to talk to her. Etiquette did not permit them to be alone, but they wanted the next best thing. She called to Gelert, then ran ahead, playing with the dog, giving them the privacy they were probably longing for. Glancing back, she saw that they were holding hands.

Maud was a fast worker, Ethel thought. From what she had said yesterday, she had not seen Walter for ten years. Even then there had been no acknowledged romance, just an unspoken attraction. Something must have happened last night. Perhaps they had sat up late talking. Maud flirted with everyone-it was how she got information out of them-but clearly this was more serious.

A moment later, Ethel heard Walter sing a snatch of a tune. Maud joined in, then they stopped and laughed. Maud loved music, and could play the piano quite well, unlike Fitz, who was tone-deaf. It seemed Walter was also musical. His voice was a pleasant light baritone that would have been much appreciated, Ethel thought, in the Bethesda Chapel.

Her mind wandered to her work. She had not seen polished pairs of shoes outside any of the bedroom doors. She needed to chase the boot boys and hurry them up. She wondered fretfully what the time was. If this went on much longer she might have to insist on returning to the house.

She glanced back, but this time she could not see Walter or Maud. Had they stopped, or gone off in a different direction? She stood still for a minute or two, but she could not wait out there all morning, so she retraced her steps through the trees.

A moment later she saw them. They were locked in an embrace, kissing passionately. Walter’s hands were on Maud’s behind and he was pressing her to him. Their mouths were open, and Ethel heard Maud groan.

She stared at them. She wondered whether a man would ever kiss her that way. Spotty Llewellyn had kissed her on the beach during a chapel outing, but it had not been with mouths open and bodies pressed together, and it certainly had not made Ethel moan. Little Dai Chops, the son of the butcher, had put his hand up her skirt in the Palace Cinema in Cardiff, but she had pushed it away after a few seconds. She had really liked Llewellyn Davies, a schoolteacher’s son, who had talked to her about the Liberal government, and told her she had breasts like warm baby birds in a nest; but he had gone away to college and never written. With them she had been intrigued, and curious to do more, but never passionate. She envied Maud.