Fall of Giants

“This.” He unlatched a gate and held it open. They entered the grounds of a detached two-story house. The garden was overgrown and the place needed painting, but it was a charming medium-size home, the kind of place that might be owned by a successful musician, Ethel imagined, or perhaps a well-known actor. Fitz took a key from his pocket and opened the door. They stepped inside, and he closed the door and kissed her.

She gave herself up to it. She had not been kissed for a long time, and she felt like a thirsty traveler in a desert. She stroked his long neck and pressed her breasts against his chest. She sensed that he was as desperate as she. Before she lost control she pushed him away. “Stop,” she said breathlessly. “Stop.”

“Why?”

“Last time we did this I ended up talking to your bloody lawyer.” She moved away from him. “I’m not as innocent as I used to be.”

“It will be different this time,” he said, panting. “I was a fool to let you go. I see that now. I was young, too.”

To help her calm down she looked into the rooms. They were full of dowdy old furniture. “Whose house is this?” she said.

“Yours,” he replied. “If you want it.”

She stared at him. What did he mean?

“You could live here with the baby,” he explained. “It was occupied for years by an old lady who used to be my father’s housekeeper. She died a few months ago. You could redecorate it and buy new furniture.”

“Live here?” she said. “As what?”

He could not quite bring himself to say it.

“As your mistress?” she said.

“You can have a nurse, and a couple of housemaids, and a gardener. Even a motorcar with a chauffeur, if that appeals to you.”

The part of it that appealed to her was him.

He misinterpreted her thoughtful look. “Is the house too small? Would you prefer Kensington? Do you want a butler and a housekeeper? I’ll give you anything you want, don’t you understand? My life is empty without you.”

He meant it, she saw. At least, he meant it now, when he was aroused and unsatisfied. She knew from bitter experience how fast he could change.

The trouble was, she wanted him just as badly.

He must have seen that in her face, for he took her in his arms again. She turned up her face to be kissed. I want more of this, she thought.

Once again she broke the embrace before she lost control.

“Well?” he said.

She could not make a sensible decision while he was kissing her. “I’ve got to be alone,” she said. She forced herself to walk away from him before it was too late. “I’m going home,” she said. She opened the door. “I need time to think.” She hesitated on the doorstep.

“Think as long as you want,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

She closed the door and ran away.

{III}

Gus Dewar was in the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, standing in front of Rembrandt’s Self-Portrait at the Age of Sixty-three, when a woman standing next to him said: “Extraordinarily ugly man.”

Gus turned and was surprised to recognize Maud Fitzherbert. He said: “Me, or Rembrandt?” and she laughed.

They strolled through the gallery together. “What a delightful coincidence,” he said. “Meeting you here.”

“As a matter of fact, I saw you and followed you in,” she said. She lowered her voice. “I wanted to ask you why the Germans haven’t yet made the peace offer you told me was coming.”

He did not know the answer. “They may have changed their minds,” he said gloomily. “There as here, there is a peace faction and a war faction. Perhaps the war faction has gained the upper hand, and succeeded in changing the kaiser’s mind.”

“Surely they must see that battles no longer make a difference!” she said with exasperation. “Did you read in this morning’s papers that the Germans have taken Bucharest?”

Gus nodded. Rumania had declared war in August, and for a while the British had hoped their new partner might strike a mighty blow, but Germany had invaded back in September and now the Rumanian capital had fallen. “In fact the upshot is good for Germany, which now has Rumania’s oil.”

“Exactly,” said Maud. “It’s the same old one step forward, one step back. When will we learn?”

“The appointment of Lloyd George as prime minister isn’t encouraging,” Gus said.

“Ah. There you might be wrong.”

“Really? He has built his political reputation on being more aggressive than everyone else. It would be hard for him to make peace after that.”

“Don’t be so sure. Lloyd George is unpredictable. He could do a volteface. It would surprise only those naïve enough to have thought him sincere.”

“Well, that’s hopeful.”

“All the same, I wish we had a woman prime minister.”

Gus did not think that was ever likely to happen, but he did not say so.

“There’s something else I want to ask you,” she said, and she halted. Gus turned to face her. Perhaps because the paintings had sensitized him, he found himself admiring her face. He noticed the sharp lines of her nose and chin, the high cheekbones, the long neck. The angularity of her features was softened by her full lips and large green eyes. “Anything you like,” he said.

“What did Walter tell you?”