“The man who hosts it is awful. He says the worst things about the British. Naturally, Henrik finds it hilarious,” said Marie.
“The host sounds like one of us,” said Nora.
“He sounds like you. Not me,” Marie pointed out. When she’d arrived in this country from Munich, she’d tried to lose her accent, but no matter what she did it lingered. Most days it was soft—but recognizable nonetheless—but if she was ever angry or drank one glass of wine too many, it came out in full force. Which is why she never let herself lose her temper or indulge in “just one more drink.” She’d learned over the years that it was best to make everyone around her more comfortable by being just that little bit less. Less German, less aggressive, less objectionable.
“Marie, have you had any word from your mother?” Hazel asked.
She dipped her chin, wishing her friends didn’t know her so well that they’d spot a lie from one hundred paces. “Yes.”
“But surely that’s a good thing,” said Hazel, always optimistic.
“What did her letter say?” Nora asked.
She unsnapped the top of her handbag and pulled out the letter, now soft from being read over and over. “Here. It’s in French.” All of her letters over the years had been in French. Hannah Bohn acted more like a nineteenth-century Russian princess than a German businessman’s wife, forsaking her native language for the elegance of French.
“You read it,” said Hazel, nodding to Nora. “Your French always was better than mine.”
“ ‘Dear daughter,’ ” Nora read, translating as she went. “ ‘We are well. The Schmieds asked after you yesterday evening as they always do, and Horst in particular was interested to hear that you had not been back to Munich in so many years. He says he misses you.’ ” Nora glanced up at her. “Who is Horst?”
Marie blushed and waved away the question. “Just a boy I used to play with. Skip down to the middle of the page.”
“Spoilsport,” said Hazel.
Nora skimmed down and resumed reading. “Here we are. ‘You know that nothing bores me more than these questions you ask about politics. We did not send you away to school for you to cultivate an interest in things that are no business of a young lady.’ Well, that is rich.”
“Keep reading,” said Marie.
“ ‘It’s fortunate for you that your father is more amused than insulted by all of this,’ ” Nora read. “ ‘He tells me to write that he would never do anything to sacrifice the health of the business or our life here in Munich. He doubts there will be any war at all, and that the very best thing for him to do is to remain a friend to everyone.’ So they’re taking a stance of neutrality?”
Marie leaned over and plucked the letter out of Nora’s grasp. “So it would seem.” Mutter acts as though the threat of war is a mild irritation, while it is all I can think about.
“What does the rest of the letter say?” Hazel asked.
“One of their neighbors’ daughters had her fourth child, and that same woman’s youngest has joined the League of German Girls and already has a half dozen boyfriends. She also asks when I’ll stop wasting my time in England and come home to marry. Of course, it would be a man carefully selected from an appropriate family—probably one in metal or who makes a part that Vatter could use in his engines.”
“And you still don’t think they would ever join the Nazi Party?” Nora asked. “There are all sorts of stories…”
“No,” said Marie firmly. “Vatter has too many foreign contracts at the factory to want Germany at war, cut off from the rest of Europe. It almost killed the business during the last war when my grandfather was still alive. He will not want that again. Honestly, can’t we talk about something else?” she asked.
Nora’s eyes darted over to Hazel. “Can I ask how you’re doing?”
The gentleness of Nora’s voice—usually so direct and forceful—belied the importance of the question. Marie could see Hazel digging her fingers into her thigh, grounding herself.
“I’m as well as can be expected,” said Hazel.
Marie glanced around to make sure no one was listening and lowered her voice. “Did you go to the doctor?”
Hazel bit her lip and nodded. “He says there’s nothing more that can be done. We just need to keep trying, but we’ve been trying for six years. Ever since…”
Moving in tandem, Marie and Nora each picked up Hazel’s hands.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” said Nora.
Hazel shook her head. “I want you to ask. It’s just difficult. I should know by now not to become excited, but this one was almost three months along. I thought we might finally have a chance.”
The yearning in Hazel’s voice tore at Marie’s heart. She knew how badly her friend wanted a baby. How every month Hazel would tense with anticipation. How often she’d been disappointed. How elated she’d been the three times she’d realized she was pregnant. How each of the miscarriages had knocked Hazel back, threatening to plunge her into the darkness that had swallowed her when she’d lost her first baby, just weeks after marrying Nathaniel.
“Enough,” said Hazel, tipping her head back and blinking rapidly as though fighting tears. “There’s too much depressing talk in the world right now. It’s our Friday together. Let’s enjoy it.”
Pierre, the Harlan’s long-standing bartender, set down their usual drinks in front of them, and each of the women took a moment to sip from hers.
“Tell us what happened at the agency this week,” said Nora, leaning her chin in her hand so that her bangles—all gifts from her grandmother—clinked as they settled halfway down her arm.
A little glint lit up Hazel’s eyes, and Marie couldn’t have been more thankful for Nora’s ability to pull Hazel back into the light.
“You won’t believe me when I tell you,” said Hazel.
“This is promising,” said Marie, smiling gamely.
“The Repeater is back.”
Nora snorted as Marie groaned, “Doesn’t that man have any pride?”
“Clearly not, and this time he’s grown a mustache and dyed his hair raven’s-wing black,” said Hazel.
Tales of the Repeater had been a staple of their monthly suppers since the man had first shown up at the door of the Mayfair Matrimonial Agency, where Hazel worked as a matchmaker. The third son of a baronet with impeccable breeding but a serious deficiency of funds, the Repeater at first had seemed promising enough that Hazel suggested Nora might give him a go. Nora had laughed it off—just as she did all of Hazel’s matchmaking suggestions—and a good thing, too. Hazel soon learned that no matter whom she matched him with, the woman would never be good enough. The lady would be too talkative, too tall, too rosy-cheeked, too blond, too made-up, too stupid, too well read. The Repeater was impossible to please.
“If you tell me that you’ve set him up again, I’ll walk straight out of this bar,” said Nora.
“Then it’s been lovely seeing you, because I’m determined to find him a Mrs. Repeater,” said Hazel, her eyes narrowing at the thought of solving the puzzle of her troublesome client. “Although at this point I’m suspicious that he’s mostly interested in watching me jump through hoops like a trained circus poodle.”