The Lost Mata Hari Ring

by Elyse Douglas

  So here and now, Trace would have to pretend to be shocked and surprised, and she would have to offer comfort, which of course she wanted to do. But there was more. What about Edward? Had he been injured or killed?

  Trace shot up, seeing the alarm on Mata Hari’s face, as she stood before her, the telegram still clutched in her trembling hand.

  In the bright sunlight, Trace could see the age lines forming around Mata Hari’s eyes. She could see the first unavoidable signs of sagging skin forming on her face and neck. Trace could clearly see that Mata Hari’s indulgent lifestyle had taken its toll. She was no longer that young, exotic beauty. In this light, Trace saw a woman growing old before her time, and even the expert makeup job and the expensive clothes couldn’t mask it. Mata Hari appeared older than her 40 years, and she surely knew it. How much longer could she live off the riches of men, who would pay her handsomely to be their mistress, when there were so many young and beautiful women to choose from, even if they weren’t as famous as Mata Hari?

  In Trace’s time, of course, a bit of Botox or Juvéderm would have helped Mata Hari smooth out her wrinkles or plump out her face. But that world—the world of the future that had been her world—was now a dream world. This time—this world—was now Trace’s world. This was the real world.

  Traces shuddered. How utterly frightening it was to be trapped in the agonizing prison of this time, seeing a deteriorating image of herself from a life lived so long ago. No wonder people couldn’t, and shouldn’t, remember their past lives.

  Again, the urgent questions arose. How could Trace save her past self, and yet stop what was meant to be? And if she couldn’t change history and stop the inevitable—the very things that caused those terrible nightmares in the future—then why the hell was she here? Again, Trace heard a still small voice deep in the secrets of her mind: “Nonnie. You must go see your daughter, Nonnie.”

  Trace looked at Mata Hari with the soft eyes of compassion. “What has happened?”

  “Miss Rutland. Trace. Vadime has been shot down. He’s badly injured. He has lost sight in both eyes. He’s in a hospital in Vittel. I must go to him. Will you come with me?”

  “I’m so sorry, Mata Hari. So very sorry. Is there any news from Edward?”

  Mata Hari held up the telegram. “This is from Edward. He said Vadime barely escaped death. He wants you to come with me. His airfield is not so far from the hospital. Will you come, Trace?”

  Trace stared into the distance, her thoughts tangling. She’d known this urgent moment would take place, and she’d agonized about it ever since she’d arrived in this time.

  Trace knew that Mata Hari, as a civilian of a neutral country, the Netherlands, would not be allowed near the battlefield to see Vadime. Her repeated requests to the French authorities would be persistently denied until she met with the French Secret Service and agreed to become a spy.

  This one meeting—this event—would be the beginning of the end for Mata Hari. It would eventually lead to her death by firing squad on October 15, 1917.

  “I don’t think you should go,” Trace blurted out.

  Mata Hari stared incredulous. “What are you saying? I must go. Of course, I simply must go see Vadime. And don’t you want to see Edward?”

  “They won’t let you see Captain Masloff.”

  “Who?”

  “The French. You’re from a neutral country.”

  “Then I’ll get papers. I have contacts. They’ll help me.”

  Trace shook her head, firmly. “No, Mata Hari.”

  “I don’t understand you. What kind of a woman are you? I love Vadime. He needs me. Especially now, he needs me. He must be scared, and in pain. He’ll need care and money. The Marquis gave me 3,000 francs. I asked for more, but he said times were difficult. So, I’ll use some of that money to see that Vadime gets the very best of care.”

  Trace saw that it was useless, so she tried another approach. “Why don’t I go for you? I’m sure Edward can help me get papers. His family is influential, and nobody knows me. I’m sure I could get to Vadime and help him. You can stay here—or even better—you could go to the Netherlands and, when Vadime is better, I’ll bring him to you.”

  Mata Hari’s mouth tightened, and her wary eyes looked Trace up and down with new suspicion. “What are you up to, Miss Rutland? What dangerous game are you playing?”

  “Mata Hari, I’m just trying to protect you.”

  “Protect me from what? I’m Mata Hari. I’m known all over Europe. I have connections and contacts. I know military officers and public officials. They will help me. I have influence with these men. Many have been my lovers.”

  Trace saw the pride rise in Mata Hari’s face as she straightened, lifting her imperious chin.

  Mata Hari continued. “The officers all adore me. I have always said that an officer is another being, a sort of artist, living outdoors with sparkles on his arms, and in a seductive uniform. I have had many lovers, but it is the beautiful officers I love—brave men, ready for battle, always sweet and gallant. For me, the officer forms a race apart. I have never truly loved any but officers. Those officers will come to my aid now, Trace, you can be sure of it, especially when they see that I am out to help one of their own.”

  Trace felt desperation rise. Should she tell Mata Hari the truth? Was this the time for that? Was it now or never? Would she listen and believe? Trace had to try. She must. What did she have to lose? If she didn’t try, history would play itself out again.

  Trace bolstered her confidence with a lift of her chin. “Mata Hari, before the war, you performed several times before Crown Prince Wilhelm, eldest son of Kaiser Wilhelm II, who is now a senior German general on the Western Front.” Mata Hari narrowed her eyes but stayed silent.

  Trace breathed in uncertainty and nerves. “Mata Hari, the French will probably want you to spy on Prince Wilhelm in return for being allowed to see Vadime. Please refuse them. Please. It will be a trap that could lead to your death. You will meet a French Army Captain named Georges Ladoux. He is an expert in counter-espionage. When you apply for traveling permission as a neutral Dutch national and a Francophile, Ladoux will propose that you spy for France against Germany—that is, try to get information from Prince Wilhelm. Once you agree, Ladoux will allow you to visit Captain Masloff. You may be tempted to do this because you need money for the long-term medical care of Vadime, but please, resist the temptation. Don’t do it.”

  Trace bored her eyes into Mata Hari. “Listen to me. Refuse to spy for France. Tell Ladoux no. Please.”

  Mata Hari’s stare turned to ice. Her body went rigid. “So, you are a spy after all, Miss Rutland. I knew it. Now it all makes sense. How you got here, and all the other secrets.”

  Trace opened her mouth to protest, but Mata Hari held up the flat of her hand to stop her.

  “Not another word, Miss Rutland. I don’t know what side you’re working for or what you’re after, but I want you out of here just as soon as you can leave. I want no part of this. I am an artist and a performer, and I want no part of this twisted political business.”

  Trace ducked her head, resigned, defeated.

  Mata Hari pivoted and strolled off aggressively down the pathway, leaving Trace in half shadow and half sunlight.

  CHAPTER 14

  Two days later, on a warm and cloudy summer afternoon, Trace arrived in Paris in a crowded train car. Outside, she found a cab, a black sputtering Renault, and she sat high on the back seat as it bumped along the cobbled streets toward 12, rue Vieille-du-Temple.

  She passed horse-drawn carriages and crowded canopied cafés spilling out onto the streets. Watchful policemen were mounted on magnificent horses, merging with the traffic. Trace took it all in with a startling wonder, as if she were watching an old colorized movie on the History Channel. It was magnificent and grand to see the soaring Paris monuments, the ornate architecture, the glorious arching fountains, and the well-dressed ladies strolling in aloof elegance, each in fine clothes, with
no signs of the loose, casual attire of her time.

  She watched the rambling, downcast soldiers, some on crutches, some with only one arm or one leg, evidence of the terrible war that was being fought only miles away. Her thoughts turned to Edward, and she wished she could call, text or email him. In the telegram he’d sent to Mata Hari about Vadime, he’d only given Trace a passing hello. Maybe he’d already cooled toward her.

  Trace stared out the open window, thinking it would be comforting to see a familiar face in the strolling crowds. In this time and place, she did not know another living soul, other than Mata Hari, the Marquis, Vadime and Edward. It gave her a desperately lonely feeling to know she had no parents or friends, no one she could call or write; no one to trust for help, except perhaps Edward.

  Fortunately, the Marquis had given her a letter of introduction and recommendation. Surely that would help her acquire a passport and thereby establish a legal identity in this time.

  Trace stared, alert and curious, as men in dark suits and mustaches pranced about the streets, smoking cigars or cigarettes, pausing to purchase a newspaper at a corner kiosk, or to lift a boot onto a bootblack's carpet-covered box, allowing the shoeshine boy to go to work.

  Trace had been forced to leave the chateau without the ring—the Mata Hari ring. Though she'd crept into Mata Hari's spacious room and searched for it when Mata Hari was out with the Marquis on a country drive, Trace couldn't find it. There had been so many trunks, and jewelry boxes, and letterboxes and hat boxes. She'd searched the chest of drawers, the closets, and the bathroom, but had come up empty.

  Mata Hari could have put the ring anywhere. Not finding the ring meant that Trace was marooned in this time, with no hope of returning to her own time, to her own life. Trace felt like the loneliest girl in the world.

  Mata Hari had not come to Trace’s room to say goodbye, although the day before, she had graciously helped Trace pack a trunk with dresses, shoes, makeup and jewelry. When Trace had asked about Paris hotels, Mata Hari had quietly written down three reasonably priced ones. Trace had chosen The Hotel Caron de Beaumarchais because it was close to Notre-Dame, the Ile Saint Louis and the banks of the Seine. Boutiques and restaurants were also nearby, as were newspaper kiosks.

  Trace checked into the 18th-century style hotel, with its spacious marble lobby, fine French style furniture, and center fountain featuring a gilded Diana the Huntress at the summit, her bow and arrow poised and ready to shoot.

  Trace's hotel room, if not large, was elegant, with a square bedroom, clean bathroom and little living room. The windows had bronze draperies tied back with tasseled swags, and looked out on the street below, to a bakery, a boutique and a café. Trace raised a window to allow a refreshing breeze in to cool the stuffy rooms, but she wished there was an air-conditioner to turn on.

  In the next few days, she would have to venture out to find cheaper lodgings, but for now, the hotel would provide her a sense of safety and comfort, which she badly needed. She would also need to find a job. Unlike Mata Hari, Trace did not want to be a “kept” woman, even though she was sure Edward would continue to give her money if she needed it, especially now that she was in Paris, where he’d wanted her to be.

  After she’d settled in, she opened her trunk and arranged her dresses in the closet, and then stored her makeup and toiletries in the bathroom. Minutes later she was sitting at the ornately carved writing desk. She took a piece of cream colored hotel stationery from the desk drawer, and a brushed gold fountain pen, and started a letter to Edward. She decided to alter her normal, more casual writing style, and use a more formal style, more appropriate to this time. Having not written a letter by hand in years, Trace took her time, forming the letters with care and with a bit of a flourish.

  Saturday, July 5th, 1916

  Dear Edward:

  I hope this letter finds you safe and well. I was so sorry to hear about Captain Masloff. I do hope he is recovering from his injuries. I am also hoping that you are not taking any unnecessary risks.

  Forgive me for not writing to you before now. I have been confused and fatigued. Perhaps someday, I will be able to tell you the truth about how I came to the chateau. I hope, in time, we will be able to get to know each other and trust each other. I did enjoy spending time with you, Edward.

  Mata Hari received your telegram and, as I'm sure you expected, she is leaving the chateau tomorrow morning and coming to Paris to stay at the Grand Hotel. Once settled, she hopes to get the necessary papers or traveling approval from the French military authorities, so she can visit Captain Masloff in Vittel. I don't think it will be easy for her since she is from a neutral country, and I hear the French are very strict about that kind of thing, but she is determined.

  As you can see from the letterhead, I am in Paris, staying at The Hotel Caron de Beaumarchais. Since Mata Hari was leaving for Paris and then Vittel, I thought it best for me to leave as well. If you wrote me a letter addressed to the chateau, I probably will not receive it for some weeks. I do not plan to return to the chateau, nor do I believe Mata Hari will return. I did tell the butler, Fabrice, to forward all letters to me here at the hotel. I hope he will do so. Even if I move from here—which I intend to do as soon as I find more affordable lodgings—the front desk said they would hold my mail for a time, since I told them the letters will be coming from a soldier, who is fighting on the Front. They were very kind and reassuring.

  I am also writing because I was hoping you would be granted a leave in the near future. Do you envision such a leave anytime soon? I would love to see Paris with you. I would love to spend more time with you, so do take care of yourself and come to Paris when you can. When I move, I will send you my new address.

  Until then, Edward, I am sending you a kiss and many prayers that God will protect you as you fly over the Western Front.

  Trace

  Outside on the warm Paris streets, Trace felt out of place and vulnerable, like a stranger at a fancy vintage dress party. Everything and every person was strange and utterly captivating: the old cars with their squeaky horns; the ladies in long satin and chiffon dresses and elegant hats; the men sauntering in suits and ties, despite the heat, wearing various hat styles, from bowlers to fedoras to derby tweed flat caps.

  The world of 1916 was distinctively different from her own time in countless ways. The people had a distinctive bearing—more erect and less casual, as if they took pride in the style and color of their clothes. Besides the obvious distinction of language and dress, there seemed a more patient resignation to time. Traffic moved more slowly, and there wasn’t the intrusion of jet airplanes overhead, or the thumping, chopping blades of helicopters, or the humming sounds of generators and air-conditioners.

  Trace strolled along the edge of the Seine, taking in the stately Notre-Dame-de-Paris Cathedral rising in the distance. She ambled past painters wearing berets, watched lovers on benches holding hands, some locked in an embrace, and smiled at shabbily dressed kids as they waved to the boats on the river. Had Paris changed much in over a hundred years?

  Trace recalled a time in the future—2015—when she’d traveled to Paris with a girlfriend for a quick four-day vacation. Although many of the landmarks were the same, and her walk along the Seine at that time had been similar, this 1916 Paris was a world apart. It was more romantic in many ways, more formal and rustic to be sure, with nearly all the men smoking, the streets and sidewalks littered with cigarette butts, and the ever-present scent of bread, flowers and horse manure. And yet, even in this time of war, it was easy to see that Paris was a vibrant city bustling with life, art and pleasure.

  Trace knew, from her reading of history, that it would all change in just a few short months, as the war intensified.

  At war’s end in 1919, signs of the Great War’s impact would be everywhere. There would be an influx of desperate refugees fleeing the devastated regions in the north. There would be piles of rubble and boarded-up windows where German bombs had fallen, along with a gapin
g crater in the Tuileries rose garden. Along the Grand Boulevards, the rows of chestnuts would have gaps where trees had been cut for firewood.

  And as Trace paused to take in the Cathedral of Notre-Dame, she knew it wouldn’t be long before the great windows would be missing, their stained glass stored for safety and, in their place, pale yellow panes would wash the interior with a strange, eerie light.

  Trace knew that even now, there were shortages of coal, milk, and bread, and that that would only increase. Trace had seen photos of flags of victory fluttering from the lampposts and windows, and she’d seen heart-wrenching photos of limbless men and discharged soldiers in frayed old army uniforms, begging for change on street corners.

  The Paris women would put away their pretty clothes and, instead, they’d wear the dark clothes of mourning, because nearly all of them would have lost a son, a father, a husband or a brother.

  Trace felt her spirits deflate, and her shoulders sagged. This was the price of knowing the future and being helpless to do anything to change it, short of something radical, like plotting someone’s death, which Trace could never do.

  Which brought her to her next thought. How could she travel to the Netherlands to see Nonnie? She’d have to find a way to get a passport.

  Her unsteady thoughts shifted again—to Edward. As she wandered back toward the hotel, she saw an elderly woman pass, plodding along with a cane and a slight limp. She gave Trace a sweet, worried smile, as if she could read Trace’s thoughts. Trace nodded and smiled back, wondering if Edward would survive the war, and as the sun broke through the clouds, Trace realized she missed Edward. She missed him a lot, and as she walked the busy streets, she wondered if he was right when he’d suggested that they had known each other in some past life. In some ways, it sounded possible. She had felt an immediate connection to him—a startling attraction, as if they were old lovers being united after a long absence. Before her time travel adventure, she would have thought the whole thing a New Age notion. Now, she wasn’t so sure. Now, she wasn’t so sure about anything. A quote from Shakespeare’s Hamlet came to mind. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”