instructed by the kaiser to call on the secretary of state, and wished to know whether nine o’clock tomorrow morning would be convenient. Unofficially, his staff indicated that the ambassador would be lodging a formal protest against the halting of the Ypiranga.
“A protest?” said Wilson. “What the dickens are they talking about?”
Gus saw immediately that the Germans had international law on their side. “Sir, there had been no declaration of war, nor of a blockade, so, strictly speaking, the Germans are correct.”
“What?” Wilson turned to Lansing. “Is that right?”
“We’ll double-check, of course,” said the State Department counselor. “But I’m pretty sure Gus is right. What we did was contrary to international law.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means we’ll have to apologize.”
“Never!” said Wilson angrily.
But they did.
Maud Fitzherbert was surprised to find herself in love with Walter von Ulrich. On the other hand, she would have been surprised to find herself in love with any man. She rarely met one she even liked. Plenty had been attracted to her, especially during her first season as a debutante, but most had quickly been repelled by her feminism. Others had planned to take her in hand-like the scruffy Marquis of Lowther, who had told Fitz that she would see the error of her ways when she met a truly masterful man. Poor Lowthie, he had been shown the error of his.
Walter thought she was wonderful the way she was. Whatever she did, he marveled. If she espoused extreme points of view, he was impressed by her arguments; when she shocked society by helping unmarried mothers and their children, he admired her courage; and he loved the way she looked in daring fashions.
Maud was bored by wealthy upper-class Englishmen who thought the way society was currently arranged was pretty satisfactory. Walter was different. Coming as he did from a conservative German family, he was surprisingly radical. From where she sat, in the back row of seats in her brother’s box at the opera, she could see Walter in the stalls, with a small group from the German embassy. He did not look like a rebel, with his carefully brushed hair, his trim mustache, and his perfectly fitting evening clothes. Even sitting down, he was upright and straight-shouldered. He looked at the stage with intense concentration as Don Giovanni, accused of trying to rape a simple country girl, brazenly pretended to have caught his servant, Leporello, committing the crime.
In fact, she mused, rebel was not the right word for Walter. Although unusually open-minded, Walter was sometimes conventional. He was proud of the great musical tradition of German-speaking people, and got cross with blase London audiences for arriving late, chatting to their friends during the performance, and leaving early. He would be irritated at Fitz, now, for making comments about the soprano’s figure to his pal Bing Westhampton, and at Bea for talking to the Duchess of Sussex about Madame Lucille’s shop in Hanover Square, where they bought their gowns. She even knew what Walter would say: “They listen to the music only when they have run out of gossip!”
Maud felt the same, but they were in a minority. For most of London’s high society, the opera was just one more opportunity to show off clothes and jewels. However, even they fell silent toward the end of Act 1, as Don Giovanni threatened to kill Leporello, and the orchestra played a thunderstorm on drums and double basses. Then, with characteristic insouciance, Don Giovanni released Leporello and walked jauntily away, defying them all to stop him; and the curtain came down.
Walter stood up immediately, looking toward the box, and waved. Fitz waved back. “That’s von Ulrich,” he said to Bing. “All those Germans are pleased with themselves because they embarrassed the Americans in Mexico.”
Bing was an impish, curly-haired Lothario distantly related to the royal family. He knew little of world affairs, being mainly interested in gambling and drinking in the capital cities of Europe. He frowned and said in puzzlement: “What do the Germans care about Mexico?”
“Good question,” Fitz said. “If they think they can win colonies in South America, they’re deceiving themselves- the United States will never allow it.”
Maud left the box and went down the grand staircase, nodding and smiling to acquaintances. She knew something like half the people there: London society was a surprisingly small set. On the red-carpeted landing she encountered a group surrounding the slight, dapper figure of David Lloyd George, the chancellor of the Exchequer. “Good evening, Lady Maud,” he said with the twinkle that appeared in his bright blue eyes whenever he spoke to an attractive woman. “I hear your royal house party went well.” He had the nasal accent of North Wales, less musical than the South Wales lilt. “But what a tragedy in the Aberowen pit.”
“The bereaved families were much comforted by the king’s condolences,” Maud said. Among the group was an attractive woman in her twenties. Maud said: “Good evening, Miss Stevenson, how nice to see you again.” Lloyd George’s political secretary and mistress was a rebel, and Maud felt drawn to her. In addition, a man was always grateful to people who were polite to his mistress.
Lloyd George spoke to the group. “That German ship delivered the guns to Mexico after all. It simply went to another port and quietly unloaded. So nineteen American troops died for nothing. It’s a terrible humiliation for Woodrow Wilson.”
Maud smiled and touched Lloyd George’s arm. “Would you explain something to me, Chancellor?”
“If I can, my dear,” he said indulgently. Most men were pleased to be asked to explain things, especially to attractive young women, Maud found.
She said: “Why does anyone care what happens in Mexico?”
“Oil, dear lady,” Lloyd George replied. “Oil.”
Someone else spoke to him, and he turned away.
Maud spotted Walter. They met at the foot of the staircase. He bowed over her gloved hand, and she had to resist the temptation to touch his fair hair. Her love for Walter had awakened within her a sleeping lion of physical desire, a beast that was both stimulated and tormented by their stolen kisses and furtive fumbles.
“How are you enjoying the opera, Lady Maud?” he said formally, but his hazel eyes said I wish we were alone.
“Very much-the Don has a wonderful voice.”
“For me the conductor goes a little too fast.”
He was the only person she had ever met who took music as seriously as she did. “I disagree,” she said. “It’s a comedy, so the melodies need to bounce along.”
“But not just a comedy.”
“That’s true.”
“Perhaps he will slow down when things turn nasty in act two.”
“You seem to have won some kind of diplomatic coup in Mexico,” she said, changing the subject.
“My father is… ” He searched for words, something that was unusual for him. “Cock-a-hoop,” he said after a pause.
“And you are not?”
He frowned. “I worry that the American president may want to get his own back one day.”
At that moment Fitz walked past and said: “Hello, von Ulrich, come and join us in our box, we’ve got a spare seat.”
“With pleasure!” said Walter.
Maud was delighted. Fitz was just being hospitable: he did not know his sister was in love with Walter. She would have to bring him up to date soon. She was not sure how he would take the news. Their countries were at odds, and although Fitz regarded Walter as a friend, that was a long step from welcoming him as a brother-in- law.
She and Walter walked up the stairs and along the corridor. The back row in Fitz’s box had only two seats with a poor view. Without discussion, Maud and Walter took those seats.
A few minutes later the house lights went down. In the half dark, Maud could almost imagine herself alone with Walter. The second act began with the duet between the Don and Leporello. Maud liked the way Mozart made
