PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF STEPHANIE MARIE THORNTON
“And They Called It Camelot is the book club pick of the year. Stephanie Marie Thornton brings an American icon to life: Jackie the debutante, the First Lady, the survivor who at last becomes the heroine of her own story.”
—Kate Quinn, New York Times bestselling author of The Rose Code
“An extraordinary profile of the courage and grace of the indomitable Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis, And They Called It Camelot is impeccably researched and richly drawn. . . . An unputdownable, unforgettable read.”
—Chanel Cleeton, New York Times bestselling author of The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba
“Addictive, dishy, and emotionally haunting, this novel paints an intimate portrait of a tumultuous marriage that played out on the world’s stage and ended in national tragedy. . . . Vivid, engrossing, and utterly unforgettable, And They Called It Camelot is Thornton’s best work yet.”
—Stephanie Dray, New York Times bestselling author of The Women of Chateau Lafayette
“Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis leaves an enduring (and intimidating) legacy; for a writer, finding something new and meaningful to say about her is a daunting task. Thornton harnesses her immense talent for historical fiction and combines it with a biographer’s immersive research to create a rich portrait that is both intimate and thoughtful while also wildly addictive. I tore through these pages and you will too. Thornton gifts her readers with a fresh appreciation for the indomitable woman behind the iconic sunglasses.”
—Steven Rowley, author of The Editor
“Stephanie Thornton has compellingly and sympathetically humanized an American icon. Well researched and beautifully written, And They Called It Camelot is compulsively readable historical fiction!”
—Laura Kamoie, New York Times bestselling coauthor of My Dear Hamilton
“In her rich, fascinating account of Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis’s life, author Stephanie Marie Thornton effortlessly transports us back in time. . . . A powerful and uplifting portrayal.”
—Woman’s World
“Thornton captures a celebrity with whom the world mourned in November 1963, but her down-to-earth approach has given us the opportunity for a more intimate and less sensational look at Jackie, the wife and mother. Highly recommended.”
—Historical Novel Society
“Even if you think you know the story of Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis, you’re in for a rare behind-the-scenes look at the former First Lady’s life. . . . This book is nothing short of magical.”
—Renée Rosen, author of The Social Graces
“This book grabbed me from page one and wouldn’t let me go. A multidimensional imagining of the trials and triumphs of Jaqueline Bouvier Kennedy, And They Called It Camelot will make you rethink everything you thought you knew about this remarkable First Lady.”
—Kerri Maher, author of The Girl in White Gloves
“Students of history will appreciate Thornton’s exacting research and convincing portrayal of the First Lady and style icon, and Kennedy aficionados will feel as if they have an unparalleled access to Camelot. Thornton’s magnificent portrayal of Onassis will delight fans of Kennedy-related fiction.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“And They Called It Camelot is a sumptuous, propulsive, scandal-filled peek behind the curtain of American royalty. Thornton gives the reader a fascinating look at the masks worn by those who live in the public life.”
—Erika Robuck, national bestselling author of The Invisible Woman
“Simply spellbinding. . . . A tale of love and devastation, greatness and sacrifice, this remarkable novel will grip readers until the last page.”
—Kristin Beck, author of Courage, My Love
“Readers will enjoy this heartbreaking story of a wife’s fierce pride and loyalty to her president and country, despite years of marital loneliness and loss.”
—Library Journal
“Tackling a larger-than-life person such as Jackie Kennedy is a daunting undertaking, and Stephanie Marie Thornton handles that challenge splendidly. Thornton’s decision to have Jackie narrate her own story lends an intimate feel to the tale . . . a fascinating and personal portrait of one of America’s most iconic women.”
—Bookreporter
“As juicy and enlightening as a page in Meghan Markle’s diary.”
—InStyle
WRITING AS STEPHANIE MARIE THORNTON
American Princess
And They Called It Camelot
A Most Clever Girl
WRITING AS STEPHANIE THORNTON
The Secret History
Daughter of the Gods
The Tiger Queens
The Conqueror’s Wife
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2021 by Stephanie Thornton
Readers Guide copyright © 2021 by Stephanie Thornton
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Thornton, Stephanie, 1980– author.
Title: A most clever girl : a novel of an American spy /Stephanie Marie Thornton.
Description: First Edition. | New York: Berkley, 2021.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021006680 (print) | LCCN 2021006681 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593198407 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593198414 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Historical fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3620.H7847 M67 2021 (print) | LCC PS3620.H7847 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021006680
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021006681
Cover design by Katie Anderson
Cover image © Ildiko Neer / Trevillion Images
Book design by Tiffany Estreicher, adapted for ebook by Cora Wigen
This is a work of fiction. Apart from the well-known historical figures and actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all other characters are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Where real-life historical persons appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are not intended to change the entirely fictional nature of the work.
pid_prh_5.8.0_c0_r0
To my grandparents: Carolyn Christler, Marge Hintz, and Don & Billie Paulson
CONTENTS
Cover
Praise for the Novels of Stephanie Marie Thornton
Also by the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Товарищ: The Comrade
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Шпион: The Spy
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Изменник: The Informer
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Additional Reading
Readers Guide
About the Author
Was Elizabeth Bentley telling what really happened? Now, forty years later, one issue still resonates: Did Elizabeth Bentley tell the truth?
—Hayden Peake, Out of Bondage, Afterword
1
NOVEMBER 23, 1963
12:57 P.M.
The gun in Catherine’s Pucci handbag bumped reassuringly against her hip as she double-checked the address of the Connecticut apartment building.
The scrawled numbers refused to snap into focus until she blinked a few times; her eyes were still raw from yesterday’s news of President Kennedy’s assassination, from seeing photos of a tearstained Jackie Kennedy—whom Catherine sometimes glimpsed while giving tours of the White House—wearing that blood-spattered pink suit while Lyndon Johnson took the oath of office aboard Air Force One.
Yesterday had been the final straw.
One week ago, Catherine’s entire world had fallen apart. One day ago, the country.
But today, armed with a crumpled letter and the Smith & Wesson revolver her father had carried when he was shot down at the Battle of Saipan, Catherine was going to right some very old wrongs.
Two bullets, she thought to herself. One for her and one for me.
The building hunched in front of her was nondescript, shabby, and run-down; even the wood of the stairs underfoot felt rotten. Catherine—Cat to everyone outside of her mother, who had called her Cathy—had probably watched too much James Bond in Dr. No, but she’d expected a former spy to have a more impressive abode than this two-story mud-brown building with sagging gutters and peeling paint.
Probably fallen on hard times, she thought to herself as she knocked on the door of number 201, wishing she could break it down instead. She’s damned lucky she’s not in jail.
Cat waited, then gave a second sharp rap with the heel of her fist. She was about to start peering inside windows when a squat woman with snuff-brown hair cracked the door wide enough to reveal a rusted chain lock. She looked more run-down than the building itself, save for her painted red lips. Not just any red—vicious, violent, poisonous red.
“Hello, my name is Catherine Gray.” Cat smoothed the flip of her Jackie-esque bob, every rebellious blond strand lacquered into place with half a can of Aqua Net. Given the way the blood was pounding in her ears, she was impressed that her hands didn’t shake. “I’m here to see Elizabeth Bentley.”
The door slammed in her face.
Cat raised her fist again, this time ready to break the door down, but stopped at the unexpected rattle of chain. The door reopened, wider this time. The dumpy woman’s gaze swept the empty street, making Catherine wonder what—or who—she was looking for.
“I’m Elizabeth Bentley.” Her voice came out slightly nasal with that East Coast finishing school polish Catherine had grown accustomed to hearing after three and a half years at Trinity Washington University. Elizabeth Bentley’s face was the sort no one would notice in a crowd. The perfect face for a spy. The image was only marred by a small mole below her left eye and a scar that streaked beneath her lower lip.
This was the face of the woman who had destroyed Cat’s life.
It’s now or never . . .
In one swift movement, Cat aimed the Smith & Wesson revolver straight between Elizabeth’s eyes. The gun made a satisfying click as she cocked the trigger. “You ruined my life, you Communist bitch. And now you’re going to pay for it.”
She’d thought she’d be able to just pull the trigger, to end all this and escape the lethal undertow of pain. But when the moment came . . .
Cat hesitated.
Can I really end someone else’s life? Am I capable of that?
To Elizabeth’s credit, she merely blinked. Was she really so accustomed to staring down the muzzle of a gun? “Well, Catherine Gray, unfortunately, I ruined a lot of people’s lives. Why don’t you come in and we can discuss like civilized people what I did that was so heinous that you want to kill me?”
Whatever Cat had been expecting while she rehearsed this scene in her head on the train ride up from Washington, DC, a civilized chat was decidedly not it.
Except Elizabeth was already turning around, the open door an invitation to follow her.
Cat worried that perhaps Elizabeth was going for her own weapon, but the former spy merely looked back at her. “Are you coming? Or are you really going to shoot me?”
Cat could pull the trigger—at such close quarters she could hardly miss, despite the sudden tremor in her hands—and exact a quick and easy revenge. Except it was difficult to think with her heart beating in her ears and the foundations of her plan crumbling beneath her very feet. It might be easier to follow Elizabeth Bentley inside. Maybe inform this criminal exactly why she was here, and see if Elizabeth Bentley would confess to crimes that had led a twenty-one-year-old college student to her doorstep with murder on her mind?
Then Cat could shoot her. And be done with all of this. Right?
Gun in hand, Cat stepped over the threshold.
She’d half expected encoding machines or telegraphs inside, found instead merely a plain apartment decorated in every shade of brown. A clock ticked somewhere, and the lone decoration on any of the oak-paneled walls was a tacky wooden crucifix with a resin Christ nailed to the cross. A stack of leather-bound books tottered on a battered end table, and a long-haired ginger cat stretched out lazily on a mushroom-brown sofa as if he owned the place. The thing opened one eye, then howled piteously before rolling onto his back. “Hush, George Washington,” Elizabeth chided him. “Catherine here has a gun, and you don’t want to upset her with your caterwauling.” She turned to Cat, arms open at her sides as if giving her one final opportunity to take the easy way out. Talk or shoot?
When Cat didn’t move, Elizabeth gave a tiny nod. “It’s almost one o’clock, but I’ll put on a fresh pot of Folgers. Or I have gin, if that’s your preference. Pick your poison, as it were.”
“No coffee, no gin. I don’t want anything from you.” Certainly not a glass laced with poison, which Cat wouldn’t have put past this woman who once took orders from the NKVD. “Except a confession.”
Elizabeth sighed, gestured toward the Formica table inside the thimble-sized kitchen. “Do you mind if we sit? Standing is hell on my knees these days.”
The last thing Cat wanted to do was to sit across from this woman in some cozy tête-à-tête, but she heard her dead mother’s voice inside her head. Manners, Cathy. And respect your elders.
Except she didn’t owe Elizabeth Bentley one iota of respect. She gestured with the gun toward the kitchen. “Let’s get this over with.”
And then I’ll shoot you.
Elizabeth settled into a floral vinyl-upholstered chair—brown, of course—and tugged on the garish suntan-hued pantyhose she wore under her brown rayon dress that was better suited to World War II fabric rations. The woman was plain as mud, not even a stitch of jewelry save for a golden ring studded with a ruby on her left hand. Quite the juxtaposition to Cat, who wore a black button-up jumper dress on the cutting edge of fashion—the only black dress in her closet—out of mourning for President Kennedy, her one splash of color a scarlet ascot at her throat.
Elizabeth sat, folded her hands before her. “Why don’t we start with you tellin
g me exactly what I did to ruin your life.”
Cat, refusing to sit, remained standing at the kitchen door. She didn’t say a word, merely retrieved from her pocket her mother’s final letter, which she’d discovered two days ago while sorting through Joan Gray’s belongings in a neighbor’s garage, their house having been sold—unbeknownst to Cat until that horrible week—to pay an ever-increasing mountain of bills. That innocuous piece of flowered stationery had sent a fresh shock wave through Cat’s previously calm life. Joan Gray had fought a good fight, but she’d done it alone. And in the end, she’d lost.
And now, Cat was alone.
Cat tossed the bombshell letter on the table. “Read it.”
Elizabeth Bentley frowned when she had to reach across the table for the letter, apparently more perturbed by the breach of etiquette than the gun still pointed at her. She perched a set of unfashionable reading glasses on her nose, and her eyes flicked back and forth over the paper—it seemed to Cat that she read the entire thing at least three times before she finally folded the glasses back up.
“My condolences,” she said. “I can see why you sought me out.”
“My entire life has been a lie.” Rage seethed at the edges of Cat’s words, protecting her from the dark maelstrom of grief that churned beneath. “Because of you.”
“And that’s why you’ve come to kill me.”
“Your life for the one you stole from me.”
“That seems fair.” Elizabeth rubbed the scar on her chin. “Although I’m not sure a jury would necessarily agree. Life in prison is a long sentence for someone your age.”
Cat tapped the chamber of the revolver. “Two bullets,” she said. “Yours. And mine.”
A deep V formed between Elizabeth’s brows. “Your solution does seem terribly permanent. Also, as a patriotic American, I’d like to remind you about my right to a fair and speedy trial.”
“Patriotic?” If Cat had been closer to Elizabeth she would have laughed in her face. As it was, she fisted her hands and leaned over the table. “You were a goddamned Russian spy, Elizabeth, the furthest from a patriot as they come. All I want is to hear you admit your guilt so I can kill you.”
A Most Clever Girl Page 1