Ken Follett - Fall of Giants

“Just don’t speak as if I did this all on my own.”

“Very well.”

Ethel took a seat, then looked at him again. “You may sit down, if you wish,” she said, just as if she were the lady of the house condescending to the butler.

He reddened. He did not know whether to sit, and look as if he had been waiting for permission, or remain standing, like a servant. In the end he paced up and down. “His lordship has instructed me to make you an offer,” he said. Pacing did not really work, so he stopped and stood in front of her. “It is a generous offer, and I advise you to accept it.”

Ethel said nothing. Fitz’s callousness had one useful effect: it made her realize she was in a negotiation. This was familiar territory to her. Her father was always in negotiations, arguing and dealing with the mine management, always trying to get higher wages, shorter hours, and better safety precautions. One of his maxims was “Never speak unless you have to.” So she remained silent.

Solman looked at her expectantly. When he gathered that she was not going to respond he looked put out. He resumed: “His lordship is willing to give you a pension of twenty-four pounds a year, paid monthly in advance. I think that’s very good of him, don’t you?”

The lousy rotten miser, Ethel thought. How could he be so mean to me? Twenty-four pounds was a housemaid’s wage. It was half what Ethel was getting as housekeeper, and she would be losing her room and board.

Why did men think they could get away with this? Probably because they usually could. A woman had no rights. It took two people to make a baby, but only one was obliged to look after it. How had women let themselves get into such a weak position? It made her angry.

Still she did not speak.

Solman pulled up a chair and sat close to her. “Now, you must look on the bright side. You’ll have ten shillings a week-”

“Not quite,” she said quickly.

“Well, say we make it twenty-six pounds a year-that’s ten shillings a week. What do you say?”

Ethel said nothing.

“You can find a nice little room in Cardiff for two or three shillings, and you can spend the rest on yourself.” He patted her knee. “And, who knows, you may find another generous man to make life a little easier for you… eh? You’re a very attractive girl, you know.”

She pretended not to take his meaning. The idea of being the lover of a creepy lawyer such as Solman disgusted her. Did he really think he could take the place of Fitz? She did not respond to his innuendo. “Are there conditions?” she said coldly.

“Conditions?”

“Attached to the earl’s offer.”

Solman coughed. “The usual ones, of course.”

“The usual? So you’ve done this before.”

“Not for Earl Fitzherbert,” he said quickly.

“But for someone else.”

“Let us stick to the business at hand, please.”

“You may go on.”

“You must not put the earl’s name on the child’s birth certificate, or in any other way reveal to anyone that he is the father.”

“And in your experience, Mr. Solman, do women usually accept these conditions of yours?”

“Yes.”

Of course they do, she thought bitterly. What choice have they got? They are not entitled to anything, so they take what they can get. Of course they accept the conditions. “Are there any more?”

“After you leave Tŷ Gwyn, you must not attempt in any way to get in touch with his lordship.”

So, Ethel thought, he doesn’t want to see me or his child. Disappointment surged up inside her like a wave of weakness: if she had not been sitting down she might have fallen. She clenched her jaw to stop the tears. When she had herself under control she said: “Anything else?”

“I believe that’s all.”

Ethel stood up.

Solman said: “You must contact me about where the monthly payments should be made.” He took out a small silver box and extracted a card.

“No,” she said when he offered it to her.

“But you will need to get in touch with me-”

“No, I won’t,” she said again.

“What do you mean?”

“The offer is not acceptable.”

“Now, don’t be foolish, Miss Williams-”

“I’ll say it again, Mr. Solman, so there can be no doubt in your mind. The offer is not acceptable. My answer is no. I got nothing more to say to you. Good day.” She went out and banged the door.

She returned to her room, locked her door, and cried her heart out.

How could Fitz be so cruel? Did he really never want to see her again? Or his baby? Did he think that everything that had happened between them could be wiped out by twenty-four pounds a year?

Did he really not love her any longer? Had he ever loved her? Was she a fool?

She had thought he loved her. She had felt sure that meant something. Perhaps he had been playacting all the time, and had deceived her-but she did not think so. A woman could tell when a man was faking.

So what was he doing now? He must be suppressing his feelings. Perhaps he was a man of shallow emotions. That was possible. He might have loved her, genuinely, but with a love that was easily forgotten when it became inconvenient. Such weakness of character might have escaped her notice in the throes of passion.

At least his hard-heartedness made it easier for her to bargain. She had no need to think of his feelings. She could concentrate on trying to get the best for herself and the baby. She must always think how Da would have handled things. A woman was not quite powerless, despite the law.

Fitz would be worried now, she guessed. He must have expected her to take the offer, or at worst hold out for a higher price; then he would have felt his secret was safe. Now he would be baffled as well as anxious.

She had not given Solman a chance to ask what she did want. Let them flounder around in the dark for a while. Fitz would begin to fear that Ethel intended to get revenge by telling Princess Bea about the baby.

She looked out of the window at the clock on the roof of the stable. It was a few minutes before twelve. On the front lawn, the staff would be getting ready to serve dinner to the miners’ children. Princess Bea usually liked to see the housekeeper at about twelve. She often had complaints: she did not like the flowers in the hall, the footmen’s uniforms were not pressed, the paintwork on the landing was flaking. In her turn the housekeeper had questions to ask about allocating rooms to guests, renewing china and glassware, hiring and firing maids and kitchen girls. Fitz usually came into the morning room at about half past twelve for a glass of sherry before lunch.

Then Ethel would turn the thumbscrews.

Fitz watched the miners’ children queuing up for their lunch-or “dinner,” as they called it. Their faces were dirty, their hair was unkempt, and their clothes were ragged, but they looked happy. Children were amazing. These were among the poorest in the land, and their fathers were locked in a bitter dispute, but the children showed no sign of it.

Every since marrying Bea he had longed for a child. She had miscarried once, and he was terrified she might do so again. Last time she had thrown a tantrum simply because he had canceled their trip to Russia. If she found out that he had made their housekeeper pregnant, her rage would be uncontrollable.

And the dreadful secret was in the hands of a servant girl.

He was tortured by worry. It was a terrible punishment for his sin. In other circumstances he might have taken some joy in having a child with Ethel. He could have put mother and baby into a little house in Chelsea and visited them once a week. He felt another stab of regret and longing at the poignancy of that daydream. He did not want to treat Ethel harshly. Her love had been sweet to him: her yearning kisses, her eager touch, the heat of her young passion. Even while he was telling her the bad news, he had wished he could run his hands over her lithe body and feel her kissing his neck in that hungry way that he found so exhilarating. But he had to harden his heart.