Ken Follett: Fall of Giants

Fitz began to lose patience. Bea looked back to a childhood of limitless wealth and self-indulgence, surrounded by troops of obedient servants and thousands of happy peasants. If her ruthless, capable grandfather had still been alive that life might have continued; but the family fortune had been frittered away by Bea’s father, a drunk, and her weak brother, Andrei, who was always selling the timber without replanting the woods. “Times have changed,” Fitz said. “I’m asking you-I’m ordering you-not to embarrass me in front of my king. I hope I have left no room for doubt in your mind.” He went out and closed the door.

He walked along the wide corridor, feeling irritated and a bit sad. When they were first married, such spats had left him bewildered and regretful; now he was becoming inured to them. Were all marriages like that? He did not know.

A tall footman polishing a doorknob straightened up and stood with his back to the wall and his eyes cast down, as Tŷ Gwyn servants were trained to do when the earl went by. In some great houses the staff had to face the wall, but Fitz thought that was too feudal. Fitz recognized this man, having seen him play cricket in a match between Tŷ Gwyn staff and Aberowen miners. He was a good left-handed batsman. “Morrison,” said Fitz, remembering his name. “Tell Peel and Mrs. Jevons to come to the library.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Fitz walked down the grand staircase. He had married Bea because he had been enchanted by her, but he had had a rational motive, too. He dreamed of founding a great Anglo-Russian dynasty that would rule vast tracts of the earth, much as the Habsburg dynasty had ruled parts of Europe for centuries.

But for that he needed an heir. Bea’s mood meant she would not welcome him to her bed tonight. He could insist, but that was never very satisfactory. It was a couple of weeks since the last time. He did not wish for a wife who was vulgarly eager about that sort of thing but, on the other hand, two weeks was a long time.

His sister, Maud, was still single at twenty-three. Besides, any child of hers would probably be brought up a rabid socialist who would fritter away the family fortune printing revolutionary tracts.

He had been married three years, and he was beginning to worry. Bea had been pregnant just once, last year, but she had suffered a miscarriage at three months. It had happened just after a quarrel. Fitz had canceled a planned trip to St. Petersburg, and Bea had become terribly emotional, crying that she wanted to go home. Fitz had put his foot down-a man could not let his wife dictate to him, after all-but then, when she miscarried, he felt guiltily convinced it was his fault. If only she could get pregnant again he would make absolutely sure nothing was allowed to upset her until the baby was born.

Putting that worry to the back of his mind, he went into the library and sat down at the leather-inlaid desk to make a list.

A minute or two later, Peel came in with a housemaid. The butler was the younger son of a farmer, and there was an outdoor look about his freckled face and salt-and-pepper hair, but he had been a servant at Tŷ Gwyn all his working life. “Mrs. Jevons have been took poorly, my lord,” he said. Fitz had long ago given up trying to correct the grammar of Welsh servants. “Stomach,” Peel added lugubriously.

“Spare me the details.” Fitz looked at the housemaid, a pretty girl of about twenty. Her face was vaguely familiar. “Who’s this?”

The girl spoke for herself. “Ethel Williams, my lord, I’m Mrs. Jevons’s assistant.” She had the lilting accent of the South Wales valleys.

“Well, Williams, you look too young to do a housekeeper’s job.”

“If your lordship pleases, Mrs. Jevons said you would probably bring down the housekeeper from Mayfair, but she hopes I might give satisfaction in the meantime.”

Was there a twinkle in her eye when she talked of giving satisfaction? Although she spoke with appropriate deference, she had a cheeky look. “Very well,” said Fitz.

Williams had a thick notebook in one hand and two pencils in the other. “I visited Mrs. Jevons in her room, and she was well enough to go through everything with me.”

“Why have you got two pencils?”

“In case one breaks,” she said, and she grinned.

Housemaids were not supposed to grin at the earl, but Fitz could not help smiling back. “All right,” he said. “Tell me what you’ve got written down in your book.”

“Three subjects,” she said. “Guests, staff, and supplies.”

“Very good.”

“From your lordship’s letter, we understand there will be twenty guests. Most will bring one or two personal staff, say an average of two, therefore an extra forty in servants’ accommodation. All arriving on the Saturday and leaving on the Monday.”

“Correct.” Fitz felt a mixture of pleasure and apprehension very like his emotions before making his first speech in the House of Lords: he was thrilled to be doing this and, at the same time, worried about doing it well.

Williams went on: “Obviously Their Majesties will be in the Egyptian Apartment.”

Fitz nodded. This was the largest suite of rooms. Its wallpaper had decorative motifs from Egyptian temples.

“Mrs. Jevons suggested which other rooms should be opened up, and I’ve wrote it down by here.”

The phrase “by here” was a local expression, pronounced like the Bayeux Tapestry. It was a redundancy, meaning exactly the same as “here.” Fitz said: “Show me.”

She came around the desk and placed her open book in front of him. House servants were obliged to bathe once a week, so she did not smell as bad as the working class generally did. In fact her warm body had a flowery fragrance. Perhaps she had been stealing Bea’s scented soap. He read her list. “Fine,” he said. “The princess can allocate guests to rooms-she may have strong opinions.”

Williams turned the page. “This is a list of extra staff needed: six girls in the kitchen, for peeling vegetables and washing up; two men with clean hands to help serve at table; three extra chambermaids; and three boys for boots and candles.”

“Do you know where we’re going to get them?”

“Oh, yes, my lord, I’ve got a list of local people who’ve worked here before, and if that’s not sufficient we’ll ask them to recommend others.”

“No socialists, mind,” Fitz said anxiously. “They might try to talk to the king about the evils of capitalism.” You never knew with the Welsh.

“Of course, my lord.”

“What about supplies?”

She turned another page. “This is what we need, based on previous house parties.”

Fitz looked at the list: a hundred loaves of bread, twenty dozen eggs, ten gallons of cream, a hundred pounds of bacon, fifty stone of potatoes… He began to feel bored. “Shouldn’t we leave this until the princess has decided the menus?”

“It’s all got to come up from Cardiff,” Williams replied. “The shops in Aberowen can’t cope with orders of this size. And even the Cardiff suppliers need notice, to be sure they have sufficient quantities on the day.”

She was right. He was glad she was in charge. She had the ability to plan ahead-a rare quality, he found. “I could do with someone like you in my regiment,” he said.

“I can’t wear khaki, it doesn’t suit my complexion,” she replied saucily.

The butler looked indignant. “Now, now, Williams, none of your cheek.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Peel.”

Fitz felt it was his own fault for speaking facetiously to her. Anyway, he did not mind her impudence. In fact he rather liked her.

Peel said: “Cook have come up with some suggestions for the menus, my lord.” He handed Fitz a slightly grubby sheet of paper covered with the cook’s careful, childish handwriting. “Unfortunately we’re too early for spring lamb, but we can get plenty of fresh fish sent up from Cardiff on ice.”