Fall of Giants

Walter had returned to Berlin as planned. The Germans had been jeered by crowds as they drove to the railway station on their way home. A female secretary had been knocked out by a thrown rock. The French comment had been: “Remember what they did to Belgium.” The secretary was still in hospital. Meanwhile, the German people were angrily against signing the treaty.

Bing sat next to Maud on the sofa. For once he was not flirtatious. “I wish your brother were here to advise you about this,” he said with a nod at the magazine.

Maud had written to Fitz to break the news of her marriage, and had enclosed the clipping from the Tatler, to show him that what she had done was being accepted by London society. She had no idea how long it would take for her letter to get to wherever Fitz was, and she did not expect a reply for months. By then it would be too late for Fitz to protest. He would just have to smile and congratulate her.

Now Maud bristled at the implication that she needed a man to tell her what to do. “What could Fitz possibly say?”

“For the foreseeable future, the life of a German wife is going to be hard.”

“I don’t need a man to tell me that.”

“In Fitz’s absence I feel a degree of responsibility.”

“Please don’t.” Maud tried not to be offended. What advice could Bing possibly offer anyone, other than how to gamble and drink in the world’s nightspots?

He lowered his voice. “I hesitate to say this, but… ” He glanced at Aunt Herm, who took the hint and went to pour herself a little more coffee. “If you were able to say that the marriage had never been consummated, then there might be an annulment.”

Maud thought of the room with the primrose-yellow curtains, and had to suppress a happy smile. “But I cannot-”

“Please don’t tell me anything about it. I only want to make sure you understand your options.”

Maud suppressed a growing indignation. “I know this is kindly meant, Bing-”

“There is also the possibility of divorce. There is always a way, you know, for a man to provide a wife with grounds.”

Maud could no longer contain her outrage. “Please drop the subject instantly,” she said in a raised voice. “I have not the slightest wish for either an annulment or a divorce. I love Walter.”

Bing looked sulky. “I was just trying to say what I think Fitz, as the head of your family, might tell you if he were here.” He stood up and spoke to his wife. “We’ll go on, shall we? No need for all of us to be late.”

A few minutes later, Bea came in wearing a new dress of pink silk. “I’m ready,” she said, as if she had been waiting for them rather than the other way around. Her glance went to Maud’s left hand and registered the wedding ring, but she did not comment. When Maud told her the news her response had been carefully neutral. “I hope you will be happy,” she had said without warmth. “And I hope Fitz will be able to accept the fact that you did not get his permission.”

They went out and got into the car. It was the black Cadillac Fitz had bought after his blue one got stranded in France. Everything was provided by Fitz, Maud reflected: the house the three women lived in, the fabulously expensive gowns they were wearing, the car, and the box at the opera. Her bills at the Ritz in Paris had been sent to Albert Solman, Fitz’s man of business here in London, and paid without question. Fitz never complained. Walter would never be able to keep her in such style, she knew. Perhaps Bing was right, and she would find it hard to do without her accustomed luxury. But she would be with the man she loved.

They reached Covent Garden at the last minute, because of Bea’s tardiness. The audience had already taken their seats. The three women hurried up the red-carpeted staircase and made their way to the box. Maud suddenly remembered what she had done to Walter in this box during Don Giovanni. She felt embarrassed: what had possessed her to take such a risk?

Bing Westhampton was already there with his wife, and he stood up and held a chair for Bea. The auditorium was silent: the show was about to begin. People-watching was one of the attractions of the opera, and many heads turned to look as the princess took her seat. Aunt Herm sat in the second row, but Bing held a front-row seat for Maud. A murmur of comment rose from the stalls: most of the crowd would have seen the photograph and read the article in the Tatler. Many of them knew Maud personally: this was London society, the aristocrats and the politicians, the judges and the bishops, the successful artists and the wealthy businessmen-and their wives. Maud stood for a moment to let them get a good look at her, and see how pleased and proud she was.

That was a mistake.