He entered the house and went down the back stairs to the basement, where he found an elderly housemaid in a black dress and a lace cap. She went off to find a shawl.
Walter waited in the hall. The house was decorated in the up-to-date Jugendstil, which did away with the rococo flourishes loved by Walter’s parents and favored well-lit rooms with gentle colors. The pillared hall was all cool gray marble and mushroom-colored carpet.
It seemed to him as if Maud was a million miles away on another planet. And in a way she was, for the prewar world would never come back. He had not seen his wife nor heard from her for almost three years, and he might never meet her again. Although she had not faded from his mind-he would never forget the passion they had shared-he did find, to his distress, that he could no longer recall the fine details of their times together: what she was wearing, where they were when they kissed or held hands, or what they ate and drank and talked about when they met at those endlessly similar London parties. Sometimes it crossed his mind that the war had in a way divorced them. But he pushed the thought aside: it was shamefully disloyal.
The maid brought him a yellow cashmere shawl. He returned to Monika, who was sitting on a tree stump with Pierre at her feet. Walter gave her the shawl and she put it around her shoulders. The color suited her, making her eyes gleam and her skin glow.
She had a strange look on her face, and she handed him his wallet. “This must have fallen out of your coat,” she said.
“Oh, thank you.” He returned it to the inside pocket of the coat that he still had slung over his shoulder.
She said: “Let’s go back to the house.”
“As you wish.”
Her mood had changed. Perhaps she had simply decided to give up on him. Or had something else happened?
He was struck by a frightening thought. Had his wallet really fallen out of his coat? Or had she taken it, like a pickpocket, when she brushed that unlikely bee off his shoulder? “Monika,” he said, and he stopped and turned to face her. “Did you look inside my wallet?”
“You said you had no secrets,” she said, and she blushed bright red.
She must have seen the newspaper clipping he carried: Lady Maud Fitzherbert is always dressed in the latest fashion. “That was most ill-mannered of you,” he said angrily. He was mainly angry with himself. He should not have kept the incriminating photo. If Monika could figure out its significance, so could others. Then he would be disgraced and drummed out of the army. He might be accused of treason and jailed or even shot.
He had been foolish. But he knew he would never throw the picture away. It was all he had of Maud.
Monika put a hand on his arm. “I have never done anything like that in my whole life, and I’m ashamed. But you must see that I was desperate. Oh, Walter, I could fall in love with you so easily, and I can tell that you could love me too-I can see it, in your eyes and the way you smile when you see me. But you said nothing!” There were tears in her eyes. “It was driving me out of my mind.”
“I’m sorry for that.” He could no longer feel indignant. She had now gone beyond the bounds of propriety, and opened her heart to him. He felt terribly sad for her, sad for both of them.
“I just had to understand why you kept turning away from me. Now I do, of course. She’s beautiful. She even looks a bit like me.” She wiped her tears. “She found you before I did, that’s all.” She stared at him with those penetrating amber eyes. “I suppose you’re engaged.”
He could not lie to someone who was being so honest with him. He did not know what to say.
She guessed the reason for his hesitation. “Oh, my goodness!” she said. “You’re married, aren’t you?”
This was disastrous. “If people found out, I would be in serious trouble.”
“I know.”
“I hope I may trust you to keep my secret?”
“How can you ask?” she said. “You’re the best man I’ve ever met. I wouldn’t do anything to harm you. I will never breathe a word.”
“Thank you. I know you’ll keep your promise.”
She looked away, fighting back the tears. “Let’s go inside.”
In the hall she said: “You go ahead. I must wash my face.”
“All right.”
“I hope-” Her voice broke into a sob. “I hope she knows how lucky she is,” she whispered. Then she turned away and slipped into a side room.
Walter put on his coat and composed himself, then went up the marble staircase. The drawing room was done in the same understated style, with blond wood and pale blue-green curtains. Monika’s parents had better taste than his, he decided.
His mother looked at him and knew instantly something was wrong. “Where is Monika?” she said sharply.
He raised an eyebrow at her. It was not like her to ask a question to which the answer might be Gone to the toilet. She was obviously tense. He said quietly: “She will join us in a few minutes.”
“Look at this,” said his father, waving a sheet of paper. “Zimmermann’s office just sent it to me for my comments. Those Russian revolutionaries want to cross Germany. The nerve!” He had had a couple of glasses of schnapps, and was in an exuberant mood.
Walter said politely: “Which revolutionaries would those be, Father?” He did not really care, but was grateful for a topic of conversation.
“The ones in Zurich! Martov and Lenin and that crowd. There’s supposed to be freedom of speech in Russia, now that the tsar has been deposed, so they want to go home. But they can’t get there!”
Monika’s father, Konrad von der Helbard, said thoughtfully: “I suppose they can’t. There’s no way to get from Switzerland to Russia without passing through Germany-any other overland route would involve crossing battle lines. But there are still steamers going from England across the North Sea to Sweden, aren’t there?”
Walter said: “Yes, but they won’t risk going via Britain. The British detained Trotsky and Bukharin. And France or Italy would be worse.”
“So they’re stuck!” said Otto triumphantly.
Walter said: “What will you advise Foreign Minister Zimmermann to do, Father?”
“Refuse, of course. We don’t want that filth contaminating our folk. Who knows what kind of trouble those devils would stir up in Germany?”
“Lenin and Martov,” Walter said musingly. “Martov is a Menshevik, but Lenin is a Bolshevik.” German intelligence took a lively interest in Russian revolutionaries.
Otto said: “Bolsheviks, Mensheviks, socialists, revolutionaries, they’re all the same.”
“No, they’re not,” said Walter. “The Bolsheviks are the toughest.”
Monika’s mother said with spirit: “All the more reason to keep them out of our country!”
Walter ignored that. “More importantly, the Bolsheviks abroad tend to be more radical than those at home. The Petrograd Bolsheviks support the provisional government of Prince Lvov, but their comrades in Zurich do not.”
His sister, Greta, said: “How do you know a thing like that?”
Walter knew because he had read intelligence reports from German spies in Switzerland who were intercepting the revolutionaries’ mail. But he said: “Lenin made a speech in Zurich a few days ago in which he repudiated the provisional government.”
Otto made a dismissive noise, but Konrad von der Helbard leaned forward in his chair. “What are you thinking, young man?”
Walter said: “By refusing the revolutionaries permission to pass through Germany, we are protecting Russia from their subversive ideas.”
Mother looked bewildered. “Explain, please.”
“I’m suggesting we should help these dangerous men get home. Once there, either they will try to undermine the Russian government and cripple its ability to make war, or alternatively they will take power and make peace. Either way, Germany gains.”
There was a moment of silence while they all thought about that. Then Otto laughed loudly and clapped his hands. “My own son!” he said. “There is a bit of the old man in him after all!”
