Ken Follett - Fall of Giants

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 Tŷ 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 torchère, 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.

Fitz sat in a green leather armchair. To Ethel’s surprise, Albert Solman was there too, in a black suit and a stiff-collared shirt. A lawyer by training, Solman was what Edwardian gentlemen called a man of business. He managed Fitz’s money, checking his income from coal royalties and rents, paying the bills, and issuing cash for staff wages. He also dealt with leases and other contracts, and occasionally brought lawsuits against people who tried to cheat Fitz. Ethel had met him before and did not like him. She thought he was a know-all. Perhaps all lawyers were, she did not know: he was the only one she had ever met.

Fitz stood up, looking embarrassed. “I have taken Mr. Solman into my confidence,” he said.

“Why?” said Ethel. She had had to promise to tell no one. Fitz’s telling this lawyer seemed like a betrayal.

Fitz looked ashamed of himself-a rare sight. “Solman will tell you what I propose,” he said.

“Why?” Ethel said again.

Fitz gave her a pleading look, as if to beg her not to make this any worse for him.

But she felt unsympathetic. It was not easy for her-why should it be easy for him? “What is it that you’re frightened to tell me yourself?” she said, challenging him.

He had lost all his arrogant confidence. “I will leave him to explain,” he said; and to her astonishment he left the room.

When the door closed behind him she stared at Solman, thinking: How can I talk about my baby’s future with this stranger?

Solman smiled at her. “So, you’ve been naughty, have you?”

That stung her. “Did you say that to the earl?”

“Of course not!”

“Because he did the same thing, you know. It takes two people to make a baby.”

“All right, there’s no need to go into all that.”