The Ambassador's Daughter

by Pam Jenoff

  “And you?”

  She looked flustered, unused to my caring about her opinion. “Very much so.”

  “Then that is more than enough for me.” But in truth I am not seeking Celia’s approval, or even Papa’s anymore.

  Alone now, I gaze across the shoreline, past the massive ship with its three freshly scrubbed decks to the east where the shipping canal opens to a wide expanse of sea. The air is cool and crisp, an early hint of the autumn that is to come. The water is as dark and deep as ever, fanning out endlessly to the horizon. Once I would not have thought of taking a sea voyage by myself. But now the unknown holds a kind of promise. I feel a tug, as though out there another world is beckoning to me.

  I take a step toward the ship. “Margot!” I turn in disbelief to see Georg running down the dock. The wound on his face, a bright red line from temple to chin, is fresh and unbandaged, the stitches demarcating a scar that will always be his. But it makes him even more handsome somehow, rugged and tragic.

  “How did you know?” I had not told Georg I was leaving, had not seen him since the night Stefan was killed. He was taken by the police that night for questioning as the opponent in a duel that had ended with a fatality. But he was quickly let go, a war hero and government official who had been weaponless and acted in self-defense. The story was all over the newspapers, a high-ranking German killing a soldier in a heated quarrel. Somehow my name was kept from the press, for which I am eternally grateful—I don’t think Papa could have withstood the additional strain. No one ever questioned me or suggested that I might have had a role in Stefan’s death—that I had pushed him down the stairs, hurtling toward his death was as unfathomable to those who saw it as it was to me. And Georg never said a word.

  But for all of his protection, Georg could not absolve my guilt. I had killed Stefan, as surely as if I had run the saber through him myself. It is not so much that I blame myself for pushing him away as he charged or for choosing to protect Georg in that fleeting moment. But I had set our feet on the course of events that brought us to the steps of the hotel and the tragic events that unfolded that night. If I had told Georg the truth, if I hadn’t gone there that night...so many ifs—it was impossible to go back and see where the turning point was that had made things go so terribly wrong, like trying to put together a shattered glass.

  I had not heard from Georg after that night. I could hardly blame him. Surely after learning that I had lied to him about being married, he would not want to speak with me again.

  Yet here he is. Papa had told him about my departure, I realize, one desperate last concession and an apology for keeping us apart. “I’m very sorry,” I say. “I should have told you that I was married to Stefan. We wed secretly the night before he left for war, just to give him hope. Not even Papa knew. That is why there was to be a wedding now. But we never...” I stop, trying to find the words. You were my first, I want to say. My only. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. It was wrong of me and I’m sorry I lied to you.”

  “You owe me no explanations. And I’m sorry, too.”

  “Georg, it wasn’t your fault.”

  He shakes his head, haunted by the memory of Stefan’s death. “It was the worst moment of my life. I could have done something to defuse the situation, but I was caught off guard.” His face is haunted and I can tell that the formal acquittal has done little to ease his guilt. “Seeing him lying there...” He does not use Stefan’s name.

  “Stop, I beg you...” I cannot bear to relive the moment.

  But he is too far gone now, needing to process what happened. “And then to see your face...”

  He keeps talking, but I do not hear. My mind reels back to Stefan’s funeral, a small affair with a military trumpeter and two Jewish veterans among those who bore his casket. The photo atop it, a smiling, confident man in uniform, was one I remember faintly. His dignity restored, he seemed at peace. Standing beside the casket, I realized that the dreams I’d had about a funeral were somehow a premonition. I sobbed openly and others nodded their heads approvingly and offered soothing platitudes. Papa looked quietly puzzled at the depths of my sorrow for a man I had not wanted to marry. My sadness was genuine, for though I had not loved Stefan in the way he had wanted, he was an inextricable part of my life and I cared for him deeply. Part of me—perhaps the best, most innocent part, that had never known war or deception or pain—had died that night on the hotel steps with him.

  “Please,” I say again, holding up my hand to ward off my memories as well as his words.

  Georg glances over his shoulder. “My hometown,” he says wistfully. “I would have liked to show it to you.” His words are a proxy for so many things that we might have done if given the chance.

  A horn sounds long and low. “I must go.” I gesture to the boat where the last of the passengers ahead of me have boarded.

  “You aren’t still leaving, are you?” Even now, as I am about to board the ship, he is in denial about my departure. I understand what he is saying, though—after we had given everything to each other, how could I possibly walk away? That moment, beautiful and perfect, seemed to hold all of the answers. But then Stefan had come and everything had been shattered in an instant. “With all that has happened, I thought that perhaps...”

  I look away, biting my lip. I need to leave behind Berlin and its painful memories.

  See the world, Krysia said, and though she had betrayed me most deeply, in this one regard she was right. The old me would have stayed, taken the certain route, but I have to take this chance while I can. I recall her suggestion, seemingly long ago, that I become a writer. Then, I knew so little. But I have seen lifetimes these past months—the world broken, then rebuilt, my own shattered anew. Perhaps, after a bit of travel to gain perspective, I may have something to say, after all.

  Krysia. I’d been surprised a week earlier to receive a postcard of the Krakow skyline, a broad, turreted castle nestled among cathedral spires, a winding river beneath. It was blank and unsigned, but the faint hint of lilac that lingered on the paper throughout its journey told me everything. Though she would not write anything out of fear of implicating herself, she was asking for forgiveness.

  Reliving the betrayal now, my heart aches anew. Why had she done it? I had thought about going after her, hopping a train east and making for Krakow. The wife of a famous musician, she wouldn’t be hard to find. But even if I did, she would not give me the answers I seek. No, I will choose to remember her at the battlefield at Reims or swaying over her piano. Those parts of our friendship I know were real. A tiny piece of the anger I’ve been holding inside breaks off and I begin to forgive her.

  Georg looks uneasily from me to the ship, then back again. “You’ll be all right on the boat?”

  “Yes.” Fear, I’ve learned, does nothing to stave off the inevitable truth. It is time to make my peace with it.

  “What about your father?” He is desperate now, trying anything to keep me from going.

  It is a question I have thought about a great deal these past few days. “Papa is not alone now. He has Celia.”

  “I wish...”

  I hold my breath waiting for him to say something, to ask me even not to go. But he will not. He does not have the right without offering me a reason to stay, a fresh start, and that possibility disappeared the night he killed Stefan.

  “Let me come with you,” he says, taking my hand impulsively. In the distance, a seagull calls out as if joining his entreaty.

  “Georg,” I protest with a laugh. He has a life and a future here. Yet he is willing to give it all up for me. Suddenly I feel the weight of our feelings, undiluted by the time that has passed and events that have transpired. But I cannot allow him to come. I’ve spent my entire life in the shadow of a man and I need to do this on my own. I think of the sprig of fern from Versailles, which sits still on the windowsill of the villa. There are some things that we cannot take with us, things that must be left behind. “I have to go.”

  He
presses his lips together and stares out across the horizon. “Here.” He reaches down and hands me a box. Inside is a small travel set, mother-of-pearl mirror and brush. “A parting gift. I knew I could not change your mind. I had to try, of course.” He does not like my decision to go. But he respects it, and I love him for that.

  I will return, I want to say. I bite my lip, unwilling to give him false hope.

  “How long?” Georg asks, as if reading my mind. His face brightens.

  “I don’t know.”

  “One month, one year?” he presses.

  I shake my head. “Until it is time to come home.” The only answer I can offer, it seems to come from a place deep in me, strong and firm. The words sound like Krysia’s but the voice is my own. Perhaps I have learned enough from her to carry forward, after all.

  “You feel it, though, as I do?” he presses. I look away, unable to deny it. Then I nod and his face breaks into a smile. “Six months,” he pronounces, as though it has been agreed upon and, with those words, he is setting me free. Whether the deadline is a real expectation, or simply a way to make farewell bearable for both of us, I cannot say. “I will be standing right here in six months, waiting for you.”

  I nod. Six months will be just before Papa and Celia’s wedding. Georg is not likely aware of that, though, and I will keep that secret tucked in my pocket for now, in case I change my mind. In my heart, I know that I will be here, striding down the gangplank into his arms. I could not stay away from Georg any more than I could myself. But I have to do this first.

  A gull cries out in the distance, again, reminding me that it is time to go. If I don’t leave now, I never will. “Goodbye, Georg.”

  He takes my hand. “Auf wiedersehen.” Until we meet again. He lowers his head to kiss my hand. But I lift his chin and bring my lips to his, full and hard. Then I turn and start up the gangplank. If I stop, I will not have the strength to start again. Tears stream down my cheeks. Six months. It is not so long, but the world can change in an instant.

  I step onto the deck of the ship and a deckhand closes the gate behind me. Only when we have pushed from shore and I can no longer change my mind do I turn around. Georg stands motionless, one hand raised to shield his eyes, the other outstretched.

  I take one last look at the dock, imagining our reunion there. I am carried, by his love, and Papa’s, and even Krysia’s, as I go. This time, leaving is my choice. I wave and blow him a single kiss. Then, squaring my shoulders, I turn and face the water ahead, taking the first step toward the life that is waiting for me.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from The Diplomat's Wife by Pam Jenoff

  Acknowledgments

  The Ambassador’s Daughter represents joy on so many levels to me. First, it gave me the chance to return to some of my beloved characters and themes from The Kommandant’s Girl, something that I—and many of my readers—have been hoping would happen for several years. It also allowed me to explore Europe after the First World War, an era that has fascinated me since I wrote about it in my thesis at Cambridge nearly two decades ago. Writing a story in this era required extensive research about historical events as well as the social and political climate at the time. As always when writing historical fiction, I had to make some judgment calls about when to remain historically accurate and when to “bend” history, melding fact and fiction for the sake of story (a creative indulgence for which I hope my readers will forgive me).

  This book brought me back to the incomparable publishing team at Harlequin MIRA, including my wonderful editor, Susan Swinwood, and the many brilliant folks in editorial, marketing, publicity and sales, and Kim Young and the marvelous team at MIRA U.K. I am so grateful for your time and talents, and overjoyed to be working with you again! Big thanks as always to my agents Scott Hoffman and Michelle Brower at Folio Literary Management for all of your keen insight and tireless work on my behalf. Thanks also to my colleagues at Rutgers for your interest and support.

  Even as it is joyous, writing this book has been bittersweet. When I began The Ambassador’s Daughter, a book that examines among other things the parent-child relationship, I had no idea that my own beloved father would not be here to see the finished project. With each book I always recognize the “village” that makes my writing life possible. However, this time I need to express even more deeply my gratitude for those closest to me: my husband, Phillip, mother, Marsha, brother, Jay, as well as my in-laws Ann and Wayne, dear friends, and of course, the three little muses who sustain and inspire me every day, Benjamin, Charlotte and Elizabeth. I love you all.

  Discussion Guide Questions

  As the story opened, Margot appeared to be an independent and confident young woman. How do you think her character changed throughout the story, and what caused those changes? What do you feel was her greatest strength and weakness?

  How do you think the loss of her mother affected Margot? How did this change throughout the book, particularly when she learned the truth?

  Georg and Margot developed feelings for one another after mere days. What did you see in their time together that attracted them so powerfully? Do you believe it is possible to fall in love so quickly and for such a relationship to last?

  How was it possible for Margot to keep secrets from those she professed to love most? How did it affect her relationships with her father, with Georg? Do you think that Margot’s choices were justified by her intentions?

  Margot and Krysia became such close friends despite significant differences in age and circumstances. What do you think it was that drew them together, and what did each of them provide for the other? Have you ever found yourself in such a close but unlikely friendship?

  Margot was a very young woman dealing with situations that most of us today would find completely overwhelming at age twenty. What do you think it was that Margot really wanted out of life?

  What did you think about Margot’s relationship with Stefan? Could you sympathize with her, being torn by an old promise to a man she didn’t know anymore and her love for a man that offered her a promising future? What would you have done in her shoes?

  Margot experienced anti-German sentiment from those around her who saw her as the enemy. Do you think this was a fair judgment, given the political climate of the time? Do you think this type of mentality still exists today?

  The post-WWI era is less familiar to some readers than WWII and other historical time periods. What did you like about a novel set during this time? Did you identify with any symbolic items, people or places throughout the book? What did they represent to you?

  Do you agree that Margot’s relationship with her father improved over the course of the novel? How so, or how not?

  What do you think happens six months after the end of the book? Six years?

  The Ambassador’s Daughter is the prequel to two of Pam Jenoff’s other novels, The Kommandant’s Girl and The Diplomat’s Wife. If you have read those, how did you feel this book compared? Did knowing what happens twenty years down the line color your reading of this book?

  For more enthralling historical romance, don’t miss these bestselling titles from Pam Jenoff. Available wherever ebooks are sold!

  The Kommandant’s Girl

  “With luminous simplicity, Jenoff’s breathtaking debut chronicles the life of a young Jewish bride during the Nazi occupation of Kraków, Poland, in WWII. This is historical romance at its finest.”—Publishers Weekly, starred review of The Kommandant’s Girl

  The Diplomat’s Wife

  Connect with us for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!

  Subscribe to our newsletters: Harlequin.com/newsletters

  Visit Harlequin.com

  We like you—why not like us on Facebook: Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks

  Follow us on Twitter: Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks

  Read our blog for all the latest news on our authors and books: HarlequinBlog.com

  C
hapter 1

  I do not know how many hours or days I have lain on this cold, hard floor, waiting to die. For some time, it seemed certain that I already was dead, shrouded in the dark stillness of my grave, unable to move or speak.

  A sharp pain shoots through my right side. It is not over. Sound comes back next in tiny waves: rats scratching inside the walls, water dripping beyond my reach. My head begins to throb against the icy concrete.

  No, not dead. Not yet, but soon. I can take no more. In my mind I see the guard standing above me, an iron bar raised high above his head. My stomach twists. Did I talk? No, a voice within me replies. You said nothing. You did well. The voice is male. Alek, or Jacob perhaps. Of course, it could be neither. Alek is dead, captured and shot by the Gestapo. Jacob might be gone, too, if he and Emma did not make it across the border.

  Emma. I can still see her face as she stood above me on the railway bridge. Her lips were cool on my cheek as she bent to kiss me goodbye. “God bless you, Marta.” Too weak to reply, I nodded, then watched as she ran to the far end of the bridge, disappearing into the darkness.

  After she was gone, I looked down at the bridge. Beneath me a dark red stain seeped into the snow, growing even as I watched. Blood, I realized. My blood. Or maybe his. The Kommandant’s body lay motionless just a few meters away. His face looked peaceful, almost innocent, and for a moment I could understand how Emma might have cared for him.

  But I had not; I killed him.

  My side began to burn white-hot where the bullet from the Kommandant’s gun had entered. In the distance, the sirens grew louder. For a moment, I regretted telling Emma to leave, rejecting her offer to help me escape. But I would have only slowed her down and we both would have been caught. This way she had a chance. Alek would have been proud of me. Jacob, too. For a moment I imagined that Jacob was standing over me, his brown hair lifted by the breeze. “Thank you,” he mouthed. Then he, too, was gone.