It sounded as if Grey was going over the same ground as Tyrrell. Clearly the English were very serious about this.
Lichnowsky said: “The Russian mobilization is a threat that clearly cannot be ignored, but it is a threat to our eastern border, and that of our ally Austria-Hungary. We have asked France for a guarantee of neutrality. If France can give us that-or, alternatively, if Britain can guarantee French neutrality-there will be no reason for war in western Europe… Thank you, Foreign Secretary. Perfect-I will call on you at half past three this afternoon.” He hung up.
He looked at Walter. They both smiled triumphantly. “Well,” said Lichnowsky, “I didn’t expect that!”
Maud was at Sussex House, where a group of influential Conservative M.P.s and peers had gathered in the duchess’s morning room for tea, when Fitz came in boiling with rage. “Asquith and Grey are crumbling!” he said. He pointed to a silver cake stand. “Crumbling like that dashed scone. They’re going to betray our friends. I feel ashamed to be British.”
Maud had feared this. Fitz was no compromiser. He believed that Britain should issue orders and the world should obey. The idea that the government might have to negotiate with others as equals was abhorrent to him. And there were distressingly many who agreed.
The duchess said: “Calm down, Fitz, dear, and tell us all what’s happened.”
Fitz said: “Asquith sent a letter this morning to Douglas.” Maud presumed he meant General Sir Charles Douglas, chief of the Imperial General Staff. “Our prime minister wanted to put it on record that the government had never promised to send British troops to France in the event of a war with Germany!”
Maud, as the only Liberal present, felt obliged to defend the government. “But it’s true, Fitz. Asquith is only making it clear that all our options are open.”
“Then what on earth was the point of all the talks we’ve held with the French military?”
“To explore possibilities! To make contingency plans! Talks are not contracts-especially in international politics.”
“Friends are friends. Britain is a world leader. A woman doesn’t necessarily understand these things, but people expect us to stand by our neighbors. As gentlemen, we abhor the least hint of deceit, and we should do the same as a country.”
That was the kind of talk that might yet get Britain embroiled in a war, Maud thought with a shiver of panic. She just could not get her brother to understand the danger. Their love for one another had always been stronger than their political differences, but now they were so angry that they might quarrel gravely. And when Fitz fell out with someone, he never made it up. Yet he was the one who would have to fight and perhaps die, shot or bayoneted or blown to pieces-Fitz, and Walter too. Why could Fitz not see that? It made her want to scream.
While she struggled to find adequate words, one of the other guests spoke. Maud recognized him as the foreign editor of The Times, a man called Steed. “I can tell you that there is a dirty German-Jewish international financial attempt to bully my paper into advocating neutrality,” he said.
The duchess pursed her lips: she disliked the language of the gutter press.
“What makes you say so?” Maud said coldly to Steed.
“Lord Rothschild spoke to our financial editor yesterday,” the journalist said. “Wants us to moderate the anti- German tone of our articles in the interests of peace.”
Maud knew Natty Rothschild, who was a Liberal. She said: “And what does Lord Northcliffe think of Rothschild’s request?” Northcliffe was the proprietor of The Times.
Steed grinned. “He ordered us to print an even stiffer leading article today.” He picked up a copy of the paper from a side table and waved it. “‘Peace is not our strongest interest,’” he quoted.
Maud could not think of anything more contemptible than deliberately encouraging war. She could see that even Fitz was disgusted by the journalist’s frivolous attitude. She was about to say something when Fitz, with his unfailing courtesy even to brutes, changed the subject. “I’ve just seen the French ambassador, Paul Cambon, coming out of the Foreign Office,” he said. “He was as white as that tablecloth. He said: ‘Ils vont nous lacher.’ ‘They’re going to let us down.’ He had been with Grey.”
The duchess asked: “Do you know what Grey had said, to upset Monsieur Cambon so?”
“Yes, Cambon told me. Apparently, the Germans are willing to leave France alone, if France promises to stay out of the war-and if the French refuse that offer, the British will not feel obliged to help defend France.”
Maud felt sorry for the French ambassador, but her heart leaped with hope at the suggestion that Britain might stay out of the war.
“But France must refuse that offer,” the duchess said. “She has a treaty with Russia, according to which each must come to the other’s aid in war.”
“Exactly!” said Fitz angrily. “What is the point of international alliances if they are to be broken at the moment of crisis?”
“Nonsense,” Maud said, knowing she was being rude but not caring. “International alliances are broken whenever convenient. That isn’t the issue.”
“And what is, pray?” Fitz said frostily.
“I think Asquith and Grey are simply trying to frighten the French with a dose of reality. France cannot defeat Germany without our help. If they think they might have to go it alone, perhaps the French will become peacemakers, and pressure their Russian allies to back off from war with Germany.”
“And what about Serbia?”
Maud said: “Even at this stage, it’s not too late for Russia and Austria to sit down at a table and work out a solution for the Balkans that both can live with.”
There was a silence that lasted for a few seconds, then Fitz said: “I doubt very much that anything like that will happen.”
“But surely,” said Maud, and even as she spoke she could hear the desperation in her own voice, “surely we must keep hope alive?”
Maud sat in her room and could not summon the energy to change her clothes for dinner. Her maid had laid out a gown and some jewelry, but Maud just stared at them.
She went to parties almost every night during the London season, because much of the politics and diplomacy that fascinated her was done at social occasions. But tonight she felt she could not do it-could not be glamorous and charming, could not entice powerful men to tell her what they were thinking, could not play the game of changing their minds without their even suspecting that they were being persuaded.
Walter was going to war. He would put on a uniform and carry a gun, and enemy troops would fire shells and mortars and machine-gun rounds at him and try to kill him, or wound him so badly that he was no longer able to stand up. She found it hard to think about anything else, and she was constantly on the edge of tears. She had even had harsh words with her beloved brother.
There was a tap at the door. Grout stood outside. “Herr von Ulrich is here, my lady,” he said.
Maud was shocked. She had not been expecting Walter. Why had he come?
Noticing her surprise, Grout added: “When I said my master was not at home, he asked for you.”
“Thank you,” said Maud, and she pushed past Grout and headed down the stairs.
Grout called after her: “Herr von Ulrich is in the drawing room. I will ask Lady Hermia to join you.” Even Grout knew that Maud was not supposed to be left alone with a young man. But Aunt Herm did not move fast, and it would be several minutes before she arrived.
Maud rushed into the drawing room and threw herself into Walter’s arms. “What are we going to do?” she wailed. “Walter, what are we going to do?”
He hugged her hard, then gazed at her gravely. His face was gray and drawn. He looked as if he had been told of a death. He said: “France has not replied to the German ultimatum.”
“Have they said nothing at all?” she cried.
“Our ambassador in Paris insisted on a response. The message from Premier Viviani was: ‘France will have
