Chapter 15

"T hanks for the lift." Cleo waved to her ride as he spun his motorcycle in the crowded hotel parking lot, flinging gravel, mud, and snow in a reckless arc before hitting the gas, scattering everyone in his path.

It would take a hot bath and a stiff drink to relax limbs frozen from hours riding pillion, but she was safe and out of Norway. Ignoring the curious stares, she headed inside, smoothing a hand through her windblown hair while trying to hide her skirt, which had suffered from mud, slush, and a hot engine. The lobby resembled an international conference, with at least five languages vying for dominance between the doors and the hotel's concierge desk. She searched for any sign of Aunt Daisy or Bayard, but other than a pair of reporters shouting into the hotel's house phone—" C as in cat . O as in Oscar . T as in tiger ";"Did you get that, Lenny?"—there was no sign of any American contingent.

A harried desk clerk sighed over a stack of telegrams while a woman in a floor-length silver fox coat bellowed at him in French as if he was deaf rather than Swedish. Cleo interjected her request in between the woman's steady stream of demands. "Do you speak English?"

"English, but not gibberish," he replied sharply while continuing to fend off the formidable woman, who had begun waving her arms in a belligerent fashion.

"Actually, it's French she's speaking, not gibberish. Please ring Minister Harriman's room and tell her that her goddaughter has arrived. Better yet, what's her room number? I'll go on up and save you the bother."

"Room 411, but she's not there, miss. She departed for Sjusj?en yesterday."

Bayard and Aunt Daisy had discussed the legation's families, but neither of them had mentioned risking life and limb to go back into Norway after them. "Did she say when she'd be back?"

Cleo had spent the entire noisy, bone-jarring ride from the border holding back tears and wishing for Aunt Daisy's gruff comfort. Someone to hug her and tell her it would get better while at the same time scolding her to stop sniveling and do something more with her anger than wallowing. Someone to ease the guilt that sat like a rock in her stomach, making eating impossible but drinking necessary. The higher the proof, the better.

Not that the desk clerk cared—or even noticed. He shrugged his indifference as he was pulled away by a shout from his manager, who had joined the fray with the Frenchwoman, now tugging at the manager's shirtfront, her face splotchy red.

" Takk for nothing," Cleo replied, using his distraction to slide behind the counter, quickly locating and pocketing Aunt Daisy's room key.

"Stop!" he shouted as she hoofed it toward the elevator. Of course, now he decided to be observant.

"Madame Aubert is asking for news of her husband and children, by the way," Cleo called back over her shoulder, translating the woman's almost incomprehensible French as the doors slid closed. "She's distraught, not crazy."

Safe for the moment, Cleo slumped against the wall of the elevator, pushing the button for the fourth floor .

"That was most considerate of you."

Cleo straightened self-consciously, only at that moment becoming aware that she wasn't alone on the elevator. A handsome woman in her midthirties, brown hair swept up off her neck, clothes simple but obviously bespoke, held the hands of two little girls in matching pinafores. "Let us hope she is able to obtain news of her family." Her voice was deep and smooth, each English syllable carefully pronounced.

"And that the news she receives is good." Cleo rubbed at the grime embedded in her palms and pretended she didn't smell of grease and sweat and Mr. Peterson's herd of swine—did swine even come in herds? Cleo tried to clear her head, which was growing thicker by the minute.

"Mama, she smells," the younger of the girls whispered in Norwegian.

"I understood that," Cleo replied, putting Petra's language lessons to use.

Was she tired? She couldn't remember catching more than a few hours of sleep over the last few horrible days. But this felt like more than exhaustion. Maybe it was shock. She was jittery and at the edge of tears but also cold—so damned cold. She clamped her teeth in a grimace of a smile to keep them from chattering.

The older girl gave her little sister a hard nudge. "Astrid, don't be rude."

Astrid slid Cleo another sideways glance.

"You must forgive my daughter," the woman apologized.

"She's not wrong," Cleo replied. "I do radiate a rather pungent aroma. I'm beginning to offend myself."

"She may be speaking truth." A small smile tipped the solemn woman's lips. "But she will need to learn when tact will serve her better."

" Jeg beklager, mamma ," the little girl apologized.

The elevator doors opened, and Cleo stepped out. "A wise woman once told me, Man skal ikke skue hunden p? h?rene , which is a Norwegian way of saying ‘don't judge a book by its cover,' no matter how smelly it is."

The two little girls laughed, and for a moment their mother's smile brightened her eyes before the doors closed on them all.

Thank God. She was alone. She could fall apart without a gawking audience. Cleo followed the numbers to the end of a quiet corridor and let herself into her godmother's room. It was obvious the housekeeping staff was as overworked as the front desk clerks. Aunt Daisy's bed was unmade and her clothes lay over a chair, awaiting the laundry. A room service tray lay uncollected on a table. The contents of the Ford sat in a pile of boxes and crates by the desk. Pulling the codebook from inside her coat, Cleo packed it, still in its disguise, among the files. Just as if it had never been mislaid.

Hopefully wherever Petra might be, she breathed a sigh of relief.

Cleo wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and lose herself to unconsciousness. Instead, she forced herself to strip, bathe, and rinse out her clothes in the sink. By the time she was clean and warm and wrapped in a bathrobe pulled from Aunt Daisy's luggage, her mind had settled from its earlier frantic spin. Outside, a cold sleet hid the distant mountains and caused lights to flicker on in the courtyard. The hotel had the feel of a solitary ship in a storm. Hopefully no icebergs in the vicinity.

Ignoring the lump in her gut, she poured herself a whiskey from the room's bar. Then a second. The third finally thawed her frozen insides. The fourth softened her bones and gave the world a hazy glow, but the words Cleo had rehearsed over the long miles slid through her muzzy brain.

The ache in her belly expanded up into her chest, and the last days caught up with her like a wave crashing over her and pulling her out to sea. Her head ached. She wanted to be sick. Curling up under the duvet, she drew her knees in against her chest in a desperate attempt at warmth or security.

With sleet tapping at the windows, Cleo floated away on the whiskey, but just as she was about to sink into sleep, she felt herself falling. A sense as real as the odor of wool steaming dry on the radiator, the smell of roses caught in the pillows, and a firm hand shaking her shoulder.

"Clementine Verquin, what on earth are you doing here, and in my bed?"

That bloody awful name banged against her skull.

She smiled at the familiar scolding and snuggled deeper into the duvet, finally able to drift to dreamless sleep.

Aunt Daisy was back.

Dear Anne,

I've arrived safely in Stockholm, Venice of the north. You'd love the bustling elegance of the city with its glorious architecture and wide boulevards, though right now it's bursting at the seams with newly arrived refugees from Norway. I've taken rooms at the Grand Hotel, though I'm already on the lookout for a place outside of the city, somewhere quiet where I can regain my bearings. We have lost one of our own, and our hearts ache for Miss Kristiansen's family back in Norway. We held a service for her, the small chapel brilliant with flowers. Poor Cleo has taken the death hardest of all of us. I am reminded of how the British described the death of a soldier in the last war. They would say he has "gone West." I imagine Petra taking ship, perhaps in one of her ancestor's dragon-prowed boats, for lands uncharted. I hope this note finds you in better health...

W ho was she fooling? Her beloved Anne was not likely to recover. Daisy's old friend had been ill for too long, her body exhausted by the heart condition that had plagued her for years. Yet she'd never allowed her poor health to distract her from the family she adored or the causes she championed.

Daisy could learn a thing or two from Anne.

Instead, she stood in a corner of the Stockholm Palace's ornately gilded Pillar Hall, watching the swirl of guests—not a familiar place or a usual practice. She'd always felt comfortable at the center of the crowd, at the heart of a situation. From her earliest days shepherding her beloved Colony Club from a half-baked wifely complaint to the overwhelming success it was today, she'd taken pride in her ability to chart a course through the roughest waters. Truly her father's daughter, she never felt more alive than when she was shooting blockades, outrunning hurricanes, and bringing her ideas safely to port. It wasn't hubris. Simply a testament to hard work, unremitting energy, and an iron will that didn't allow her to dwell on the worst. That confidence had begun to sour with the news of Anne's stroke and taken a mortal blow with news of Petra Kristiansen's death.

Cleo had reeked of whiskey as she filled Daisy in on the circumstances surrounding her secretary's death. With bloodshot eyes in a face gray as the April weather and a tremor in her usually confident voice, she relayed the details with bullet-like precision. She finished by pointing to the codebook, which had miraculously reappeared at the bottom of a file box.

Daisy took her first deep breath in days, the band pressing against her temples finally easing. "Where did you find it?"

Cleo went still for a moment, her eyes dark with thought. "It was my fault. I was looking for something to read and grabbed it off the table at the guesthouse outside Elverum. I didn't realize what it was until later."

"I recall Petra having it last."

"No. It was me," Cleo answered firmly, her expression allowing no argument, and Daisy let the explanation stand, curiously encouraged by this unfamiliar selflessness, yet sensing a wariness as if Cleo was testing the ice, weighing how far to step.

"Very well. I appreciate your confession and the return of the book. Both mean a lot."

More than Cleo would ever know.

The trip from S?len to Stockholm had been made in almost complete silence. Lieutenant Bayard spent the time transcribing his notes on the military situation in and around the Gudbrandsdal Valley, though his gaze was bleak in a face etched with misery. Cleo gazed out the window, her stare unfocused, her fingers worrying at her necklace like it was some kind of good luck talisman. Once in a while, she let out a sigh as if she meant to speak but settled back almost immediately once more into lethargy. Only Mr. Whitney remained untouched, or perhaps he was simply too busy to grieve while he took charge of arranging their journey, his pomposity coming in handy as he harangued railroad officials, porters, hotel clerks, bellhops, and waiters, smoothing their path like a steamroller run amok. There was a moment when it seemed he might confront her, his expression pained and oddly uncertain. Daisy almost took pity on his obvious discomfort by inviting him to dine with her, but there were limits to her desire for self-immolation. If he wanted to have it out, he knew where to find her.

Instead, relieved at having his irritating arrogance directed at others for a change, Daisy took the opportunity to catch up on her work, the distraction derailing any temptation to wallow in self-pity or second guesses. As the train grumbled south and east across Sweden, she read over all the correspondence that had piled up in the days she was out of reach: dispatches and telegrams from Mr. Atherton in Denmark, Mr. Kirk in Berlin, and Mr. Moffat in Washington as well as updates from Mr. Cox back in Oslo. Secretary of State Hull's praise of her courage under dangerous conditions raised her flagging spirits, and she tucked his message away to reread whenever she needed a boost. Comparing her notes of the last few days with Lieutenant Bayard's observations, she pulled all the disparate events of the past week into a coherent narrative that she passed along to Washington almost as soon as she settled herself into rooms at the crowded Grand Hotel.

"Mrs. Harriman, I am glad to see you safely back with us after your journey to Sjusj?en." Caught wool-gathering, Daisy smiled at Crown Princess M?rtha, who had joined her in the corner, or perhaps she had always been there. Uncertain of her standing in this new place, much like Daisy herself. She wore a floor-length gown in a frosty sea green and an unreadable expression as her gaze passed over the assembled guests. "I heard there was trouble outside Domb?s."

"The bombing of a railway tunnel where one of my staff was taking shelter. He's fortunate he wasn't killed."

"Others of your staff were not so fortunate."

"No. They were not." Daisy took a coupe of champagne from a passing waiter, forcing herself not to gulp it down like medicine. "And you?" she asked when she had a moment to recover her aplomb. "It must be a comfort to be back among such familiar surroundings."

"Familiar, yes. But not as comfortable as I imagined." Daisy continued to follow the princess's gaze but could not see who she was watching as she said this. "I hope Miss Jaffray is recovering from her ordeal."

Daisy felt her stomach involuntarily clench, though why she couldn't say. Only that Cleo and Her Royal Highness in conver sation seemed like a moment rife with the potential for calamity. "I hadn't realized you'd been introduced to my goddaughter."

"Not formally. We shared a lift at the hotel in S?len, but it was one of the most entertaining ascents I've ever taken. I hope we can meet again under better circumstances."

"Any encounter with Cleo is bound to be interesting. She has a knack."

Her Royal Highness smiled, a real, honest one this time. It made her face glow, and Daisy was struck again at the woman's vibrance and her strength. "Don't be too hard on her, Madam Minister. She looked as if she'd had a bad time of it. But she was lovely to the girls and quite a champion to one of the French delegation's wives, whose family was trapped in Denmark."

Mr. Hambro, president of Norway's parliament, interrupted their conversation. He was grim-faced, but his body, unlike so many weighed by the current crisis, seemed more robust. A statesman rising to the occasion rather than shrinking from it. Traveling discreetly back and forth over the border, he was a steady source of information, and Daisy made a note to reach out to him before he disappeared once more into Norway.

The crown princess's smile vanished, but she touched Daisy's sleeve before she drifted away. "I know of the promise His Majesty forced on you in Elverum."

"He was concerned for your safety."

The princess cast a wary glance over her shoulder at Hambro waiting patiently for an audience. "I can assure you, he still is."

I t was after midnight by the time Aunt Daisy returned to the hotel, but over the past year Cleo had grown used to rising at noon and going to bed as the sun was coming up. More recently, sleeping had become downright dangerous, a minefield that left her the next day with an oppressive sense of dread and a headache that gnawed at the base of her neck. Not sleeping did the same, but without the nightmares. She counted that as a win.

Tonight, Cleo had taken up residence in the lobby, curled in an armchair with a book in her lap, though it remained unopened as she used the busy hotel's comings and goings as a distraction. Phones rang. Bellhops pushed past with loaded luggage carts. There was a constant purr of conversation in a world of languages.

When Aunt Daisy arrived, she surprised Cleo by not immediately taking the elevator up to her room. Instead, she passed through the lobby to one of the hotel's private reading rooms. After a few minutes and a stop at the hotel's café, Cleo followed. Aunt Daisy sat at a corner table by the window, a lamp throwing long shadows into the cherry-paneled corners. She looked as if she'd been in the middle of writing a letter, but now she stared unseeing into the darkness, her tired gaze unfocused and the skin beneath her eyes ashen. She slid a hand over the half-written page but not before Cleo saw the name scrawled at the top of the page.

Dear Anne . . .

"I'm sorry about Mrs. Vanderbilt. I know you two are close."

Aunt Daisy motioned to the seat across from her. Cleo sat, pushing one of the cups of coffee she'd brought with her across the table, keeping the other for herself. "It's not cocoa, but it'll have to do."

Aunt Daisy took a sip while Cleo let the silence spin out without trying to jump in and fill it. At first it felt awkward and uncomfortable, but after a moment, she felt her shoulders relax and her chest loosen. "Is it bad?"

Her godmother tucked the unfinished letter into her handbag. "There's always hope."

It was obvious as she said this that she didn't really believe it. It was an instinctive response built from a lifetime of looking on the bright side.

"She was a charmer like all the Harrimans," Aunt Daisy continued. "But she was kind as well, which I think is a far more admirable trait. From the moment I knew I would marry her brother, she was a generous sister and a loyal friend."

"Mother says she was a heroine for her work in the last war. How she used her own money to assist the French troops, raised funds for hospitals, ambulances, and medical equipment."

"Anne didn't just raise funds. She did the hard work, the dirty work. She nursed. She drove. She ran canteens. She mucked in wherever it was needed and never once complained. But she wasn't the only one. There were an army of heroines all doing the same. Doing what they could because it was the right thing to do."

Cleo bit her lip, following Aunt Daisy's long gaze into the darkness. The weight was back, pressing down on her abdomen, making the coffee stir uneasily. "If it wasn't for her, my father would still be alive."

Aunt Daisy sat up, her eyes going wide before she mastered her response and the diplomat's veil took hold. "Your father's death was the result of bad weather and bad luck. You might as well blame the fates or shake your fist at God. It comes to the same thing in the end."

But now that Cleo had spoken, she needed to follow her accusation to its end. To hear what Aunt Daisy would say to refute the claim. To convince her it wasn't true. "But it was Vanderbilt money that funded those American pilots. It was influence and pressure and the lure of glory over French skies that sent him to war."

Aunt Daisy sighed in agreement. "Anne was hardly the moving force, nor were the Vanderbilts the only wealthy family to lay their money on the line, but I suppose in a small sense you're right. Neither she nor her husband believed America could stay neutral in the face of German aggression. They believed we had a duty to our friends and allies to do what we could with what we had. That standing on the sidelines and watching wasn't an option."

Cleo picked at a spot on the tablecloth, her chest aching as if someone had punched her. But for the first time, she saw her father not as the dashing flyboy of her imagination but like Einar or the young Peterson sons or the soldiers at the checkpoint. Angry. Afraid. Leaving homes and families behind because the alternative was impossible.

"It's hard to imagine it now, but it was a time of doing, Cleo. Of seeing problems and wanting to find solutions. Not just in the face of war, but in the face of any injustice that cried out for a solution. The last war brought out the best in so many." The veil slipped, and Daisy's eyes swept up to pin Cleo like a butterfly to a board. "It remains to be seen if this one will do the same."