“Anarchism is the belief that no one has the right to rule. All political philosophies, from the divine right of kings to Rousseau’s social contract, try to justify authority. Anarchists believe that all those theories fail, therefore no form of authority is legitimate.”
“Irrefutable, in theory. Impossible to put into practise.”
“You’re quick on the uptake. In effect, all anarchists are antiestablishment, but they differ widely in their vision of how society should work.”
“And what is your vision?”
“I don’t see it as clearly as I used to. Covering the White House has given me a different slant on politics. But I still believe that authority needs to justify itself.”
“I don’t think we’ll ever quarrel about that.”
“Good. Next question?”
“Tell me about your eye.”
“I was born like this. I could have an operation to open it. Behind my eyelid is nothing but a mass of useless tissue, but I could wear a glass eye. However, it would never shut. I figure this is the lesser evil. Does it bother you?”
He stopped walking and turned to face her directly. “May I kiss it?”
She hesitated. “All right.”
He bent down and kissed her closed eyelid. There was nothing unusual about how it felt to his lips. It was just like kissing her cheek. “Thank you,” he said.
She said quietly: “No one has ever done that before.”
He nodded. He had guessed it might be some kind of taboo.
She said: “Why did you want to do it?”
“Because I love everything about you, and I want to make sure you know it.”
“Oh.” She was silent for a minute, in the grip of emotion; but then she grinned and reverted to the flip tone she preferred. “Well, if there’s anything else weird you want to kiss, just let me know.”
He was not sure how to respond to that vaguely exciting offer, so he filed it away for future consideration. “I have one more question.”
“Shoot.”
“Four months ago, I told you that I love you.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“But you haven’t said how you feel about me.”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Perhaps, but I’d like you to tell me. Do you love me?”
“Oh, Gus, don’t you understand?” Her face changed and she looked anguished. “I’m not good enough for you. You were the most eligible bachelor in Buffalo, and I was the one-eyed anarchist. You’re supposed to love someone elegant and beautiful and rich. I’m a doctor’s daughter-my mother was a housemaid. I’m not the right person for you to love.”
“Do you love me?” he said with quiet persistence.
She began to cry. “Of course I do, you dope, I love you with all my heart.”
He put his arms around her. “Then that’s all that matters,” he said.
Aunt Herm put down the Tatler. “It was very bad of you to get married secretly,” she said to Maud. Then she smiled conspiratorially. “But so romantic!”
They were in the drawing room of Fitz’s Mayfair house. Bea had redecorated after the end of the war, in the new art deco style, with utilitarian-looking chairs and modernistic silver gewgaws from Asprey. With Maud and Herm were Fitz’s roguish friend Bing Westhampton and Bing’s wife. The London season was in full swing, and they were going to the opera as soon as Bea was ready. She was saying good night to Boy, now three and a half, and Andrew, eighteen months.
Maud picked up the magazine and looked again at the article. The picture did not greatly please her. She had imagined that it would show two people in love. Unfortunately it looked like a scene from a moving picture show. Walter appeared predatory, holding her hand and gazing into her eyes like a wicked Lothario, and she seemed like the ingenue about to fall for his wiles.
However, the text was just what she had hoped for. The writer reminded readers that Lady Maud had been “the fashionable suffragette” before the war, she had started The Soldier’s Wife newspaper to campaign for the rights of the women left at home, and she had gone to jail for her protest on behalf of Jayne McCulley. It said that she and Walter had intended to announce their engagement in the normal way, and had been prevented by the outbreak of war. Their hasty secret marriage was portrayed as a desperate attempt to do the right thing in abnormal circumstances.
Maud had insisted on being quoted exactly, and the magazine had kept its promise. “I know that some British people hate the Germans,” she had said. “But I also know that Walter and many other Germans did all they could to prevent the war. Now that it is over, we must create peace and friendship between the former enemies, and I truly hope people will see our union as a symbol of the new world.”
Maud had learned, in her years of political campaigning, that you could sometimes win support from a publication by giving it a good story exclusively.
Walter had returned to Berlin as planned. The Germans had been jeered by crowds as they drove to the railway station on their way home. A female secretary had been knocked out by a thrown rock. The French comment had been: “Remember what they did to Belgium.” The secretary was still in hospital. Meanwhile, the German people were angrily against signing the treaty.
Bing sat next to Maud on the sofa. For once he was not flirtatious. “I wish your brother were here to advise you about this,” he said with a nod at the magazine.
Maud had written to Fitz to break the news of her marriage, and had enclosed the clipping from the Tatler, to show him that what she had done was being accepted by London society. She had no idea how long it would take for her letter to get to wherever Fitz was, and she did not expect a reply for months. By then it would be too late for Fitz to protest. He would just have to smile and congratulate her.
Now Maud bristled at the implication that she needed a man to tell her what to do. “What could Fitz possibly say?”
“For the foreseeable future, the life of a German wife is going to be hard.”
“I don’t need a man to tell me that.”
“In Fitz’s absence I feel a degree of responsibility.”
“Please don’t.” Maud tried not to be offended. What advice could Bing possibly offer anyone, other than how to gamble and drink in the world’s nightspots?
He lowered his voice. “I hesitate to say this, but… ” He glanced at Aunt Herm, who took the hint and went to pour herself a little more coffee. “If you were able to say that the marriage had never been consummated, then there might be an annulment.”
Maud thought of the room with the primrose-yellow curtains, and had to suppress a happy smile. “But I cannot-”
“Please don’t tell me anything about it. I only want to make sure you understand your options.”
Maud suppressed a growing indignation. “I know this is kindly meant, Bing-”
“There is also the possibility of divorce. There is always a way, you know, for a man to provide a wife with grounds.”
Maud could no longer contain her outrage. “Please drop the subject instantly,” she said in a raised voice. “I have not the slightest wish for either an annulment or a divorce. I love Walter.”
Bing looked sulky. “I was just trying to say what I think Fitz, as the head of your family, might tell you if he were here.” He stood up and spoke to his wife. “We’ll go on, shall we? No need for all of us to be late.”
A few minutes later, Bea came in wearing a new dress of pink silk. “I’m ready,” she said, as if she had been waiting for them rather than the other way around. Her glance went to Maud’s left hand and registered the wedding ring, but she did not comment. When Maud told her the news her response had been carefully neutral. “I hope you
