Now Walter said: “But what new territory is Germany asking for?” He looked around the table, but no one spoke. “None,” he said triumphantly. “And the only other major country in Europe that can say the same is Britain!”
Gus Dewar passed the port and said in his American drawl: “I guess that’s right.”
Walter said: “So why, my old friend Fitz, should we ever go to war?”
On Sunday morning before breakfast Lady Maud sent for Ethel.
Ethel had to suppress an exasperated sigh. She was terribly busy. It was early, but the staff were already hard at work. Before the guests got up all the fireplaces had to be cleaned, the fires relit, and the scuttles filled with coal. The principal rooms-dining room, morning room, library, smoking room, and the smaller public rooms-had to be cleaned and tidied. Ethel was checking the flowers in the billiard room, replacing those that were fading, when she was summoned. Much as she liked Fitz’s radical sister, she hoped Maud did not have some elaborate commission for her.
When Ethel had come to work at Ty Gwyn, at the age of thirteen, the Fitzherbert family and their guests were hardly real to her: they seemed like people in a story, or strange tribes in the Bible, Hittites perhaps, and they terrified her. She was frightened that she would do something wrong and lose her job, but also deeply curious to see these strange creatures close up.
One day a kitchen maid had told her to go upstairs to the billiard room and bring down the tantalus. She had been too nervous to ask what a tantalus was. She had gone to the room and looked around, hoping it would be something obvious like a tray of dirty dishes, but she could see nothing that belonged downstairs. She had been in tears when Maud walked in.
Maud was then a gangly fifteen-year-old, a woman in girl’s clothes, unhappy and rebellious. It was not until later that she made sense of her life by turning her discontent into a crusade. But even at fifteen she had had the quick compassion that made her sensitive to injustice and oppression.
She had asked Ethel what was the matter. The tantalus turned out to be a silver container with decanters of brandy and whisky. It tantalized, because it had a locking mechanism to prevent servants stealing sips, she explained. Ethel thanked her emotionally. It was the first of many kindnesses and, over the years, Ethel had come to worship the older girl.
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.”
