Chapter 19

Dear Anne,

I've been kicking my heels in Stockholm for weeks. Not that there's been a dull moment among the steady stream of long alfresco lunches and leisurely cocktail receptions, but I would feel better if I knew what my future held—and if I could be certain who I could trust. Do you recall the muddy flats around Centerport Beach on Long Island? It's a bit like that. No way to gauge where the safe spots are or if I'm about to be sucked under. You would argue this is a position I should long be familiar with, but it's different this time. Maybe because I have my promise always at the back of my mind...

D aisy skimmed the report she'd received from Mr. Cox in Oslo on the appointment of a new German civil authority to oversee the Norwegian administration, but by the third paragraph gave it up as impossible. Too many other thoughts crowded out the facts and figures so painstakingly collected and passed on to her by the Norwegian legation. Tossing it down, she stood to stretch muscles stiff from hours behind a desk. A new pain in her lower back drowned out the old pain in her knees. She ignored them both as she paced the perimeter of her office.

For weeks, she'd been waiting to hear when she would be traveling to rejoin King Haakon. She'd filled those weeks easily enough. She'd used the connections she'd made over the last three years within the Norwegian community to gather every scrap of information she could glean, passing it on to Freddie at the Swedish office as well as to Washington. President Hambro had been a great help, bringing news of the Norwegian government on his flying visits between Troms? and Stockholm. But with each day that passed without instruction, Daisy's unease grew. Was she being shouldered aside? Pushed to the fringes? If she had an ounce of gumption, she'd phone Secretary Hull at the State Department and ask straight out rather than satisfying herself with memos over the potential for rationing and requisitioning of Norwegian foodstuffs.

"Mrs. Harriman... Madam Minister..." Mr. Whitney stood in the doorway with his queer combination of bullying obsequiousness. "Mr. Seaton just arrived from Washington and came immediately to see you."

The State Department's emissary was young, probably no older than Daisy's daughter, Ethel. Early forties, his wiry hair showing only a few touches of gray, the skin around his eyes just now creased with the tiniest of lines, but his expression kind. No, not kind. It was dismay she saw in his gaze, which didn't bode well. Despite the flicker of warning that curled up her spine, she greeted her guest with a warm smile. "I hope you're here to finally tell me when I might start traveling north to meet up with the Norwegian government."

Her question asked, the knot very slowly loosened as experience took hold.

"I've warned Madam Minister it's not safe," Mr. Whitney interrupted. "Not while the Germans control so much of the country."

Daisy chose not to respond to Mr. Whitney's long-standing concerns. He was technically correct. If only he didn't take such condescending pleasure in it.

"I can't say for certain what Washington plans, ma'am. I'm sure once the situation around the city of Narvik stabilizes..." was Seaton's evasive nonanswer. "Though your work since your arrival here in Stockholm has been invaluable, as is your continuing relationship with the crown princess."

The flicker of warning settled into a knot at the base of her skull. "I'm not sure I'd go as far as to call it a relationship. We've hardly seen her here in the city. She's staying with her parents in the country at Villa Fridhem."

Seaton waved away her modesty and any further conversation about the princess with a clearing of his throat and a deft turn of the conversation. "You gave an interview recently, Madam Minister."

"If this is about that issue with the United Press, I've already been warned." She returned to her desk, where, with methodical, precise movements, she gathered the pages of her abandoned report and slid them into their file before adjusting the blotter and the three fountain pens. Her thoughts quieted. Her breathing slowed. He'd never realize the tension banding her shoulders or the nerves buzzing her skin. She'd not always worn the mask so well; her early days on the job had been marred by gaffes and missteps. Insignificant and easily brushed aside as the growing pains of a new diplomat. They would not be so forgiving now or under these circumstances. "I'd no idea they'd billed it as an exclusive. I certainly hadn't anticipated that when I agreed to speak to them."

"We understand the pressure you've been under; the strain of the last few weeks has been tremendous." Seaton leaned farther forward, the light bouncing off the lenses in his glasses making his expression unreadable, but now that she understood it for what it was, his impatience and his unhappiness were obvious. "No one would blame you for feeling the weight of it."

So she was right. This sojourn in Stockholm was the first step to being pushed aside. She thought she'd be hurt or insulted. Instead, she was angry. "Is it my age or my gender that gives me the free pass?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Let's cut to the chase, Mr. Seaton. Tomorrow I have a meeting with a prominent Norwegian businessman who's been clever enough to convince the Germans to let him cross the border freely as he works to bring needed supplies to the farmers in the northern districts. That will be followed by a discussion with the Germans over their decision to ration food, fuel, and grain reserves. Then there are phone calls to make, telegrams to send, and correspondence to review. Neither my schedule nor my temperament allows for beating around the bush."

"Right." Her loss of temper seemed to lift her in his estimation. His gaze focused on her with a new clarity, his nervous leg quieted under the table. "You've been receiving quite the press coverage in the German papers."

She glanced at Mr. Whitney, who was suddenly very interested in the tops of his shoes. "If you're referring to that ridiculous article in Der Bund ... ," she began.

His expression shifted to something not quite a smile. "That one was a real corker. If only they were all so imaginative. Unfortunately..." He pulled out a pile of newspaper clippings. Some she recognized. Some were new. "This one here accuses you of being a British agent. This one a Norwegian agent." He showed her another. "Here they talk about your close connections with the new British prime minister, Churchill, a close friend of his mother's, I believe."

"Honestly, how old do they think I am?" she groused. "And here I thought the article extolling my skills as a pianist was the most egregious."

"I assure you they get more interesting ." His use of the word wasn't at all reassuring. He cleared his throat and resettled his glasses. "This one suggests you and Norwegian President Hambro are conspiring to bring America into the war."

"That's preposterous."

"It accuses you of begging the president to gift American ships to Norway to use against the German fleet."

That pulled her up short. She had sent a letter to Roosevelt last December suggesting America consider donating a few rusting destroyers lying unused in Philadelphia's shipyards. The Norwegians were a seafaring race, but in their fight to patrol their coastline, they were sadly lacking in equipment. The president had kindly, but firmly, turned her down.

"I don't need to tell you, Mrs. Harriman, that agents of Hitler's government here in Stockholm are listening, watching. Every scrap they can gather is going directly to Berlin."

He didn't need to tell her. These weren't the only rumors swirling around the Grand Hotel's parlors and smoking rooms. Stories persisted that the Germans were interested in laying their hands on Crown Princess M?rtha and her children, most particularly Prince Harald. She'd seen for herself the men at the edges of the crowd outside Kungsholm Church, sent there to monitor and report back. She'd recognized one of them—the Gestapo officer she'd first noticed at the luncheon at Hasselbacken. So far, Sweden had kept the princess safe. But Sweden's king, the princess's uncle, walked a fine line in his dance with neutrality and enjoyed a friendly relationship with the Germans that stood a closer watch.

"I'll continue to guard my words, but there's not much I can do when the German press invents them from whole cloth." She sensed there was more to be said, but that he preferred to do it without an audience. "Mr. Whitney, weren't you in the middle of finishing that report on the growth in output of Norway's Sokndal and Knaben mines?"

"Of course, ma'am." His face twisted into something that could have been resentment or could have been consent. So hard to tell. It might make him good at his job—an enigmatic face that gave nothing away—but it made working with him damned difficult.

"Right. We're alone, Mr. Seaton. Suppose you tell me what's going on."

"It concerns your goddaughter, Miss Jaffray." He straightened his tortoiseshell glasses, his Adam's apple bobbing. Then he leaned forward to pull out a photograph, not from his zippered case but from his jacket pocket. "I think you need to see this."

C leo sat at the hotel bar, her third gin of the evening in front of her. Ever since meeting Sofia Kristiansen, her nightmares had returned worse than ever. She woke with her heart racing and every muscle flexed in panic, overcome by a sense of foreboding that never quite left her. Moving back into the Grand Hotel hadn't made it easier. Aunt Daisy brightened at the center of tugging influences, drawing energy from the whirl around her, while the constant fun house dissonance of competing languages and allegiances made Cleo dizzy and claustrophobic.

Tonight she had accompanied Mrs. Thorson to a dinner at the America-Sweden Women's Friendship Institute, a group of mostly diplomatic wives, though the local business and expat community were well represented. While the conversation had been one of concern and apprehension, there was a disconnect Cleo couldn't overcome. A feeling that the fight wasn't theirs and all precautions should be taken to keep it that way.

By the time she'd taken her leave, she felt her mood sliding toward the old familiar darkness. For weeks, she'd been able to push it to the edges of her mind, but it had never disappeared completely. Tonight's indifference had fractured her grip. Gin wouldn't rid her of the terrors that plagued her, but it would dull the edges until sleep wasn't the enemy.

She waved the bartender over for a refill.

"If you're looking to lose yourself in a bottle, I'd go somewhere a little more anonymous, especially if you're worried about Whitney and your aunt's reputation."

She looked up into Bayard's concerned face. "Mine being irredeemable, you mean?"

"Nice try, but I'm on to you, Cleo Jaffray. You're not the spoiled little rich girl you want everyone to think you are." His gaze narrowed in on her face, her shoulders, her posture, as if he saw beneath her bluster to a part of her even she didn't understand yet. It took all her willpower not to shrink under his stare. "Come on. There's a place I think you need to go."

It was easier to be led than dragged, and despite her protest, she was glad of his intrusion. It broke her free from what would have been a dismal evening of maudlin self-pity.

Bayard didn't let go when they reached the sidewalk. Instead, he quick-stepped her around the harbor and over the bridge that took them into the city's Old Town. Past the fortresslike royal palace, where Cleo glanced up at the lighted windows as if she might spy the blond curls and cheeky smile of Princess Astrid. Into a warren of crooked, narrow alleyways lined with shops and cafés, clubs and dance halls, where soon enough she was completely lost with no idea how to get back to her hotel barstool. At last, he slowed in front of a narrow nondescript stuccoed building of arched windows beneath a sagging awning.

The door was propped open, letting the sounds of a smooth clarinet underpinned by the brush of the snare spill out into the street. A singer stepped up to the microphone, her emerald dress shimmering under the stage lights. Candles and shaded wall sconces created an intimacy of shadows, flickering over the drinkers at the bar, the couples glued to one another on the dance floor, the men and women packing the tables. A waitress guided them to a seat and furnished them with two martinis. Somehow being given permission made the idea less appealing. Still, Cleo downed her drink, letting it fill the cracks where the memories tried to reach her.

"Come here often?" She said it as a joke, but Bayard didn't even crack a smile.

"You're not the only one feeling sorry for yourself."

The first round of martinis disappeared, as did the second. Her body relaxed as warmth extended along every limb like honey. The replay of unbroken moments began to slow then dissolve. She could focus on the music and the people around her, which is when she first sensed the smoldering tension like a backbeat to the band. It pulsed between tables, made itself felt in a pounded fist, a shouted word, heads grouped close in conspiracy.

"What is this place?" she asked.

"Officially it's called Ov?der, but a lot of people have started calling it ‘lille Norge.'"

Cleo studied her surroundings with new eyes, seeing the drawn faces of the waitresses, the anger in the barman's eye. The table beside them was in a loud argument over the British takeover of Norway's merchant shipping fleet. The couples on the dance floor clung together like survivors in a lifeboat. The singer wept as she broke into a traditional folk song that ended with raised glasses and shouted toasts from nearly every table. "Long live Norway!"

"Is this supposed to make me feel better?"

"It's supposed to make you realize you're not the only one feeling powerless." Cleo tried not to notice how quickly Bayard's own drinks disappeared or the tension draining his features. She wasn't the only one aching under the weight of useless regrets. That sense of painful solidarity made her bold.

"You don't have to pretend around me, you know," she ventured as Bayard waved over the waitress for another round. "I was there."

He didn't feign ignorance at her meaning. If anything, he seemed to relax a little.

"Petra died. But her death is not your fault any more than it's mine."

His shoulders sank, and he looked away at the growing crowd. "I know that. I do. But I promised her she'd be fine. That morning at the guesthouse in Elverum when I told her about Sofia, I fed Petra this big song and dance about how we'd be safe and not to worry."

Fine. Safe. Don't worry. Micky had said all that and more whenever Cleo brought up the idea of leaving Poland. Comforting lies. Empty and meaningless when the world was coming apart at the seams. "Petra wasn't a child, Bayard, and that wasn't a promise you had the power to keep."

Her words were sharper than she intended, but they had the desired effect. He came back to himself with a nod and an apology. "It's not just guilt over her death that keeps me up at night."

"It's not?"

He met her gaze, the caramel brown of his irises practically melting into the black of his pupils. His brows curved low as if he struggled with a particularly complicated equation. "No."

So much feeling bound up in that word. It slid into her stomach like the heat from her martini and teased along her skin like a touch.

The band swung into a soulful rendition of "Stardust." Bayard stood up from the table and offered his hand. "Would you care to dance?"

This was probably a really bad idea, but Cleo was beyond caring. She laid her hand in his with a smile. "I'd love to."

She'd never noticed how tall he was until she was clasped in his arms. She'd never smelled his woodsy cologne or known that he was a horrible dancer. It was endearing when he wasn't crushing her toes.

"Sorry," he muttered in between keeping time under his breath. "Two left feet."

"Don't they teach ballroom dance at West Point?"

"I'm ROTC so I wouldn't know." His smile took the sting from his words. "But I can see you being all the rage among a ballroom full of generals in the making."

Maybe it was the martinis on top of a stomach already full of gin. Maybe it was the defiant atmosphere that called to her own chronic anger. Or maybe it was the security of being embraced by a man she trusted as she'd not let herself trust since Micky walked out. "Generals are highly overrated."

She laid her head against his chest, felt the scratch of his uniform against her cheek, the steady beat of his heart under her ear, and let herself imagine she was a young deb at a dance with a handsome ROTC recruit.

A cool breeze disturbed the heavy odors of alcohol, sawdust, and hot bodies as the outer door opened and the inner curtains were drawn aside to admit a woman dressed, not for an evening out, but in trousers and a collared shirt under a soldier's jacket. Bayard stepped free of Cleo's arms, and the moment was gone in a drift of cigarette smoke and the fade of the trumpet.

"It's Sofia," Cleo said, slightly dizzy from the dance and her own disturbing thoughts.

"I know." Bayard flushed as if they'd been caught in flagrante delicto. "I invited her."

"W e can still win against the Germans." Sofia Kristiansen slammed her fist onto the scarred table. "We can still take back what is ours." She practically grabbed Bayard by the lapels to demand he agree with her. "If only they would listen to General Fleischer, an experienced leader who knows the terrain and knows how to fight."

"Who's they?" Cleo asked, welcoming her buzz as a way to numb herself against the onslaught of grievances and rage.

Sofia hadn't mentioned Petra since she'd arrived—not once. If she mourned her sister, it wasn't evident in the deadly flash of her gaze or the way she clenched her glass of beer. Or perhaps this was sorrow. This desperate need to fight back, to hurt others as she'd been hurt.

That Cleo could understand.

"The Allies, of course," she argued. "The English and the French. They have the men, but they behave as if they have already lost... as if they have already given up. They dragged us into this with their provocations, and now they retreat like frightened rabbits."

"They're beginning to look to their own borders."

Bayard had explained that he'd invited Sofia here to discuss what she knew of the state of the Norwegian military on the northern border. But the conversation had quickly escalated into a drink-fueled rant with Bayard barely able to get a word in edgewise while Cleo, stunned at how easily she'd fallen into the lieutenant's arms, had ordered round after round on Bayard's tab.

"So where does that leave us?" Sofia demanded before answering her own question. "With our asses dangling in the wind for the Germans to shoot off, that's where."

Bayard had no answer, or rather the answer was so obvious, it didn't need to be stated out loud. That wasn't good enough for Sofia. "Your government sits by as Europe is devoured country by country. I hear your politicians' excuses. It is not your fight. You have an ocean to protect you. Why should American boys die for countries on the other side of the world? We don't ask for you to fight for us. We ask only that you offer us the assistance we need to fight for ourselves."

Maybe it was the desolation in Sofia's gaze. Or the guilt Cleo felt hearing her old attitudes parroted back at her. Maybe it was Bayard—two Bayards, actually—both of them sitting across from Cleo with their stupid Joseph Cotton straightforward looks while Sofia railed about American cowardice and isolationism. But Cleo heard herself fighting back. At least she thought it was her. It sounded like her voice, though never had a thought even close to this one come out of her mouth.

"Not every American thinks we should stay out of it," she argued, her tongue thick, her mouth dry. A steady pounding that wasn't all the band's bass drum in her head. "My father fought and died in the last war. He didn't wait for his country to send him. He died wearing a French pilot's uniform because he believed we needed to stand together against dictators. There are plenty of Americans who feel the same way now. I guarantee it."

Sofia sat back, more considering now and less contemptuous. But her regard wasn't the one that sent prickles along Cleo's skin or fizzed her stomach despite the gallons of alcohol. Bayard watched her too before pushing his chair back and holding out a hand for her to take. "It's late. We should probably get you home, Miss Jaffray."

She noted his use of her surname and was more hurt than she'd expected. "Should we?" She levered herself to her feet with his assistance, the floor pitching and rolling beneath her. "Yes, I expect we should. I suddenly don't feel so well."

Outside, she drew in a deep damp breath of smoke and salty air that swam in her stomach and made her head spin. Streetlights reflected in every puddle and washed the buildings in gold. De spite the late hour, people still milled in front of shop windows or strolled the cobblestoned alleys enjoying the fine weather. There was laughter and conversation and romance. Normal life in a city oddly untouched by the violence of war that washed menacingly against its borders.

"I never knew that about your father," Bayard remarked as they retraced their steps. At least she thought they did. Surely that was the bridge they'd crossed earlier and that building up ahead looked familiar... or maybe it was that building over there.

"I've had that story shoved down my throat since birth. I have no idea if it's even true, but tragic war hero sounds better than heartless bastard." They wound their way down to the waterfront along the Skeppsbrokajen, where sailboats and pleasure craft rubbed up against steamers and workboats. "I wouldn't care so much what lies my mother tells herself, but she expects me to worship the fantasy too."

"Maybe it wasn't about lying. Maybe it was about giving you a father you could be proud of."

"Now who's dispensing the sage advice?" Cleo teased, looping her arm through Bayard's. Unaccountably happy when he didn't pull away.

Shivering from more than the cool night air, she focused on the lights of the Grand Hotel that dazzled on the far side of the water, a million reflections shimmering on the waves like coins in a fountain. She never noticed the broken paving stone until it tripped her. She grabbed at his shoulders. He clasped her around the waist. The two of them clung swaying at the water's edge, the sky whirling overhead like a Van Gogh painting.

Before she could think better of it, she kissed him. Maybe it was more accurate to say she stumbled herself at him. But he didn't let go. His lips were as warm as she imagined, and he was careful as if afraid to frighten her off, or perhaps he was the one who was frightened. With the passing seconds, his kiss deepened. His body against hers was as hard as steel, his breathing ragged. She felt her body responding and clung tighter, her fingers gliding up under his uniform jacket to the smooth heat of his skin beneath. She hadn't felt this way since— No. She wouldn't think of him. Or her. Or any of the reasons why being here and doing this was a very bad idea. Only now that she was thinking, she couldn't stop. And kissing and thinking never went well together.

A bark of laughter from a nearby group of men jolted them both back to reality. Bayard cleared his throat as if preparing to apologize or explain, or worst of all, tell her it was an accident that meant nothing.

Instead, his stammering words were a jumble of noise in her ears as her unfocused gaze spotted a familiar figure standing in a nearby doorway.

The swirl of Van Gogh became a nauseating smear of light and color and her own heavy breathing. She tried to fling herself out of Bayard's embrace, once again nearly plunging them both into the harbor, but he was stronger and held her upright, his considering expression becoming a frown that shadowed the edges of his eyes.

"I saw him," she gasped. "I saw Micky."