and all?”
“I’ll put you across my knee and thrash you,” Da said. “You’re not too old.”
Billy was white-faced, but he looked Da in the eye. “Yes, I am,” he said. “I am too old.” He shifted the case to his left hand and clenched his right fist.
Da took a step forward. “I’ll teach you to make a fist at me, boy.”
“No!” Mam screamed. She stood between them and pushed at Da’s chest. “That’s enough! I will not have a fight in my kitchen.” She pointed her finger at Da’s face. “David Williams, you keep your hands to yourself. Remember that you’re an elder of Bethesda Chapel. What would people think?”
That calmed him.
Mam turned to Ethel. “You’d better go. Billy will go with you. Quick, now.”
Da sat down at the table.
Ethel kissed her mother. “Good-bye, Mam.”
“Write me a letter,” Mam said.
Da said: “Don’t you dare write to anyone in this house! The letters will be burned unopened!”
Mam turned away, weeping. Ethel went out and Billy followed.
They walked down the steep streets to the town center. Ethel kept her eyes on the ground, not wanting to speak to people she knew and be asked where she was off to.
At the station she bought a ticket to Paddington.
“Well,” said Billy, as they stood on the platform, “two shocks in one day. First you, then Da.”
“He have kept that bottled up inside him all these years,” Ethel said. “No wonder he’s so strict. I can almost forgive him for throwing me out.”
“I can’t,” said Billy. “Our faith is about redemption and mercy, not about bottling things up and punishing people.”
A train from Cardiff came in, and Ethel saw Walter von Ulrich get off. He touched his hat to her, which was nice of him: gentlemen did not do that to servants, normally. Lady Maud had said she had thrown him over. Perhaps he had come to win her back. She silently wished him luck.
“Do you want me to buy you a newspaper?” Billy said.
“No, thank you, my lovely,” she said. “I don’t think I could concentrate on it.”
Waiting for her train she said: “Do you remember our code?” In childhood they had devised a simple way to write notes that their parents could not understand.
For a moment Billy looked puzzled, then his face cleared. “Oh, aye.”
“I’ll write to you in code, so Da can’t read it.”
“Right,” he said. “And send the letter via Tommy Griffiths.”
The train puffed into the station in clouds of steam. Billy hugged Ethel. She could see he was trying not to cry.
“Look after yourself,” she said. “And take care of our mam.”
“Aye,” he said, and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “We’ll be all right. You be careful up there in London, now.”
“I will.”
Ethel boarded the train and sat by the window. A minute later it pulled out. As it picked up speed, she watched the pithead winding gear recede into the distance, and wondered if she would ever see Aberowen again.
Maud had breakfast late with Princess Bea in the small dining room at Ty Gwyn. The princess was in high spirits. Normally she complained a lot about living in Britain-although Maud recalled, from her time as a child in the British embassy, that life in Russia was much more uncomfortable: the houses cold, the people surly, services unreliable, and government disorganized. But Bea had no complaints today. She was happy that she had at last conceived.
She even spoke generously of Fitz. “He saved my family, you know,” she said to Maud. “He paid off the mortgages on our estate. But until now there has been no one to inherit it-my brother has no children. It would seem such a tragedy if all Andrei’s land and Fitz’s went to some distant cousin.”
Maud could not see this as a tragedy. The distant cousin in question might well be a son of hers. But she had never expected to inherit a fortune and she gave little thought to such things.
Maud was not good company this morning, she realized as she drank coffee and toyed with toast. In fact she was miserable. She felt oppressed by the wallpaper, a Victorian riot of foliage that covered the ceiling as well as the walls, even though she had lived with it all her life.
She had not told her family about her romance with Walter, so now she could not tell them that it was over, and that meant she had no one to sympathize with her. Only the sparky little housekeeper, Williams, knew the story, and she seemed to have disappeared.
Maud read The Times’s report of Lloyd George’s speech last night at the Mansion House dinner. He had been optimistic about the Balkan crisis, saying it could be resolved peacefully. She hoped he was right. Even though she had given Walter up, she was still horrified by the thought that he might have to put on a uniform and be killed or maimed in a war.
She read a short report in The Times datelined Vienna and headed THE SERVIAN SCARE. She asked Bea if Russia would defend Serbia against the Austrians. “I hope not!” Bea said, alarmed. “I don’t want my brother to go to war.”
They were in the small dining room. Maud could remember having breakfast here with Fitz and Walter in the school holidays, when she was twelve and they were seventeen. The boys had had enormous appetites, she recalled, consuming eggs and sausages and great piles of buttered toast every morning before going off to ride horses or swim in the lake. Walter had been such a glamorous figure, handsome and foreign. He had treated her as courteously as if she were his age, which was flattering to a young girl-and, she could now see, a subtle way of flirting.
While she was reminiscing the butler, Peel, came in and shocked her by saying to Bea: “Herr von Ulrich is here, Your Highness.”
Walter could not possibly be here, Maud thought bewilderedly. Could it be Robert? Equally unlikely.
A moment later, Walter walked in.
Maud was too stupefied to speak. Bea said: “What a pleasant surprise, Herr von Ulrich.”
Walter was wearing a lightweight summer suit of pale blue-gray tweed. His blue satin tie was the same color as his eyes. Maud wished she had put on something other than the plain cream-colored peg-top dress that had seemed perfectly adequate for breakfast with her sister-in-law.
“Forgive this intrusion, Princess,” Walter said to Bea. “I had to visit our consulate in Cardiff-a tiresome business about German sailors who got into trouble with the local police.”
That was rubbish. Walter was a military attache: his job did not involve getting sailors out of jail.
“Good morning, Lady Maud,” he said, shaking her hand. “What a delightful surprise to find you here.”
More rubbish, she thought. He was here to see her. She had left London so that he could not badger her, but deep in her heart she could not help being pleased by his persistence in following her all this way. Flustered, she just said: “Hello, how are you?”
Bea said: “Do have some coffee, Herr von Ulrich. The earl is out riding, but he’ll be back soon.” She naturally assumed Walter was there to see Fitz.
“How kind you are.” Walter sat down.
“Will you stay for lunch?”
“I would love to. Then I must catch a train back to London.”
Bea stood up. “I should speak to the cook.”
Walter jumped to his feet and pulled out her chair.
“Talk to Lady Maud,” Bea said as she left the room. “Cheer her up. She’s worried about the international situation.”
Walter raised his eyebrows at the note of mockery in Bea’s voice. “All sensible people are worried about the international situation,” he said.
