The Lost Mata Hari Ring

by Elyse Douglas

  Trace awakened gently, eyes sticky, body aching and fatigued. She was lying on a comfortable tufted pink chaise, still dressed in her silk robe, pajamas and matching slippers. Where was she? She lifted up on an elbow and glanced about, her eyes widening on the elegant room.

  It was a large, stunning French Renaissance style room. The ceilings soared, the heavy gilded mirrors gleamed, the two fireplaces were made of white marble, and the carpets were a lush gold and red with delicate patterns. Trace took in the French-style winged back sofa and chairs, a love seat and gilded, intricately carved French settee with matching pillows. She turned to her left and saw a golden harpsichord, with four pink silk-upholstered chairs arranged around it.

  Above was a mezzanine library and balcony sitting room. She saw stone columns, an arched gallery and peaked chapel windows.

  She sat up, kinking her neck, struggling to orient herself in this strange and magnificent room. Suddenly remembering what had happened, she glanced down at the ring—the emerald Mata Hari ring. It was there, still on her finger, the pulsing light still alive, and glittering.

  What had happened? She tried to swallow away a lump, as her mind raced and worked to think and match memory with reality.

  It was quiet—strangely quiet—as early morning light streamed in from the upper windows. Trace stood slowly, as if to ensure she didn’t break into pieces. Had she had another nightmare? Was she still dreaming now? It seemed real—this room, this light, her aching body—but her nightmares had often seemed real too. She’d often awakened from them confused and disoriented. She shook her head as if to clear it, then took a step, feeling wobbly and dizzy. Slowly, she started toward the windows to look out, to learn where she was.

  It was a breathtaking view. She saw an unraveling, vivid green, manicured lawn and artfully carved winding hedges. A quiet lake was in the immediate distance, as well as an oak and chestnut forest, with a kind of French chateau far to the right, mostly obscured by trees.

  Trace craned her neck up to inspect this chateau, seeing rows of wrought iron balconies, curved and curled into delicate tendrils. The tall upper windows were opened to the day, like doors. What season was this? It felt warm.

  With effort, she turned from the window back to the room. She strained to reconstruct what had happened to her. The last thing she recalled was standing in Cyrano’s library, staring at the ring. She’d slipped it on and heard Cyrano’s voice. Then he’d just disappeared, and she’d seemed to be tossed off a cliff into an abyss.

  Trace’s frantic eyes searched the air for answers, and she wrapped herself with her arms for some security. What had happened? Where was she? Why couldn’t she awaken from this crazy dream?

  She heard footsteps. Twisting toward the sound, she suddenly froze as the footfalls grew louder, closer, echoing. When the golden doorknob turned, she held her breath, waiting in an agony of anticipation as the tall door swung open.

  CHAPTER 8

  They stood staring at each other: Trace, tall and statuesque, honey blonde hair mussed, skin white from fear, blue eyes wide, heart pounding in the startled silence.

  The woman who stepped inside the room was tall and exotic, her olive skin glowing. Her raven black hair was swept up on her head, but curling tendrils flowed down to her shoulders. She wore an embroidered chiffon peignoir, with pink trim and ruffled sleeves, that accented her curvaceous figure and small breasts. She glared at Trace in dark suspicion, looking her up and down, her eyes finally coming to rest on the emerald ring.

  Neither spoke. The seconds were strained and fragile. Trace was unable to move or speak, as her jumbled mind labored to decipher the incredible scene before her. In that staggering moment, a storm of terror and emotion awakened her to the impossible—that she was seeing the living image of herself as she had once been so many years ago, in a world long submerged in the deep river of time.

  In that ominous timelessness, as Trace stood taut and trembling, she was both a witness and a participant, both a ghost and alive. She was two apparitions—both lost in a world of flickering shadows.

  Trace was looking at a handsome woman in her late 30s, no longer a girl but settling into maturity. There was an uncanny magnetism to the woman, an indescribable allure, a powerful aura about her that made the hair on the back of Trace’s neck stand up.

  The woman alarmed and unsettled her. Trace knew this woman—knew her from nightmares—knew her from childhood daydreams—knew that she had breathed the same breaths in that past life regression.

  Trace intimately knew the low, sonorous timbre of her voice; the proud impetuous spirit; the powerless strength and raw terror she'd felt in prison while waiting for the call of the firing squad. Trace stared at the woman in a hypnotic wonder.

  Was this a new kind of nightmare? A trick of the mind? A gothic joke?

  The equally-startled woman finally spoke to Trace in French, and Trace strained to understand what she said.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?” she asked curtly.

  Trace tried to speak, but failed. She couldn’t form a single French word. The language simply wasn’t on her tongue. Only English words came to mind.

  The woman glowered at the ring, her voice low and accusing. “Where did you get that ring? It’s mine. You stole it.”

  The woman took two aggressive steps toward Trace, and then stopped short, unsure.

  Trace’s brain locked up. She could feel herself slipping away, could feel her rubbery legs wobble, her blood turn cold. The wild experience of falling into the abyss and landing in this vision or nightmare had stunned and weakened her. Her vision was blurred, her voice thick and hoarse.

  Trace spoke in English. “No, I didn’t steal it. I didn’t.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. She responded in English, in some kind of accent, not quite French or Dutch, but a mix of the two.

  “English? You speak English? Who are you?”

  Trace forced out. “I’m an American.”

  The woman’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “What? An American?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get in here? Who are you?”

  Trace searched for an answer. None came.

  “Where did you get those clothes? They are hideous.”

  Trace glanced down at herself, still unable to feel anchored in any reality. She had to say something, even if it was a lie. “A friend…”

  “What kind of friend?” And then her face changed, as a new thought struck. “Are you Edward’s girlfriend? Did he bring you here and put that ring on your finger, as some kind of joke?”

  Trace was at a complete loss for words.

  “Speak up, or I’ll have you thrown out!” the woman barked.

  Trace nodded, finding her desperate voice. “Yes… I’m Edward’s girlfriend.”

  The woman relaxed, releasing a sigh. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Why all the silence? What is your name?”

  Trace’s eyes flitted about. “Trace.”

  “What? Trace?”

  “Yes, Trace Rutland.”

  “I’ve never heard of that name. It’s a strange name.”

  The woman thought about it and nodded a grin. “But I like it.” Her chin tilted up. “I like the strange and the different. Yes, I like the name.”

  The woman started toward Trace, walking easily, with a gentle sway of the hips, the chiffon gown whispering against her as she walked.

  She stopped a few feet away. The two women’s eyes met, and locked. An electric spark startled them both. They fell silent, again, staring, exploring the depths of each other’s eyes, as if seeing into fathomless depths and timeless worlds. As Trace fell into Mata Hari’s eyes, she could hear echoes of old conversations, see snippets of scenes and impressions from Mata Hari’s childhood; she saw images of the time she’d spent in the Dutch Indies with her husband and children.

  Mata Hari finally broke the spell, glancing away, blinking. “We have met. I know it. Yes, I know you. We have met. Yes?”


  Trace shut her eyes, to help clear her head. “No…”

  “You seem so familiar,” Mata Hari said, warily. She pursed up her lips. “I’m Mata Hari,” she said, proudly.

  Trace nodded. “Yes, I know.”

  That pleased her. “When did you arrive? Last night with Edward?”

  Trace didn’t know what to say. “Yes… last night.”

  “Vadime told me Edward was coming, but this is the first time Edward has brought a girl. Has he finally come to his senses and dropped that silly fiancée of his?”

  “…I don’t know.”

  Mata Hari studied Trace. “Where did you meet Edward?”

  Trace stared down at her slippers, avoiding Mata Hari’s eyes, afraid of them and what they held. Trace wanted desperately to wake up from this damned dream. She wanted to run away, but to where? She didn’t know where she was, and it was ridiculous not to know where you are, or how you got there.

  The last thing she recalled was being in Cyrano Wallace’s library in Lenox, Massachusetts, slipping the ring on her finger—and feeling strongly compelled to do so. Trace glanced down at the ring. What strange magic lay coiled in the ring? Where had the flying hours gone?

  “You do recall where you and Edward met, don’t you?” Mata Hari said, jarring Trace from her thoughts.

  Mata Hari pursed up her lips again. A spicy thought occurred to her, and she smiled.

  “Or even more interesting, maybe you don’t remember. I have had such encounters. To tell the truth, there are many officers I knew quite well and later I didn’t recall where I had met them. I found that exciting. I think I was a better lover because of it.”

  Trace was exhausted. She couldn’t pretend what she didn’t know, and she didn’t have the strength or will to fight. “I don’t know where I am,” Trace said, in a hopeless whisper.

  At that moment, a door on the opposite side of the room swung open and a tall man entered. When he saw Trace, he ventured forward, unsure of what he was seeing. He stopped short. He had a pencil thin mustache, good shoulders and a chiseled handsome face. He wore a brown, knee-length jacket, striped trousers and shiny leather boots. His white shirt was minus the wing collar, giving him a jaunty look. His shiny chestnut hair was combed back smoothly from his forehead, and his sleepy gray/green eyes widened and blinked a couple of times when they found, and then fixed on, Trace, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  He gazed at Trace, struck silent by her serene, unquestionable beauty and gorgeous mass of glossy, honey-blonde hair.

  Mata Hari’s eyes swung toward Edward. “Edward. Why is everyone up so early, and dressed?”

  Edward rubbed his sleepy eyes, and then slapped a hand over his heart for theatrical effect. He spoke in a loud, dramatic voice, as if reciting Shakespeare.

  “My God! I believe I’m having palpitations of the heart,” he said, with a very British accent. “Oh, my dear Mata Hari, where did you ever find such a lovely creature? Has she descended from the Gods, from Mount Olympus? Is she perhaps Athena, the goddess of wisdom and military victory, or is she, in fact, Venus incarnate? Pray tell me, dear Mata Hari, where have you found this incomparable, delectable and gorgeous creature?”

  “Where have I found her? Don’t be silly, Edward, you found her, and she is yours, although she doesn’t remember where she met you, which I find absolutely fascinating. You must tell me and Vadime the entire story when he wakes up.”

  Trace stood as still as a statue, dumbstruck. She inhaled a steadying breath and looked at Edward with pleading eyes. Edward squinted a look at her, his eyes penetrating and actively watchful. There was a slow exchange of hope—Trace hoping for his play-along recognition of her—and Edward, that she would find him as attractive as he found her.

  Edward laughed and went to Trace, with a cheery smile. As he drew up to her, his eyes caught hers and he winked, took her by the shoulders and pulled her into his arms for a long, passionate kiss.

  Trace caught a whiff of his sandalwood aftershave, as he pressed his lips against hers. A shocking wave of stinging desire electrified her, awakened her, melted her. When he released her, wrapping a long arm around her shoulder, drawing her intimately close, Mata Hari laughed, very pleased.

  “Oh yes, I can see you two are lovers. Take her back to bed, Edward, and you two sleep as late as you want.”

  Mata Hari approached Trace, with her hand extended. “Please take off the ring and give it to me.”

  Trace, still reeling from the wet, warm kiss, couldn’t move.

  Looking at the ring and Mata Hari’s waiting hand, Trace was conflicted. The ring had power. No doubt. There was some strange power contained in the ring that had sent her back into time. That was obvious. Or had her fragile mind finally shattered, and she was slipping helplessly into insanity? If she gave up the ring, would she be trapped and helpless? Would she ever be able to regain her sanity and return home?

  Mata Hari waited. “Please give me my ring, Trace.”

  Haltingly, Trace obeyed, gently sliding the ring from her finger, instantly feeling vulnerable, caught in a chilling web of time.

  Mata Hari took the ring, staring at it pensively. “I’ve always felt this ring would bring me luck just when I needed it. I still believe it will save me from all harm, even when all my friends, family, and lovers flee.”

  Edward spoke up, keeping his curious eyes on the ring. “It looks like a rare beauty, striking and unusual. Who gave it to you, Mata Hari?”

  Mata Hari smiled, sadly. “Captain Maurice Herbaux. He loved me so much, you know. He was a good lover and a rich man. Yes, a good and tender lover, and he looked so handsome in his uniform. He was killed only a week after he gave me this ring—killed in 1915 at the Battle of Neuve Chapelle. The last time I saw him, he presented it to me, saying, ‘May it always keep you from harm. May it always protect you. Believe in it, chérie.’”

  Now in a low mood, Mata Hari turned and strolled toward the same door she had entered from. She looked back over her shoulder with a bland smile. “You two do look like lovers, you know. Go now, and make love. That is what life is all about, you know—especially now with this awful war exploding our hopes and dreams, and killing so many of our good and handsome officers.”

  As soon as the door clicked shut, Edward released his arm, clicked his boot heels together, and snapped a crisp salute. “May I present myself. I am Captain Edward Kenyon Bishop, of The Royal Flying Corps No. 11 Squadron, at your service, madam. Should we obey our good hostess, the unrivaled and notorious Mata Hari, and return to my room to make love?”

  Despite Edward’s breezy exterior and handsome face, Trace saw a weary sadness in his eyes, and it touched her. He couldn’t have been more than 25 years old.

  “Thank you for saving me,” she said, softly.

  He lowered his saluting hand, looking her over. “Did I hear Mata Hari call you Trace?”

  “Yes…my name is Trace Rutland. It’s a nickname my father gave me. My real name is Tracey.”

  “And you are an American? Well, yes, of course. I hear it. How utterly astonishing.”

  “Why astonishing?”

  “I have met a number of American flyers, but not so many devastatingly attractive American women dressed in, well, for lack of better words, such eccentrically stylish sleeping attire. Where on earth did you ever find such garments?”

  Edward’s eyes were penetrating and actively watchful, and Trace sensed they took in more than they gave out.

  She absorbed another wave of fatigue, and she nearly fainted. “Captain… would you do me one more chivalrous thing?”

  He gave a little bow. “Anything, Miss. Rutland. I presume it is Miss Rutland? Not Mrs. Rutland? Pray, say it be so, or my panting heart shall wither with the heaviest sorrow,” he said theatrically, with a forced arch of his brow.

  “Yes, it is Miss Rutland.”

  He grinned, a devastatingly attractive boyish grin. “I’m so delighted to hear it, dear Miss Rutland.”

  �
��Captain…”

  “Edward, please.”

  “Edward. I’m exhausted. I need to sleep. I need to try to figure some things out, but I must sleep before I faint. Is there a room somewhere where I can sleep… alone? Separately?”

  His smile was brief, but warm. “Yes, Miss Rutland. I will conduct you there, and assure you that your virtue will remain intact and safely protected, as long as is humanly possible for me to do so.”

  Trace didn’t know if it was the absurdity of the moment, her utter exhaustion or just some sudden impulse, but she lifted a hand and ran her fingers gently across his warm, smooth cheek, pausing to touch his lips. He shut his eyes, overcome. When he opened them, he looked at her differently, solemnly and tenderly.

  “What a touch you have,” he said, in a low, intimate voice that stirred them both.

  Trace’s heart quickened, moved by his sudden vulnerable expression and his masculine handsome face. Even though she was exhausted and off balance, her attraction to Edward was swift and disturbing.

  Without words, Captain Bishop led Trace out of the room and down a long, carpeted hallway to a partially opened door. He stopped, indicating with a hand.

  “This is my room. Sleep as long as you like. Use anything you need.”

  Trace met his eyes. “Will you be around when I wake up?”

  “Yes, Miss Rutland, you can count on it.”

  Trace hesitated, his kiss still impressed upon her lips, his scent lingering. She stepped inside and silently closed the door.

  Immediately, there was a light knock. Trace opened it, peeking out. “Yes?”

  “After you sleep, Miss Rutland, will you tell me from which gilded, heavenly cloud you descended?”

  She stared at him for a moment, considering his question. “Perhaps you can tell me where I am, Captain Bishop.”

  “Oh, my dear Miss Rutland, you break my heart. You must be more intimate with me and call me Edward. May I call you Trace?”

  Trace felt as though she might faint. She struggled to stand. “Yes… Fine. Where am I?”

  Edward’s eyes explored her eyes and lips. “Trace, you are just outside of Chantilly, at a Chateau owned by the Marquis de Beaufort, an old lover of Mata Hari’s.”