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She wrote:
Yes, with all my heart, I want to marry you. But what is your plan? Where would we live?
She had been thinking about this half the night. The obstacles seemed immense.
If you stay in Britain they will put you in a prison camp. If we go to Germany I will never see you because you will be away from home, with the army.
Their relatives might create more trouble than the authorities.
When are we to tell our families about the marriage? Not beforehand, please, because Fitz will find a way to stop us. Even afterwards there will be difficulties with him and with your father. Tell me what you are thinking.
I love you dearly.
She sealed the envelope and addressed it to his flat, which was a quarter of a mile away. She rang the bell and a few minutes later her maid tapped on the door. Sanderson was a plump girl with a big smile. Maud said: "If Mr. Ulrich is out, go to the German embassy in Carlton House Terrace. Either way, wait for his reply. Is that clear?"
"Yes, my lady. "
"No need to tell any of the other servants what you're doing. "
A worried look came over Sanderson's young face. Many maids were party to their mistresses' intrigues, but Maud had never had secret romances, and Sanderson was not used to deception. "What shall I say when Mr. Grout asks me where I'm going?"
Maud thought for a moment. "Tell him you have to buy me certain feminine articles. " Embarrassment would curb Grout's curiosity.
"Yes, my lady. "
Sanderson left and Maud got dressed.
She was not sure how she was going to maintain a semblance of normality in front of her family. Fitz might not notice her mood-men rarely did-but Aunt Herm was not completely oblivious.
She went downstairs at breakfast time, although she was too tense to feel hungry. Aunt Herm was eating a kipper and the smell made Maud feel rather ill. She sipped coffee.
Fitz appeared a minute later. He took a kipper from the sideboard and opened The Times. What do I normally do? Maud asked herself. I talk about politics. Then I must do that now. "Did anything happen last night?" she said.
"I saw Winston after cabinet," Fitz replied. "We are asking the German government to withdraw its ultimatum to Belgium. " He gave a contemptuous emphasis to the word asking.
Maud did not dare to feel hope. "Does that mean we have not completely given up working for peace?"
"We might as well," he said scornfully. "Whatever the Germans may be thinking, they're not likely to change their minds because of a polite request. "
"A drowning man may clutch at a straw. "
"We're not clutching at straws. We're going through the ritual preliminaries to a declaration of war. "
He was right, she thought dismally. All governments would want to say that they had not wanted war, but had been forced into it. Fitz showed no awareness of the danger to himself, no sign that this diplomatic fencing might result in a mortal wound to himself. She longed to protect him and at the same time she wanted to strangle him for his foolish obstinacy.
To distract herself she looked through The Manchester Guardian. It contained a full-page advertisement placed by the Neutrality League with the slogan "Britons, do your duty and keep your country out of a wicked and stupid war. " Maud was glad to know there were still people who thought as she did. But they had no chance of prevailing.
Sanderson came in with an envelope on a silver tray. With a shock, Maud recognized Walter's handwriting. She was aghast. What was the maid thinking of? Did she not realize that if the original note was a secret, the reply must be too?
She could not read Walter's note in front of Fitz. Heart racing, she took it with pretended carelessness and dropped it beside her plate, then asked Grout for more coffee.
She looked at her newspaper to hide her panic. Fitz did not censor her mail but, as the head of the family, he had the right to read any letter addressed to a female relative living in his house. No respectable woman would object.
She had to finish breakfast as fast as possible and take the note away unopened. She tried to eat a piece of toast, forcing the crumbs down her dry throat.
Fitz looked up from The Times. "Aren't you going to read your letter?" he said. And then, to her horror, he added: "That looks like von Ulrich's handwriting. "
She had no choice. She slit the envelope with a clean butter knife and tried to fix her face in a neutral expression.
