Chapter 17

Dear Anne,

These letters have become habit. Somehow it's easier to collect my thoughts when I imagine you at the other end, unfolding the heavy paper, rummaging for your reading glasses, and talking back as if I was in the chair across from you rather than half a world away. I had a curious conversation with Clementine—Cleo, as she calls herself these days. I've always thought Letitia was wrong to hide the truth about Paul. I understood her reasoning when her daughter was little, but it serves nothing but her foolish pride now. I wish you could make her see sense. You were the only one who ever could...

D aisy set aside the letter to finish later. She was due to a luncheon this afternoon. Spring had come to Sweden, and with it an almost lighthearted atmosphere. She wouldn't quite call it ostrichlike, but there were moments when that was how she felt.

Today's luncheon at Hasselbacken was an informal affair, outdoors under a sky like cream with the sweet scent of spring flowers underpinned by the more savory odors coming from the restaurant's kitchens. Her mouth watered with anticipation. Waiters moved like dancers through the crowd, and there was an air of pleasure that felt out of place under the current circumstances. Not that war wasn't on everyone's mind. Despite the champagne and canapés, the talk was businesslike. Diplomats and business executives felt each other out over contracts and supply shortages; staff officers and military exchanged news from the fronts around Narvik and Namsos. Pastel dresses and new spring hats rubbed up against bespoke suits and military braid.

"I'd never been so happy to see a real bed and have a real wash as when we reached the hotel in S?len." Daisy had repeated her story so many times that the details felt as if they'd been lived by someone else.

Once upon a time there was an American minister...

The absurdity made her smile.

She drifted from conversation to conversation like a bird gleaning seeds—a name here, an opinion there. She pocketed these disparate bits of information away to be unpacked in privacy later, where she could look for patterns and try to uncover the picture they made. At one point, she caught sight of Lieutenant Bayard in conversation with Herr Kilcher, a gentleman Daisy recognized from the German press office. Since Petra's death, the lieutenant had thrown himself into his work. She wished she could talk to him about his loss, but she was his boss, not his mother. He'd not appreciate her interference, and she'd not risk angering a comrade and a friend.

The afternoon shadows circled, and clouds spread thicker over the sky, leaving a damp chill that smelled like rain. The guests moved indoors in twos and threes, taking their talk with them. Daisy followed more slowly, enjoying the last of the light falling over the hedges and beds thick with daffodils and purple pansies. It reminded her of the house in Mount Kisco she'd shared with Bordie early in their marriage. Not in any concrete way she could put into words. It was only a feeling that slipped away just as you reached for it, a sweetness of memory that faded too quickly to catch hold of.

"Are you coming, Daisy? I'm holding a seat for you at our table." Estelle Bernadotte called from the French doors thrown open to the gardens. The dark-haired American-born countess was one of those who worried over Sweden's growing relationship with Germany. Her husband shared this unease and pushed to train his beloved scouts to assist in the country's defense should the need arise.

"Be right there." She lingered a few more moments, but the light had faded, and the memory was gone. As she climbed the steps to go in, she caught sight of Herr Kilcher again at the far edge of the terrace sharing a smoke with another man. As she watched, he tossed away his cigarette and made his farewells, joining Daisy as they headed inside.

"Is your friend joining us for lunch?"

"I'm afraid not, Madam Minister. Kriminalinspektor Heimmel just arrived in the capital and has much to do."

A pricking between her shoulder blades made Daisy turn back for one final glance at the stranger on the terrace, who met her gaze and returned it. Caught, she offered him a casual smile. His response was polite rather than friendly, a warming in his deep-set eyes that traveled no farther. She continued into lunch on Herr Kilcher's arm, laughing at his stories and all the time wondering what a Gestapo officer was doing in Stockholm.

I t took three days for Cleo to take Mrs. Thorson up on her offer. Three days for her anger to grow like a tumor until no amount of cocoa could settle the ache in her gut. Aunt Daisy watched her leave for the train station, her features arranged in their usual deadpan expression but for a moment's pleased wrinkling at the edges of her eyes.

The walk from Central Station to 37 Banérgatan was long enough to allow Cleo to enjoy the spring sun before she was plunged into the windowless office deep within the imposing five-story building that housed the Norwegian legation. Mrs. Thorson barely raised an eyebrow when Cleo turned up. She merely smashed out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, poured herself a new cup of coffee from the hot plate on the cabinet behind her, and handed Cleo a stack of files with a minimum of instruction. "You'll find it tedious, but it's necessary," she explained.

She was right. It was tedious. The Swedish authorities weren't particularly interested in assisting the Norwegians in their struggle. Not when they had the Germans watching for any hint they might not be as neutral as they claimed. The Refugee Office was barely unpacked before it had been overwhelmed by the arrival of refugees spilling over the long, unguarded border between the two countries.

A typical morning saw Cleo crisscrossing the city in search of temporary housing for the newcomers: schools, church halls, hotels. Afternoons, she knocked on doors and made endless phone calls soliciting donations of food, bedding, clothes, and medicine. Some days she traveled from hospital to hospital to check on the injured and ill. Other days, she answered phones, wrote letters, took messages, and chased down officials.

But work was exactly what Cleo needed. Slowly, the rock in her gut shifted as she put her anger to use. She couldn't help Petra or Micky. They were gone. But she could help others. She could tackle her corner of the war one bite at a time.

Aunt Daisy had her own war to fight, the two of them ships passing in the night as Cleo's work took her into the city before dawn and her godmother was usually out when Cleo returned home with just enough energy for room service and a bath before she fell into bed, too tired for dreams.

One evening as Cleo fell asleep over her soup, she felt a hand upon her shoulder and breathed in a familiar rose and vanilla perfume. "Mother?" she murmured, confused about where she was.

"Hush, child. You're no good to anyone like this."

She was helped to her feet and into bed. "I wanted to tell you about George, Mother. I really did. But you were so proud."

"Still am, child." A duvet was drawn up to her shoulders and the light put out.

Not her mother. Her world shifted into focus, her brain coming awake long enough to realize where she was and who the shadowy figure in her doorway was. "Aunt Daisy?"

"I didn't want you drowning in your fish soup. Hardly a dignified way to go."

"No one would be surprised, though, would they? I haven't led a very dignified life until now."

"I won't disagree." Cleo smiled into the dark at the dry retort that was so typically her godmother. "But Georgie Cliveden, Clementine? Really? What were you thinking? Not since the old man made his fortune in railroads a century ago has there been a single member of that family who could think their way out of a paper bag."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"Would you have listened?"

"Probably not."

Light from the parlor threw Aunt Daisy into silhouette, but now and then Cleo caught the outline of her features—the long, straight nose, the high cheekbones, the strength in her shoulders—rimmed in silver. Aunt Daisy folded her arms across her chest. "You should have trusted your mother. You should have told her how you were feeling. She'd have thrown a fit—that woman could have gone on the stage in one of Bessie Marbury's productions—but in the end, she'd have understood. Maybe more than you realize."

Cleo tried and failed to imagine that conversation. "It felt easier to run."

"It wasn't, though, was it?"

She closed her eyes. "I'm not running anymore, Aunt Daisy."

"No, child. And how do you feel now?"

"Exhausted."

A soft chuckle was her answer. "Means you're doing it right, then."

Would Mother have understood? Or would it have been another chance for her to throw her chronic disappointment in Cleo's face? It was only when all was quiet and the last light snapped off that she rose from bed in search of stationery and a pen.

It had been weeks since Aunt Daisy had told Cleo to write her mother, and she'd meant to—really she had. But she couldn't ever seem to find the right words and tomorrow always seemed like the better option. Not anymore. Tonight, the words crowded her mind, sentences writing and rewriting themselves until the only way to quiet the ache in her head was to put them down on paper, her handwriting messy and crisscrossed as she fought to squeeze everything she wanted to say onto the flimsy airmail paper.

In the morning, she propped her letter against the desk lamp. With any luck, Aunt Daisy could include it in the next diplomatic pouch home. With more luck, she'd find out if her godmother was right or merely being kind.

T he patient ward at the Sophiahemmet hospital was crowded but clean. The nursing sisters in their starched black-and-white pleated caps were efficient as they moved from bed to bed. Mr. Bjornson was recovering from appendicitis and anxious to be discharged. But where he was to go upon his release was the reason Cleo had been sent here today. Leaving behind a thriving business and a comfortable home, he had arrived in Sweden on skis with nothing to his name but a rucksack containing a change of clothes.

He wasn't the only one.

There were hundreds just like Mr. Bjornson scattered throughout Stockholm and more arriving all the time. Mrs. Thorson and the others at the Norwegian Refugee Office had desks piled high with cases, which meant Cleo was never idle. A new feeling, and one she rather liked.

"Will you be able to help him?" the gray-haired hospital matron asked—in English, thank heavens. Cleo's Norwegian was much better than it had been when she arrived at the Oslo ferry terminal in March, but she'd no handle yet on Swedish.

"We'll do all we can," Cleo replied, an incredibly useful line that worked in an amazing amount of situations, though not, it seemed, on the matron, who offered her a firm handshake at the hospital's entrance and bid her goodbye with "We will all be called upon to do what we can, Miss Jaffray. What we need to do now is the impossible."

She was reminded of Aunt Daisy's comment about an army of heroines. Was she a new recruit? It made her feel both insignificant and necessary, a tiny cog in a great machine.

"Miss Jaffray, this is a surprise." She looked up at the familiar drawl to find Lieutenant Bayard pulling on his coat. She'd not seen him since their arrival in Stockholm. He was thinner, grimmer, paler. Maybe she was too. But even a changed Bayard was a welcome sight.

"So formal. And here I thought being nearly blown up together meant something." As soon as she said it, she cringed. How could she be so stupid? "I'm sorry. That didn't come out right."

"The phrasing could have been better, but I knew what you meant." Even his smile seemed to lack vibrancy, as if part of him had been washed out or drained away. "I heard about Mr. Kominski. I'm sorry."

Cleo's throat closed around a lump, but she breathed through it and soon enough it faded back to a manageable pain. She spent her days thinking about people like Mr. Bjornson so she didn't have to think about Micky. It hadn't been as difficult as she thought it would be. His face, once haunting her every dream, had grown fuzzy and indistinct like a photograph out of focus. She couldn't remember how he sounded or his laugh or whether his favorite song was Glenn Miller's "Solo Hop" or "Blue Moon" by Benny Goodman. Only his scent lingered, a strange mix of cologne and breath mints.

She clung to that, as if letting that final piece of him go would mean she'd not loved him as much as she thought she had, that all that searching had been for nothing. That she could have given up and gone home months ago, putting away this new version of Cleo to make room for the return of Clementine.

A shudder rippled through her that had nothing to do with the salty wind off the water. She anchored herself with a brief touch of the necklace, the pink glass diamond warm and smooth but so heavy as if Micky's gift—his memory—began to weigh her down. She thought about trying to explain to Bayard some of what she was feeling, but it felt cruel in the face of his own loss. Or maybe he would understand better than anyone. She didn't know and was frightened to ask and risk scaring him off. "Are you here to visit someone?"

"An old reporter friend from my time in Berlin. He barely made it out of the country before the Nazi authorities arrested him."

"For what?"

"Do they have to have a reason these days?" Without thinking, they fell into step together, leaving the hospital to make their way down Engelbrektsgatan toward the park. She hadn't asked for his company, but she was glad of it just the same. He was a familiar face in a foreign city. Someone who recognized the strain around her eyes and the nervous tic in her jaw and didn't question it.

"Aunt Daisy says you've been too busy for social calls," she ventured, shy around him in a way she'd never been before. "Barely an hour to yourself."

He gave a grunt that could mean anything or nothing. After another moment, he added, "I could be wrong, but I think she's doing it on purpose."

"Oh, you're definitely not wrong. Aunt Daisy thinks the cure for all ills is constant motion. If you can't beat the blues, outrun them."

"It's kind of her to worry, but I'm doing okay." He cracked a lopsided smile that had a hint of the old Bayard behind it. "And if I had two seconds to call my own, I'd tell her so." He paused on the street corner and took her hand. "I hate to run, but I'm due to meet Mr. Whitney at the American legation"—he checked his watch—"ten minutes ago."

She couldn't help the grimace that passed over her face. Had the vice consul ever acted on his threat to expose Cleo, and thus Aunt Daisy, with tales of her unorthodox exit from Oslo? Or had all that followed pushed it from his mind? She doubted she could be so lucky. Men like Whitney hoarded any scrap of advantage for the moment it would benefit them the most. It was just a matter of when that bomb would blow up in her face. "I wish Aunt Daisy had shown him the door as soon as we got here."

"He's not that bad," Bayard said, albeit grudgingly. "Kind of a jerk, but he can drive like the devil. Saw us through when it counted. You gotta give him that."

"Maybe, but I still don't trust him."

"You think he's a spy for the Germans?" he teased.

She instinctively stepped closer as if one of those passing might be listening in on their conversation. "Maybe not for the Germans."