The Lost Mata Hari Ring

by Elyse Douglas

  “No, we haven’t, Miss Rutland. You and I have known each other before somewhere. Sometime. Perhaps on this earth or perhaps in some kind of a dream. I don’t know, and I don’t care, but I’m sure of it.”

  “And I’m sure that you’re a total romantic. Anyway, I’m not going to Paris to live in a hotel.”

  “But it’s a beautiful hotel, and it will be easier for us to see each other. Don’t you see? Vadime and I will be flying near Vittel, not so far from Paris. It’s a resort area, but there’s an airbase near there. I can get away sometimes and meet you in Paris.”

  Trace sought to change the subject. “When did you start flying, Edward?”

  He placed his hands on his hips. “Are you deliberately trying to change the subject, Trace?”

  “Yes, Edward, but I still would like to know.”

  Resigned, he gave a little shake of his head. “I received my wings in May of this year. I joined the 13th Squadron RFC in France, and I flew reconnaissance missions before I was posted to the 11th Squadron, a fighter unit. There you have it.”

  “And what kind of airplane do you fly?”

  “Does that really interest you, Trace? I don’t know any woman who gives a good tinker’s damn about what sort of airplane I fly.”

  “Does Miss Pemberton give a tinker’s damn about what airplane you fly?”

  “Are you jealous of Miss Pemberton?” Edward asked, a hint of a smile forming. “I hope you are. Please say that you are.”

  “I’ll bet you’re not quite as forward with Miss Pemberton as you are with me, Captain Edward Bishop.”

  “And you would be right. When I am around you, I have great difficulty keeping my eager hands and my thirsty lips off you, Miss Rutland. I will tell you truthfully—though you may not believe me—that I have never felt quite so anxious, nervous and bold around any woman, until now. Until I met you.”

  “And when you’re around Miss Pemberton, Captain Bishop? Do you feel the same about her?”

  Edward’s features brightened. “Then you are jealous of Miss Pemberton,” he concluded with a broad, sunny smile. “How delightful. How splendid.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  He turned playful, giving her a teasing smile. “And what question was that?” he said, searching the sky. “Now, let me see. Oh yes, what air machine do I fly? That was it, wasn’t it?”

  “You know it was.”

  He lowered his gaze on her, a humorous glint in his eye. “Well, if you must know, it’s a Nieuport 1, with a Lewis gun mounted on the upper wing.”

  “Oh, well, a Lewis gun. I’m quite speechless, Captain Bishop, not that I know what a Lewis gun is.”

  He became animated, acting out his words. “Now picture this, Trace. When you attack an enemy airplane, you must have finesse. You must be tender, yet fully engaged. Do you understand? You see, I, personally, get below and behind the thing, and when it feels just right, I fire my Lewis machine gun, which is a .303 caliber weapon, upward, into the enemy’s underside. It is quite effective.”

  Trace felt the rise of sexual heat. She knew he was being boldly suggestive, but she didn’t mind. She found it a delicious turn-on.

  Trace thought it ironic that in her entire life, she’d never met a man who excited her with such force, allure and pleasure as Edward did—and right from the start. But she couldn’t give into her sexual fantasy, even if she wanted to. Having a sexual fling would surely throw her old and new lives into total chaos. And she still wasn’t entirely convinced that what she was experiencing was even real. It was possible that she was trapped in some mesmerizing dream or hallucination, although hourly, this theory was fading.

  She still didn’t feel balanced or confident or even sane. Fortunately, her rational mind told her that the last thing she needed—at least for now—was to fall into a hot, sexy affair with Captain Edward Bishop, although her body was crying out for it.

  And then Edward moved in close to her, and she caught her breath. Was he going to kiss her again? She hoped so.

  Edward looked deeply into Trace’s eyes, the sunlight bright and bold on her face and hair. He saw a dark-blue rim around her iris, and a blend of pale blue and white rays inside the iris.

  He sighed out his words. “My dear Miss Rutland, you do me in, absolutely.”

  A minute later, he drew back, as if startled. “Are you betrothed to anyone? Not married, I know. But are you betrothed?”

  Trace laughed at his formal choice of word. “Betrothed?”

  “Yes? Are you? Tell me you’re not. Please tell me you are not.”

  “But you are, Edward… that is, betrothed to Miss Pemberton.”

  “Not that again,” he answered, petulantly, throwing up his hands in frustration. “Why do you keep bringing that woman up?”

  “That woman?” Trace said, batting her eyes, mockingly. “Why Edward, Captain Bishop, may I remind you that you are, after all, betrothed to her.”

  Exasperated, he placed his hands on his hips, looking away toward the distant band of trees. Both he and Trace watched a jittery yellow butterfly flitting across the lawn; a bird skimming the surface of the pond, darting about in hot pursuit.

  Edward’s expression turned somber. “That bird has good flying skills. He’ll get that poor fleeing insect.”

  Trace moved closer to him. “Don’t think of war right now, Edward. Not on this lovely day.”

  He turned to her, nodding. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m not in love with Miss Pemberton, Trace.”

  “Then why be betrothed?”

  He shrugged a shoulder. “Family. Name. All of that. I know you Americans think it’s silly and old-fashioned, but we English have a deep, rich history built on family and titles. Even in politics. Well, you wouldn’t understand.”

  They stood silently under the glowing yellow day. Finally, Edward faced her fully. “Who are you really, Trace, and where did you come from?”

  “I told you.”

  He stared at her earnestly. “Mata Hari didn’t invite you here and yet, you were here. I didn’t bring you, and yet you were here. If I hadn’t vouched for you, what would you have done?”

  Trace looked deeply into his worshipping eyes. “I don’t know, Edward.”

  “So, will you tell me who you are, and how you appeared here? Truly?”

  It was a bizarre moment. Trace should have felt frightened and worried. Instead, her mind flitted away like a butterfly, and she thought of her friend, Kelly Richards, from college. They had been as close as sisters for a time. Kelly was killed in a car accident during their senior year in college. Her boyfriend, Evan, had been shattered. He came to Trace the following night, a picture of agony and grief. They’d spent the night crying and reminiscing about Kelly, and Trace recalled how much she’d wished that someone loved her as much as Evan had loved Kelly.

  As Edward stood there waiting for her answer, her mind was a swirling jumble of past and present—of fleeting faces, fragments of conversations, heightened emotions and childhood memories.

  “Trace? Miss Rutland?” Edward asked, bringing her back from the inner world of the far and near past. “Where have you been? You seemed so far away.”

  Trace smiled, ruefully. “Yes, Edward, I was far away. Can we just walk for a while and not talk?”

  They strolled off around the pond.

  “You’re not going to tell me how you got here, are you?”

  “No, Edward, I’m not. At least, not now.”

  They spent the rest of Sunday in a variety of outdoor activities. First, they found a rowboat and drifted away on the pond, Edward rowing, Trace languishing under one of Mata Hari's pink parasols, feeling very much like a woman in a 19th-century painting. They picnicked on the far green hill, and roamed paths that curved through tunnels of sun-drenched trees. They did some bird watching and wandered in silence, simply enjoying each other's company. They also shared childhood stories, which Trace altered, as needed, to place them before 1900.
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  That evening, the quartet met for a formal dinner, consuming two bottles of Champagne and two red Burgundies, while Mata Hari shared stories of her many travels and adventures; Vadime spoke sentimentally about his Mother Russia, and Edward waxed poetic about his lovely home in England, Bishop Manor.

  Trace had stayed mostly silent, grateful to listen and enjoy Edward’s masculine voice and dashing uniform. His eyes often strayed toward her, clearly trying to make a connection, and he had made a connection. Trace was often flushed with pleasure and adrenalized with desire for him. It was a new experience for her to feel such an overwhelming attraction to a man. It made her feel giddy, foolish and contemplative.

  They spent another night in the spacious room, apart, but it wasn’t easy. In the hallway, outside their room, Edward stopped abruptly, took her by the shoulders and kissed her long and sweet. As she inhaled a cooling breath, he raised his hands in surrender.

  “Once we pass through that door, Trace, you have my solemn word as an officer and a British gentleman, that I will not touch or kiss you… that is, as I have said, repeatedly, unless you wish me to do so.”

  She looked him boldly in the face, feeling both weak and vibrant with passion. “I wish it, Edward, but not here, not now, and not like this. We deserve better… our own private place. Tonight, we keep apart and sleep alone.”

  He saluted. “I don’t like it, but I will obey your direct order. Your wish is my command, fair lady.”

  The next morning, Mata Hari, Vadime, Edward and Trace left the chateau and descended the grand stairs to the chateau’s circular driveway and center fountain, its arching water sparkling, catching the late morning sun. They strolled to Edward’s 1914 Saxon Model A Roadster that he’d had shipped in from England. They muttered things in half whispers, as the festivities and the play of love faded into the grim reality of parting. Now, it was a world filled with unease and fleeting smiles.

  Edward took Trace’s arm and led her away to privacy. Mata Hari and Vadime embraced, their expressions filled with heavy sorrow.

  Edward placed both hands on her shoulders, peering deeply into her eyes.

  “I don’t want to lose you, Trace. Will you be here when I return?”

  “When will you return?”

  “I don’t know. As I said yesterday, a new major offensive is about to begin.”

  The wind picked up and stirred the trees, and the sharp morning sun glinted off Edward’s car, lighting up his hopeful eyes.

  “But we must write to each other, Trace. You know we must.”

  She nodded.

  It was disheartening and confusing to be without answers, Trace thought, as she studied Edward’s solemn face. Was Edward a phantom—a fleeting face—a passing dream? Was he leaving her for the last time? He was going off to war, to fly in one of those rickety little airplanes that she’d seen in old photos—those small fragile flying machines that looked like unwieldy toys a kid glues together, and then breaks when he’s angry. How could anyone fly in them, much less survive, weaving and diving bullets in aerial combat?

  She was startled by a sudden grinding feeling of dread and despair. She’d only met Edward, but there was already a strange invisible bond between them. She’d felt it at his first kiss. Now, she might never see him again.

  Who knew what the next days would bring? Who knew if she might suddenly return to her own time in a day or two, and be standing in Cyrano’s library, struggling to make sense of what had happened to her?

  “I have left some money for you, Trace,” Edward said, quietly. “I placed it in the pocket of that very impressive silk robe of yours. Buy yourself some clothes, shoes, makeup and whatever else you need. If you need more money before I return, ask Mata Hari. I’ll pay her back.”

  Trace’s eyes misted with tears. She looked at him earnestly. “Edward… please come back. Don’t take any chances and don’t try to be a hero.”

  Her words pleased him, and he smiled warmly. “What a splendid thing to say. What a lovely and wonderful thing to say, Trace. Yes, I will come back, and when I do, I will kiss you for hours at a time.”

  “What a romantic you are, Edward. Guys like you don’t exist in my time.”

  He turned serious. “And what time is that?”

  She was silent. He leaned in and kissed her, his lips sensual and warm, and as he kept his lips pressed to hers, he ran a hand through her thick, luscious hair. Trace was soon lost in a hazy daydream of pure pleasure, wishing they had the time to make love. Her body suddenly ached for him.

  “You must write to me, Trace. Promise?”

  “I already promised.”

  “You have the address I gave you?”

  “Yes, Edward. I have it, and I will write to you.”

  “And if you leave, you will tell me where you go so I can write to you?”

  Trace nodded. “Yes, Edward, as soon as I find a place, I’ll send you the address.”

  As the Roadster growled away, Mata Hari and Trace waved, both downcast, watching the car fade into a small speck in the shimmer of sunlight. Silence surrounded the chateau and grew loud with birdsong and the gurgling fountain. Where there should have been peace in the soft afternoon air, Trace felt conflict and confusion.

  Mata Hari clasped her hands together, as if closing the chapter. “Well now, Miss Rutland. We must prepare for the Marquis de Beaufort. He will be here this evening.”

  Trace turned to her, surprised at the abrupt change. “He’s coming here? Tonight?”

  “Why yes, this is his chateau, after all.”

  “How long will he stay?”

  “Oh, two or three days. He is an old lover, who still likes me in his bed. He’s quite virile, although not as strong as he once was, of course. But he has lots of money.”

  Trace tried not to show her astonishment. Instead, she looked at Mata Hari with quiet eyes, trying to read the woman, straining to understand why she, Trace, was here.

  In that brief silence, Trace felt a shift going on inside, like tiny stabs of awakening agitation. An image of Juana-Luisa, Nonnie, slowly took shape in her mind, and Trace suddenly yearned to find the girl. In her nightmares, Trace had felt the nagging guilt for not visiting her daughter. As Mata Hari, it had been one of her last memories just before the bullets ripped into her body.

  Before she’d arrived in 1916, Trace had searched online and found a photo of Nonnie’s tombstone, with the inscription Onze Non (Our Non) and the dates May 2, 1898—August 10, 1919. Trace had felt crucified as she’d stared at that computer screen.

  As Trace followed Mata Hari up the steps, she asked, “Mata Hari, do you know where your daughter is?”

  Mata Hari whirled about, eyes wide, face pinched in suspicion. “How do you know about Non, my Nonnie?”

  Trace was ready with a planned answer. “Edward told me about her. She sounds like a lovely girl.”

  Mata Hari’s eyes lowered as she swallowed away something, and Trace knew exactly what it was: she was trying to swallow away guilt.

  Mata Hari's voice was low and sad. “Non is 18 now. She was born in Indonesia, you know, and yes, she is a lovely girl and a very smart girl. She did very well in school. I had legal custody of Non, and my ex-husband was required to pay child support. He never did. She was living with my relatives at the time. I was trying to make money, so she could come and live with me. Once, when her father was visiting, he just took her, and did not give her back.”

  Mata Hari’s eyes teared up. “I did not have access to the resources necessary to get her back, so I had to accept it. About two years ago, I desperately wanted to see my daughter again. I wrote a letter to my ex-husband, requesting a meeting.” She paused, lifting her chin. “I am famous, you know,” she said, with pride. “My face is on packages of cigarettes, and on the cans of Dutch biscuits. My face is on so many things.”

  Mata Hari stared down, and some of her pride melted away into gloomy reflection. “Perhaps I am too famous, in all the wrong ways. I was told that Juana-Luisa ha
d grown tall and beautiful, and some say she resembles me.”

  Mata Hari shrugged. “MacLeod, my husband, seemed open to my seeing my dear sweet little Non, but it never happened, even at a time months ago when we were both living in The Hague. I don’t know why. I just can’t remember why I didn’t see her then.”

  Trace remained silent for a minute. “I would love to meet her.”

  “Meet her?” Mata Hari said, sharply. “You will never meet her.”

  “Is she still living in The Hague?”

  Mata waved a hand to end the conversation, turned and started up the stairs to the front door that was promptly opened by a servant. Mata Hari pivoted. “She lives in De Steeg, and I shall never see her again.”

  And then Mata Hari strutted off inside, head held high.

  Trace clenched her jaw in determination. Maybe Mata Hari would never see her Non again, but Trace certainly would. She only hoped that Edward had left her enough money to travel.

  And then another jarring thought rattled her. If she did meet Non, would she also have to meet Rudolf MacLeod, Mata Hari’s ex-husband—Trace’s ex-husband? She shivered, recalling him from her research, and from her dreams. Would she remember him? How would he respond to her? Would he know her?

  Trace turned back to face the arching water of the fountain. In order to travel to The Hague and then on to De Steeg, she would surely need a passport or travel papers. Could Mata Hari help her with that?

  Trace was suddenly filled with excitement and purpose. It was time to make a move—time to change her past for the better, forever.

  CHAPTER 12

  On Wednesday, July 2, 1916, Captain Bishop and Captain Masloff were in their cockpits, ready to fly another sortie against the Germans. Since they’d already flown six that day, they were tired and their nerves on edge. The Battle of the Somme had begun the day before. It was intended to help accelerate a victory for the Allies—the British and the French—against the Germans. By the end of the first day, 21,000 British and 8,000 Germans were dead. Many French would die in the months that followed.