Chapter 14

Dear Anne,

Our mountaintop hotel has taken on the aspect of a country house party. Friends flung together by circumstance making the best of it as we jolly each other along. Even at my age and with all I've seen in my life, I remain amazed by the resilience of the human spirit and its ability to find the light, even in the midst of tragedy.

A fter twelve hours of blissful, uninterrupted sleep, Daisy woke with gritty eyes and swollen ankles, but these were nothing compared to the weight pressing her into the mattress like an anchor. She toyed with the idea of staying in bed, playing sick like a child avoiding a test, but it was a thought she abandoned almost as soon as it surfaced. Hiding would get her nowhere, and she hated the idea of anyone thinking she was infirm or needed coddling. Instead she rose and dressed for breakfast, ticking over her options like checking off a bulleted list—item by item, idea by idea.

One: Return to the Petersons? Out of the question. Bayard would wonder why on earth she'd come all this way only to retrace her steps, and now that she was here, any hasty departure would bring unwanted scrutiny.

Two: Inform Lieutenant Bayard? No. At least, not yet. Not until she'd heard from Petra or Cleo. Hopefully the pair were already on their way to Stockholm. If they were lucky, they might even be there by tonight and that blasted codebook with them. Besides, the lieutenant had enough on his plate. She'd not add to his load until it was necessary.

Three: Admit her failure to Freddie Sterling when she spoke with him next and ask for his advice? He was always so helpful and infinitely patient, but widening the circle of accomplices only shared the trouble. It wasn't his problem to solve.

By the time Bayard knocked on her door to escort her to breakfast, she was no nearer to a solution, but her usual optimism allowed her to greet him with a bland smile of welcome that hid a multitude of sins. Breakfast further restored her confidence, the babble of various languages strangely soothing to her troubled conscience. Downstairs, Madame de Dampierre was back at her radio, King Haakon's voice acting to quiet the crowded room. Even for those who didn't understand Norwegian, the gravity of the words was evident. "Our position is such that today I cannot inform you where in Norway I myself, the crown prince, and the government reside... We commemorate those who gave their lives for our fatherland... God save Norway."

A chorus of the Norwegian national anthem rose over the clink of cutlery and the bang of waiters' trays. Daisy felt her cheeks ache and a lump clog her throat. Thank heavens for the lively French countess. She abandoned her radio to join Daisy, exclaiming over the deliciously outrageous rumors of a Norwegian plot to sneak their gold reserves out of the country under the very nose of the Germans in a scheme that sounded like something out of a spy novel. Daisy found herself laughing right along with her, never letting on she'd had these rumors confirmed as truth last night along with even more outlandish tales of near-death escapes, courageous acts of valor, and heroic stands against overwhelming odds.

The madame's eyes twinkled with laughter. "I feel almost as if we are in one of these ridiculous Warner Brothers movies with car chases and twirling mustaches." Conversation dipped as the crown princess passed through the dining room. "And imperiled heroines, of course," Madame de Dampierre added under her breath.

Daisy excused herself and followed Her Royal Highness outside, shivering as she closed the terrace doors behind her. The Alpine air was damp. Steel-gray clouds clung to the mountains, obscuring distances and muffling sound, giving them the sensation of having left the outside world and its troubles behind. It took only a glance at the solitary woman striding the shoveled paths to realize not everyone shared her impression.

Misfortune breeds isolation. People don't know what to say, how to behave. Daisy had seen it in the long years of Bordie's protracted illness and then after his death. Friends, awkward and unsure of their footing, used distance to mask discomfort. Bordie's sister Anne was one of the few who'd remained steadfast. This kindness endeared her to Daisy, cementing their friendship in the way only shared hardship can.

Did Her Royal Highness have such a friend?

If she did, she wasn't close to hand.

Daisy was. She would do what she could.

Despite the temperature, the crown princess wore no gloves or scarf, and her coat was thin, fashionable rather than utilitarian. "Your Royal Highness, I hope you don't mind my intrusion, but are you quite warm enough?" A brisk tone, a mother chiding her chick. Normally she'd not have dared, but sometimes it paid to cut through the niceties and get straight to the point. "Perhaps we should return to the hotel for a nice hot cup of coffee."

The crown princess had been staring up at the broad, treeless rise of the mountain, a small frown wrinkling her brow as if she was contemplating whether to strike out for the summit, but by the time Daisy caught up, her face was as smooth as new plaster.

"We were guests here just a few years ago, did you know that?" Daisy knew that enigmatic expression. She'd applied it just this morning. The world would see only what was allowed, nothing more. "During the day, we hiked and skied, and in the evening, we danced and drank and ate. It was glorious." The crown princess worked at a spot on her coat's cuff, back and forth in a small, nervous gesture. "Everything has changed now, all but the mountain. The mountain is exactly the same. As it will be a hundred, a thousand years from now." For the first time, she met Daisy's gaze, her eyes unreadable in the dim morning light. "That's a reassuring thought."

Daisy let her talk. Maybe that's all she needed, someone to offer her an ear to bend as she worked through the last few chaotic days. "You must think I'm mad nattering away about nothing."

"I think you're brave," Daisy replied. "You and the children."

"They are the only reason I agreed to leave Norway. If it had been me alone, I would not have been swayed so easily."

The weapon used against women since the dawn of time. Conditioned from birth to see motherhood as a sacred vocation, any woman who dared put her own desires first was considered unnatural and lacking in proper humanity. Men, on the other hand, valued rugged words like freedom , independence , individualism . Daisy had been fortunate in having both a husband who took pride in her ambitions and the wealth and station that allowed her to step into public spaces where most women were excluded. The crown princess's plight reminded her that even women moving in the highest circles could still be tethered by expectation and love.

"The Germans nearly had them at Nybergsund. Did you know?" Her Royal Highness continued. "They escaped and hid in the woods while bombers destroyed the village. They're being hunted, driven north like game before the hunters' guns."

Daisy could see the willpower it took for the princess to stand here quietly in the snow while her husband and father-in-law remained back in Norway. She was a person of action, much like Daisy herself. Sitting and waiting was anathema. She needed to be active, in control.

"They know the country as the Germans can't. And they have their countrymen to protect them."

"That's what my mother says."

"Princess Ingeborg is here?"

"She arrived a few days ago. We will be traveling on with her to Stockholm and staying with them until events allow us to rejoin His Royal Highness the crown prince."

Until, not if.

She turned back to the mountain in obvious dismissal, leaving Daisy to pick her way back over the uneven ground to the hotel's terrace, slowing to nod to the fashionable woman bundled in fur and pearls smoking a cigarette out of the cold when she suddenly recognized her as Princess Ingeborg—sister to King Haakon of Norway and King Christian of Denmark, sister-in-law to King Gustaf of Sweden, and Crown Princess M?rtha's mother. Daisy had seen her only a few months earlier, but the current crisis had flattened her fine-boned features like soft wax, loss and grief for her scattered family swimming in her gaze.

"Mrs. Harriman," she said with a gracious acknowledgment of recognition, "do I look a hundred years older than I did before? One brother who has lost his country, the country of my birth. Another hunted like a wild animal. I'm not sure who my daughter is angrier with right now—the Germans or her father-in-law." She stared out at the crown princess, who remained frozen beneath the pines with her unseeing eyes fixed upon the rocky, rising ground.

"It will go better for her once she and the children are settled with you in Stockholm."

Lines pinched at Princess Ingeborg's drawn features. "Let's hope Sweden remains the refuge she's expecting it to be."

Daisy left the woman and returned to the hotel, suddenly anxious to pen a quick reassuring letter to her daughter, Ethel. Lieutenant Bayard intercepted her inside, looking scrubbed and official. "Ma'am... a moment?"

Her traitorous stomach clenched in anticipation. Had he discovered her blunder over the missing codebook? Was there news of Petra and Cleo? "Something the matter, Lieutenant?"

"We've had word from the legation wives back in Norway."

Dear Anne,

I've tried to imagine what Mrs. Cox and the other wives are going through. This unsettled lack of information is unbearable for me; how much more so for the families of my legation staff, who don't have my sources to fall back on?

"C aptain Hagan tried to get through to Sjusj?en, where our families are staying, but he couldn't make it due to heavy snows." Lieutenant Bayard filled Daisy in over drinks in the hotel's lounge. She stuck with coffee but she understood the lieutenant's indulgence in an early scotch.

"They're safe?"

"For now, ma'am, but events on the ground are changing hourly. There's no telling how long before operations make their escape impossible."

Here was her chance to turn her doubts into practical action. "The Norwegians are near Lillehammer. We can join them there, and hope the roads north are clear. I'll pack immediately. Inform Mr. Whitney we'll leave within the hour."

She didn't wait for his response. She'd learned early that waiting for permission got one nowhere. Better to behave as if the path was laid, the blessings bestowed. First with her family and then Bordie. Later, as her horizons expanded into government with her appointment to the federal Commission on Industrial Relations, it took boldness to be heard, confidence to be listened to, and a well-developed sense of humor to laugh off the slings and arrows that would inevitably follow.

It was only as the lieutenant departed to make arrangements that she realized she wasn't the only one among the Jaffray family to use this same "ask forgiveness, not permission" approach to life. She'd accused Cleo of following in her father's footsteps by doing the very same thing. In Daisy's case, it had won her power and respect. Paul had died an untimely death. What Cleo would gain from following this philosophy remained to be seen.

She returned to her room to put together a suitcase. As she paused in the middle of rummaging through trunks for a spare hairbrush, she was reminded of the missing codebook. She twitched with guilt over such a ruinous blunder, but it was her desertion of the girls that gnawed at her. She could only pray Petra was back on her feet and that she and Cleo were on the road to Stockholm. If they weren't...

A knock on the door startled her out of the downward spiral of her thoughts. "Come."

Bayard eyed her clothes on the bed with the usual expression when dealing with recalcitrant children and stubborn old biddies. "Are you certain this is wise, ma'am? Maybe you'd be better off traveling on to Stockholm with Her Royal Highness and Princess Ingeborg."

"I'm here to gather information, Lieutenant. I can't do that shipwrecked in a hotel in S?len."

"The Germans are bombing the roadways. You won't hear them until they're right on top of you and by then it'll be too late."

"Did you ever wonder why the Germans are massing so many forces along those roadways? Why they're bombing places like Elverum and Nybergsund—towns and villages with absolutely no strategic value? If the royal family won't cooperate, it's better they're out of the way altogether."

"All the more reason you should accompany the crown princess to Stockholm."

"She is in the more than capable hands of her mother, who I very much doubt would appreciate any interference from me."

"Do you think that's really who His Majesty is concerned about?" He hurried through her deepening frown. "Of course, she's important, but it's Prince Harald he's desperate to keep safe. He's the heir to the throne if his grandfather and father are killed. And in German hands, he's a convenient puppet to prop on the throne while they do as they like."

"But he's not in German hands."

"No." Bayard looked away, but not before she caught the hard straight line of his mouth and the steel in his eyes. The polish of the ministry attaché stripped away to bare soldier's steel. "Not yet."

The hairs lifted at the nape of Daisy's neck, a strange prickling sensation as thoughts settled and just as quickly moved on. She sought to grasp them before they vanished, but the lieutenant ruined it by clearing his throat and breaking her concentration.

"I know you hate delegating these missions to others, but if anything should happen to you—a sitting US minister—think of the untold repercussions in Washington, not to mention how it would hurt your family."

Was he right? Was her safety more important than her work? Was she running away from her worries by running into danger?

She'd been in plenty of dangerous situations: border skirmishes along the Rio Grande, the war-torn French countryside, striking miners' camps in Colorado. Had she been running then? Bordie's death had rocked her, had changed the landscape of her life, leaving her unmoored. Her work and her daughter had been twin anchors during those dark days. No saying which was more essential to her sanity.

Perhaps she should stay behind. Bayard's argument wasn't as far-fetched as it sounded, and, while Sweden meant safety from German bullets and bombs, there were plenty of subtler ways Hitler could get what he wanted. Stockholm would be just waking into spring. She could review options with Sterling, consult with Ray Cox and the others in Oslo. Begin rebuilding her network of connections that would enable her to monitor the invasion from afar. No more pulse-pounding air raids or trigger-happy soldiers, no more biscuits washed down with sludgy coffee or hours spent scribbling notes in the back of her trusty Ford. It would be just the respite she needed.

The phone on her desk rang. She answered it, switching into Norwegian to accept the call coming through from Stockholm. Was Ambassador Sterling looking for another update? Passing along messages from Washington?

"I hate to pile on when you're already dealing with so much." Even over the wires, Freddie Sterling's voice was warm with sympathy. "But I have some unhappy news from home."

Was it Ethel? One of the grandchildren? Daisy gripped the receiver in a sweaty hand. "Go on."

"Anne Vanderbilt's been admitted to the hospital. They don't believe she'll survive the next few days. I thought you should know."

The gnawing in Daisy's gut clawed its way into her throat, where it sat like a rock. Bordie's older sister had survived so much tragedy, so much loss. The death of three husbands. Three children—Barbara only last year. But she never faltered, pushing through her grief, using it to propel her forward. She and Daisy were yoked together through marriage but kindred spirits in ambition and strength. They had encouraged one another. Propped each other up. Anne was a remarkable woman and a remarkable friend. Daisy felt old age clutch at her with new strength.

She couldn't remember what she said to Freddie. Whatever it was, it satisfied him, and he rang off. Her skin was cold, but her heart banged against her ribs like a rolling tympany. She stared at the wall, the flocked paper, the fingerprint smudge at the edge of the mirror. The hotel pen beside the hotel stationery.

She flung herself to her feet, unable to stand it a moment longer. If running meant a reprieve from the crowd of emotions settling like weights, she'd run as far and as fast as she could.

She found Lieutenant Bayard and Mr. Whitney waiting for her by the Ford in the hotel's courtyard.

Mr. Whitney caught sight of her first, tossing his cigarette away as he opened the trunk. The lieutenant's scowl darkened his handsome features, his eyes tired and clouded with his own thoughts. "You're not going to change your mind, are you?"

"If I'd allowed the men in my life to dissuade me from risky endeavors, I'd be one of those curtain-twitching grandmothers whose sole purpose is offering unwanted advice and knitting unwanted sweaters."

She couldn't be sure, but she thought she saw Mr. Whitney glance at her as if he wished she might be strangled with her own ball of yarn. Lieutenant Bayard merely nodded his acceptance as he took his place in the front seat.

Forward momentum carried her. If she stopped now, she'd find it impossible to start again. She settled in the back of the car. "I knew you'd see it my way."

F ather Magnus reminded Cleo of Santa Claus. He was round with a windburned face, a long white beard, and a voice like warm honey. But instead of gingerbread or cloved oranges, he smelled of a combination of incense and woodsmoke. He didn't seem at all put out by having to speak to her, not in the warmth and comfort of the parlor, but here in the cow byre, where she'd come to escape the Petersons' well-meaning but smothering concern.

"She'll be well taken care of, Frokken Jaffray. You have my word." His English was perfect. Two years of seminary in Minnesota, he explained. "She will lie among her countrymen."

Petra Kristiansen shouldn't be lying anywhere except maybe on a bed in a Stockholm hotel, but Cleo didn't say that. She didn't say anything. She gripped the top bar of the gate, her nails digging into the wood, and fought back tears. She didn't even know why she was crying—for Petra lying cold and still on a slab in the Peterson's woodshed? For Micky missing in the chaos of invasion? Or was it an accumulation of tiny sorrows and shallow cuts that added up to this flood of self-pity and hopelessness?

"Fru Peterson asked that I give this to you," he continued. "She found it in the young woman's pocket when she was preparing the body for burial." It was an envelope addressed to Petra's sister, Sofia. "I trust you'll find a way to deliver it."

Cleo shoved the envelope into her coat pocket. "I'll make sure of it."

"Peterson tells me you need transport into Sweden," he said with a tap of his pipe against the gate. "Gather your things."

A half hour later, she found herself sitting in the front seat of an enormous car that looked as if it would be more at home carrying Hollywood starlets to a movie premiere than hurtling around the hairpin turns of frosty Norway. Her driver was a dour-faced woman, silver hair styled flawlessly and tucked under an expensive feathered hat. Her smart suit and pearls appeared odd after Fru Peterson's flour-dusted aprons and hand-embroidered scarves.

Cleo recognized the type immediately—she'd grown up around them. Wealthy. Entitled. Assuming the laws didn't apply to their kind. Without asking, Cleo knew this woman came from money, probably inherited rather than earned. She owned land, not a small farmstead like the Petersons. Something grand and ancestral, where the work was done by others. Her days were probably spent in leisure. If they had been in America, it would have been on the golf links or the tennis courts, or at the card table. Cleo had no idea what Norwegian society did for fun, but no doubt it was similarly pointless and repetitive. Yet tucked amid the lunches, dinners, and cocktails would be the Lady Bountiful charity work: raising money, making speeches, sitting on committees. Aunt Daisy's career had begun under such circumstances as had those of many of her friends and family: Anne Morgan, Anne Vanderbilt, Roosevelt's first lady, Eleanor.

Perhaps Cleo was sitting beside the Norwegian equivalent. She snuck a look from under her lashes, but her hostess remained focused on the road ahead, her narrow chin thrust forward in a face set in bullish lines, pink feather bobbing with every bump. A more unlikely warrior would be hard to find. For some reason, this reminded Cleo of Petra and the tears started all over again.

The woman took one hand off the wheel long enough to rummage in her pocket for a handkerchief, which she handed over, all without taking her eyes from the road.

" Takk ." Cleo wiped her cheeks. After the week she'd had, she must look a positive fright. But the woman had said nothing about the mismatched unlaundered clothes, the ladders in her stockings, the lack of makeup or powder. She'd simply ushered Cleo into her car, no questions asked, at least not of Cleo. She might have grilled Father Magnus before agreeing, but that had been done behind closed doors. In Norwegian too fast for Cleo to catch.

"How do you know Father Magnus?"

The woman's brows lowered, her gloved hands tightening on the steering wheel, but she kept silent. It had been this way since the journey began. Did she assume the less she knew of her passenger, the better off she'd be? Did she resent this intrusion on her time and her valuable gasoline? Or was she merely focused on potential dangers from German planes to jumpy border guards to icy roads?

"My cousin Randolph has a car like this, only his is gray and he calls it Lulu after a singer he used to date, though I'm not supposed to know about that."

Cleo didn't know why she kept trying to make conversation. It was obvious the desire to chat was not shared. Maybe because she'd never met a challenge she could walk away from. Or maybe—and more likely—because silence meant time to think and Cleo didn't want to think. Not about what she'd left behind. Not about what might be lying ahead.

"Come to mention it, my cousin Chester called his schnauzer Lulu. I wonder if she's named after the same singer."

Cleo was practically catapulted into the windshield by the force of the woman's stomp on the brakes. The car grumbled as it idled, the only car on this stretch of country road. The woman reached across Cleo, turning the door handle. "Go."

"I don't understand. Go where?" The road they were on was barely a road at all. More like a break in the trees. They'd left the comfortable landscape of farmsteads behind them as they drove, the terrain growing wilder and emptier.

The woman pointed to a line of telephone towers that passed overhead on their march up a low hill to the east. "Follow the wires. The border is on the other side."

"You can't just abandon me alone in the middle of nowhere."

The woman continued to point until Cleo reluctantly did as she was told. She'd barely closed the car door when the woman shoved it into reverse, turning the enormous car with the dexterity of a race car driver before heading back the way they'd come.

Alone, Cleo followed the towers as she'd been instructed, her muscles loosening under a bright afternoon sun. There was no indication she'd crossed the border into Sweden. No fences or gates. No outposts manned by uniformed guards. The trees spread unbroken in every direction and the road looked as if it was a track for wagons hauling timber out of the forest. Could it be this easy? Or would soldiers leap out at her as soon as she rounded the next bend? If so, what to do with the codebook?

Old movies always showed the hero swallowing the incriminating evidence, but she could hardly chew and digest an entire book in the next five minutes, and it was too big to fit into the lining of her coat where she kept her travel papers. She could chuck it away under a bush or bury it in a hole where no German raiders could find it, but that would leave Aunt Daisy at the mercy of those who might accuse her of negligence. Out of options, she secreted the slender book down her blouse before buttoning her coat to her chin to hide the odd bulk and corners. Barring a bear hug, it should be safe enough.

The putter of a motorcycle broke the quiet. Shoulders back and chin high, Cleo stepped into the road as if hailing a cab outside Grand Central Station.