Fall of Giants

Winston accepted a cup of tea from Maud and took a buttered muffin from a plate offered by a footman. “You’ve suffered a personal loss, I gather.”

“The peasants killed my brother-in-law, Prince Andrei, and his wife.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Bea and I happened to be there at the time, and escaped by the skin of our teeth.”

“So I heard!”

“The villagers have taken over his land-a very large estate which is rightfully the inheritance of my son-and the new regime has endorsed such theft.”

“I’m afraid so. The first thing Lenin did was to pass his Decree on Land.”

Maud said: “In fairness, Lenin has also announced an eight-hour day for workers and universal free education for their children.”

Fitz was annoyed. Maud had no tact. This was not the moment to defend Lenin.

But Winston was a match for her. “And a Decree on the Press which bans newspapers from opposing the government,” he shot back. “So much for socialist freedom.”

“My son’s birthright is not the only reason, or even the main reason, why I’m so concerned,” Fitz said. “If the Bolsheviks get away with what they’ve done in Russia, where next? Welsh miners already believe the coal found deep underground doesn’t really belong to the man who owns the land on the surface. You can hear ‘The Red Flag’ sung in half the pubs in Wales on any given Saturday night.”

“The Bolshevik regime should be strangled at birth,” Winston said. He looked thoughtful. “Strangled at birth,” he repeated, pleased with the expression.

Fitz controlled his impatience. Sometimes Winston imagined he had devised a policy when all he had done was coin a phrase. “But we’re doing nothing!” Fitz said in exasperation.

The gong sounded to tell everyone it was time to change for dinner. Fitz did not persist with the conversation: he had all weekend to make his point.

On his way to his dressing room it struck him that, contrary to custom, Boy had not been brought down to the morning room at teatime. Before changing, he walked down a long corridor to the nursery wing.

Boy was now three years and three months old, no longer a baby or even a toddler, but a walking, talking boy with Bea’s blue eyes and blond curls. He was sitting near the fire, wrapped in a blanket, and pretty, young Nurse Jones was reading to him. The rightful lord of thousands of acres of Russian farmland was sucking his thumb. He did not jump up and run to Fitz as he normally would. “What’s wrong with him?” Fitz said.

“He’s got a bad tummy, my lord.”

Nurse Jones reminded Fitz a bit of Ethel Williams, but she was not as bright. “Try to be more exact,” Fitz said impatiently. “What is wrong with his stomach?”

“He have got the diarrhea.”

“How the dickens did he get that?”

“I don’t know. The toilet on the train was not very clean… ”

That made it Fitz’s fault, for dragging his family down to Wales for this house party. He suppressed a curse. “Have you summoned a doctor?”

“Dr. Mortimer is on his way.”

Fitz told himself not to be so fretful. Children suffered minor infections all the time. How often had he himself had a bad tummy as a child? Yet children did, sometimes, die of gastroenteritis.

He knelt in front of the sofa, bringing himself down to his son’s level. “How’s my little soldier?”

Boy’s tone was lethargic. “I got the trots.”

He must have picked up that vulgar expression from the servants-indeed, there was the hint of a Welsh lilt in the way he said it. But Fitz decided not to make a fuss about that now. “The doctor will be here soon,” he said. “He’ll make you better.”

“I don’t want a bath.”

“Perhaps you can skip your bath tonight.” Fitz got up. “Send for me when the doctor arrives,” he said to Nurse. “I’d like to speak to the fellow myself.”

“Very good, my lord.”

He left the nursery and went to his dressing room. His valet had laid out his evening clothes, with the diamond studs in the shirtfront and the matching cuff links in the sleeves, a clean linen handkerchief in the coat pocket, and one silk sock placed inside each patent-leather shoe.

Before getting changed he went through to Bea’s room.

She was eight months pregnant.

He had not seen her in this state when she was expecting Boy. He had left for France in August 1914, when she was only four or five months along, and he had not returned until after Boy had been born. He had not previously witnessed this spectacular swelling, nor marveled at the body’s shocking ability to change and stretch.

She was sitting at her dressing table but not looking in the glass. She was leaning back, her legs apart, her hands resting on the bulge. Her eyes were closed and she looked pale. “I just can’t get comfortable,” she complained. “Standing, sitting, lying down, everything hurts.”

“You ought to go along to the nursery and take a look at Boy.”

“I will as soon as I can summon up the energy!” she snapped. “I should never have traveled to the country. It’s ridiculous for me to host a house party in this state.”

Fitz knew she was right. “But we need the support of these men if we’re to do anything about the Bolsheviks.”