Eventually, the officers left for the day, leaving only a young soldier, who read at his desk.

“Entre nous, I think that guard is taken with our new friend.”

Margaret had noticed his gaze travel from his book to them. But in this dank police station, what else was there to look at?

“How long have you been here?” Margaret asked.

“A week. When there are enough of us, they’ll send us to an internment camp. No water, no food, just lice and bored soldiers.”

As the evening went on, and they prepared to spend the night again, the ladies became distressed. “What if they never let us go?”

Margaret drew The Priory from her purse. “I’m going to read a story.” The women settled in. “?‘It was almost dark. Cars, weaving like shuttles on the high road between two towns fifteen miles apart, had their lights on. Every few moments, the gates of Saunby Priory were illuminated.’ It’s a grand old house. I promise, you’ll feel comfortable there.”

At the end of the chapter, one of the ladies yawned. The three of them crouched down and made their beds for the night, bodies on the cement floor, heads on their handbags. Margaret joined them.

“Take the bench, dearie.”

“You don’t have as much padding as us. Stay up there.”

She was moved by this simple kindness. “I’d rather be with you.”

Head resting on The Priory, Margaret fiddled with her morning pearls. The necklace had been her mother’s and wasn’t worth anything, not like the jewels Lawrence had expected her to flaunt at parties. But when Margaret wore the pearls, she knew she was encircled by her mother’s love, like a child, when she’d felt the whisper of Mum’s lips upon her brow.

Study hard so you won’t have to do factory work like me, her mother said, but Gran told Margaret that she could have any man she wanted, that her regal appearance made up for the fact she was from a class inferior. Gran compared catching a man to reeling in a fish: go where there are plenty about, use your best lure, and be still. Margaret and her friends lingered outside a fine restaurant, gliding demurely past the entrance. When she saw Lawrence, so dashing in his navy suit, she dropped her purse. He picked it up. Hook, line, and sinker.

At their wedding, she wore a silk dress by Jeanne Lanvin. Her mouth hurt from smiling. She hadn’t given any thought beyond the ceremony, and didn’t know anything about the wedding night. The shock of it was so intimate, so awkward, that she didn’t mind that they couldn’t go on a honeymoon. Lawrence was a young diplomat, and he and Margaret were invited to an important dinner, which would hopefully lead to peace talks.

At the Putney, cocktails were served. Hand on the small of Margaret’s back, Lawrence showed her off—“Voici ma femme!”—moving from the Italian ambassador to the German contingent. She was surprised that everyone spoke French; they were in England, after all. “It’s the language of diplomacy,” he explained. “You said you studied French.”

And that’s exactly how she phrased it when he’d asked. She’d been careful not to lie. The truth was that she’d failed four years of French. But during their courtship, he did most of the talking and managed to fill in all her blanks. She hadn’t thought it would matter.

Gulping down her cocktail, Margaret watched the other wives use witty phrases to coax begrudging smiles and even outright laughter from stiff diplomats.

At the dinner table, she was unable to communicate with the gruff Russian on her right, the timid Czech on her left. She hoped for a small show of support from Lawrence, but he regarded her like his mother had, with disdain. Mercifully, the women withdrew to a salon while the men puffed on their cigars. Margaret expected to discuss fashion, but the ladies spoke of the prevailing political situation. She couldn’t keep track—a duce in Italy, a chancellor in Germany, a president and a prime minister in France. It was confusing.

When the debacle was finally over, it wasn’t over. In front of the hotel, while she and Lawrence waited for the Jaguar to be brought round, a Frenchwoman in a sequined dress kissed him on the cheek (very close to his mouth), and said in perfect English, “You’ll have to buy little Margaret a newspaper subscription so she’ll have something to contribute.”

In the car, Margaret said, “It didn’t go so badly. I’ll get a tutor to brush up on my French.”

He didn’t reply. In the lamplight, she saw he wore the same expression as her mum, just home from the market, after she realized the plump raspberries she’d bought had mold inside. It was a look of disgust, but of disgust for oneself, for allowing oneself to be swindled.

“Tell me what to do and I’ll do it,” Margaret pleaded.

He didn’t look at her. He never touched her again.

The following week, she invited friends to tea. They were thrilled for her—a posh house, a rich husband, a diamond ring. “You got everything you wanted!”

In the cell, one of the women moved closer, and her warmth lulled Margaret to sleep. As she drifted off, she realized it was true, she’d gotten everything she wanted. She wished she’d known to want more.

* * *

IN THE MIDDLE of the night, Margaret was roused from her sleep. Someone was poking her shoulder. The guard crouched over her. She reared back, away from him, but there was very little room to maneuver.