“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.
