He shook his head, ignoring her. “Not until all these ambulances pass, unload the wounded and give us the all clear.”
Mata Hari shook her head, discouraged and upset. “Before this damned war, Vittel attracted thousands of wealthy visitors. It had a casino, polo grounds and a race course. The waters here are soothing for the liver, kidneys and stomach. Look at it now. Look at these poor, beautiful men, broken and dying. God in heaven, it makes me so angry, Trace. So very angry at the violence and the waste caused by this intolerable war.”
A half hour later, they arrived at the Hotel de Ville, where Vadime and other wounded officers were convalescing. Mata Hari and Trace entered the hotel lobby and handed over their papers to the cautious, imposing soldier. They waited nervously as he examined the papers in obsessive detail, looking up several times with a wary glance and an accusing manner when he saw Mata Hari. Obviously, this soldier was not a fan.
The entire hotel had been turned into a hospital, and highly trained Catholic nuns and orderlies moved about, pushing wheelchairs or accompanying the soldiers outside to sit in the sunshine.
When the women were finally permitted entry into the hotel, they approached a stern, bad-tempered nurse at the front desk who gave them a once-over of disapproval. The woman’s narrowed eyes revealed that she recognized Mata Hari, and she was another who was not pleased to have this wanton woman in her hospital.
With an imperious, upturned chin, and after an adjustment of her extravagant hat made of gold and silver feathers, Mata Hari asked to see Captain Masloff. The nurse grunted a barely audible reply, telling her she would have to wait to be escorted.
An endless thirty minutes later, a weary, distracted orderly led Trace and Mata Hari down a long, red, carpeted corridor, through a side doorway and out across a spreading green lawn, where soldiers sat in wheelchairs or wicker chairs, or wandered under cool, shady trees.
Vadime sat relaxing in a wicker chair, dressed in his dark uniform, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper. When Mata Hari called to him, he dropped the paper to his lap, and his face lit up, revealing a black eyepatch over his left eye. He pushed up slowly, propping himself upright with a cane, as Mata Hari rushed to him, tears in her eyes. Trace watched them embrace and kiss, and she backed away to allow them privacy.
News of Mata Hari’s arrival had spread, and curious soldiers had left the hotel to gather in whispering groups, their enquiring eyes watching as Mata Hari and Vadime strolled off through sunlight and shade toward a distant pond, Vadime with his cane, obviously favoring his right leg.
Trace had two hours before she was to meet Edward, if he was on time. His last telegram had warned that he might be late, or that he might not make it at all. Trace was escorted to a taxi and she motored off to the elegant and expensive Vittel Grand Hotel, where Mata Hari had insisted they stay. At the train station, Mata Hari had had the trunks, suitcases and hat boxes sent ahead to the hotel.
Trace checked at the hotel lobby desk, then climbed the wide, royal blue carpeted staircase to the second floor, where she was escorted to a well-appointed suite.
Once she was alone, she hurriedly unpacked some of her clothes, surprised at how nervous she was to see Edward again. She felt like a teenager about to go on her first date.
To distract her mind, she went to the tall windows that opened out on a beautiful view of the landscaped gardens, distant woods and wide blue sky, her mind again consumed with thoughts of being with Edward.
Although they had exchanged many letters over the last weeks, and Edward had declared to her that he was falling deeply in love, she had been restrained in her response. Nonetheless, she continued to feel a flowering affection for him. His letters had been heartfelt and tender, not frivolous or carefree, and they were filled with a kind of desperation. In his last letter, in which he had enclosed more money, he had written:
“I feel so lost these days, Trace. I'm so tired of flying and fighting; of watching my friends die; of living with my stomach in knots and my heart aching for another chance to see you and spend a glorious day with you. Yes, I know we have spent so little time together and we know so little about each other, but war and death, and the sterling thought of living my life with you, have all sharpened my desire to beat this awful war and stay alive. Having met you has lent imagination and a man's wonder at the romantic thought of loving you for all time. You have captured my heart, Trace, and forgive the Eton College schoolboy sentiment, and the Cambridge graduate who could write his feelings in Greek and Latin (although not so eloquently) but I'd rather say it in English, the simple way: I have simply fallen in love with you, Trace, and I don't care if we just met an hour ago or ten years ago.
Deep in the lonely night, I allow my excessive emotions to think of you as if you were already my wife, my lover and my friend. I silently kiss you and have conversations with you. Don’t think me daft, Trace, just think kindly and lovingly towards me.
Please don’t stop writing to me, dearest Trace. I would surely wither and die without your letters—your wonderful letters. I am so looking forward to seeing you again. I’ve had so many dreams about it—and about you. I just want to hold you, Trace, and never let you go. There are so many things I want to tell you.
Trace turned from the windows, allowing her hesitant eyes to rest on Mata Hari’s trunk and luggage. Should she search for the ring? No, not now, not until after Mata Hari had unpacked. Still, Trace was tempted, once again pushing down an urgency that was always there: the ring could take her back to her own time.
What lay heavy on Trace’s mind was that she was being followed, and she didn’t like it. At Vittel, when she’d entered the taxi, she’d noticed a short, stubby man enter the taxi behind hers.
Unless she could get away from Mata Hari, and soon, she would undoubtedly get pulled into some police station for questioning. That could possibly lead to her undoing. She had no past. No past in this time meant she was undoubtedly a spy. Spies could be tried and shot.
A little over an hour later, as Trace lay resting on a button-tufted, emerald velvet sofa, she heard a knock on the door. Arising, adjusting her hair, her heart racing, she walked briskly across the deep carpet to the door. She swung it open to see a cupid-faced bellboy dressed in a royal blue uniform with polished brass buttons. He smiled and handed her a sealed envelope. With a flush of excitement, she opened it, completely unaware that the bellboy was politely waiting for his tip.
It was from Edward.
Your own doting flyer is downstairs, waiting to kiss you. Please come.
CHAPTER 18
Trace’s eyes sparked as soon as she saw Edward in the hotel lobby. They quickly closed the distance between them and fell into each other’s arms, remaining in an embrace as guests passed, watched and whispered.
Later, as Trace and Edward sat in the hotel’s stylish Tea Room, near windows that looked out on a wide green lawn, gentle flower gardens and splashing fountains, Edward stared at her with tired, worshiping eyes and a warm smile.
Trace noticed a softer shade of character in his face, as if his daily encounters with death had humbled him, matured him. He had aged, and there was a weary fatigue evident in his posture and speech.
On the white tablecloth, the silver tea service and porcelain cups were accompanied by little cakes and sandwiches artistically displayed. The palm court orchestra played genteel waltzes.
The couple didn’t talk for a time. They sipped tea, silently studying each other with a new pleasure.
“I can’t believe I’m actually here, looking at you, Trace,” Edward said. “I’ve dreamed about it often enough.”
Trace smiled warmly. “You look very tired, Edward. You must be so sick of war.”
“Not now, Trace. Not here with you in this place. No talk about war and flying.”
He looked about. “Here, it’s all quite civilized, isn’t it? It’s actually quite jarring to be here like this, away from the flying and killing.”
“Do you have to go
back?”
He laughed a little. “No. Never. I’ve decided to steal you away and run off to South America or the United States. We’ll live with your relatives. They’ll love me.”
Trace smiled, her eyes sharpening on him. “They’ll definitely love you, Edward.”
“And we’ll live the life of our dreams.”
Trace sighed. “A nice thought, Edward.”
Edward rested his chin on a fist, gazing dreamily at her. “I know this is devilishly bad manners, elbow on the table, staring like a perfect lout, but I don’t care. Trace, I have something I want to say, and I don’t want you to say anything until I’m finished. Agreed?”
“No. You have to give me some idea of what you're going to say.”
“So, you have no idea what is in my head—what has been in my head since I left you—which, by the way, seems like a year ago?”
She kept her eyes on him. “I have some idea.”
“Trace, before I met you, I was living in a violent world that was resolute on destroying itself.”
“I’d say it still is… and I’ll further say that the world will continue to do so for a long time to come.”
“Be that as it may. I was trapped in a world-weary struggle that was making me morose and cynical. I had deep suspicions about life, about dark human emotions and mankind’s devious motives. I believed that the savage gods that rule civilized folk had gone to sleep or just stopped caring about what happened to the human race. But then… I met you.”
Trace opened her mouth to speak, but Edward stopped her with a hand up.
“Let me say my piece, Trace, and then you can speak yours. Okay?”
Reluctantly, Trace agreed.
Edward straightened, smoothing out his uniform and adjusting his tie. He reached for her hand and, at his touch, she felt a quick current of thrilling emotion.
Their eyes met. “Trace, I feel liberated and free. Whenever I think of you, I feel happiness and optimism. I don’t give a damn what happens to the human race. All I want is for us to be together. Therefore, I want us to get married, and as soon as possible.”
As if on cue, the orchestra finished their set and the room dropped into silence.
Trace sat very still, her mind a blank.
Edward frowned. “You look surprised, Trace. Well, actually, you look a bit woozy. Didn’t my letters convey my love for you?”
Trace blinked. Of course, she had imagined he’d say it, but imagining it is different from actually hearing it. And seeing Edward in the flesh, and being lost in his handsome, hopeful face as he sat there stiffly waiting for her answer, was something she couldn’t have imagined.
“Everything in my life has led me to you, Trace. It has led me to this moment and to this time, and to this one lovely thing: you. I hate to sound like such a silly romantic fool, but all day and all night I hear the melody of you, and it enchants me, and it haunts me, and it thrills me. It’s what keeps me alive, Trace.”
Trace felt the weight of the moment, and she was moved by the poetry of his words. No man she’d ever dated before had been capable of such a flowery declaration of love.
Trace searched for the right words. “Edward, we don’t really know each other. We’ve had no real, quality time together.”
“Then we’ll make up the time, loving each other.”
“We’ve only just met. How can I say I’ll marry you?”
“Because you feel what I feel, Trace. You know it, and you feel it, don’t you? You felt our connection right from the beginning, didn’t you? Yes, I know you did. What do I care about when we met? What does time have to do with anything, if you feel love so strongly in your heart? Time is just some imagined thing, Trace. Some arbitrary measurement that’s just an illusion. What counts are feelings and emotions. What really counts is love. Don’t you see?”
Trace felt embraced by Edward, surrounded by him, but she was torn and conflicted by confusion and passion. No matter what he said, and how persuasively he articulated it, the truth was, they didn’t know each other. The truth was, they had just met and exchanged some letters.
Edward leaned in. “I can hear your mind working, Trace. Tell me, what you are thinking?”
If she said yes to Edward—if she married Edward—she would no doubt have to stay in this century and live in his vast and extravagant country home with his wealthy family. She would be expected to perform all the domestic duties women were required to do—with all the ceremony and polish they entailed—not that she knew exactly what those duties would be.
She would also be subjected to all the limitations of being a woman in this time, the silly beliefs, the many constraints. She would not be allowed to have a career, and chances were, she’d be tucked away like some ornament—loved, certainly—but also restricted.
Edward was inspecting her face, searching for an answer in her eyes and in her expression.
If Trace didn’t marry Edward, would his disappointment weaken his resolve to live? How would she feel if he was killed in the next few days? Could she live with that?
“Don’t you love me just a little, Trace?” Edward asked, in a small voice.
Trace did care for Edward. Even though they’d spent little time together, each word, each look had carried weight and purpose. She had definitely felt that. Each touch was new and exciting, yet breathlessly familiar. But was it love? Had she ever been in love before? No.
How could she say no to Edward, when he was about to return to war? How could she say yes?
She started to speak but faltered. She tried again. “Edward, what will your family say? They’ve never met me. I’m an American. I have no title, and no titled family, property or wealth. They’ll want to know how we met—when we met. They’ll be disappointed in you and hate me. It’s all too fast, Edward. We must think this through carefully and rationally. It’s just so… so fast.”
Edward grinned. “Fast? My family hate you, Trace? Impossible. Once they meet you, like me, they’ll fall in love with you. Anyway, I don’t care that it’s fast, and I don’t give a damn what they or anyone else says about how I feel for you. My family lives in an entirely different world from me. I see death and dying every day. It sharpens my mind and my senses. It shows me how delicate and precious and fast life is. It shows me what is important. That’s all that matters to me, Trace. Right now, you and I are all that matter to me. Will you marry me?” he said, his eyes twinkling with excitement and expectation.
Trace looked at him, taking him in fully, and silence fell between them.
Perhaps Edward was right. What was time anyway? Here she was in this place and time, being offered marriage to a handsome, rich guy, who obviously adored her. What the hell did it matter what time or place it was? Danger was all around. Uncertainty was everywhere, like a threat, and maybe it always had been. Life in her time, and in this time, were unstable and confused. So what if the whole thing seemed impossible? How nice it would be to have someone who loved her with such dedication and devotion.
And then there was the burning question. What if she turned him down and Edward was killed? She would be devastated, and she would blame herself for all time.
Trace slowly lifted her nervous eyes to his, still uncertain. “You will have to write to Miss Pemberton, Edward. You must. You’re engaged to her.”
He looked at her, meaningfully, folding his hands on the table. “I already have written to her, Trace. I wrote her two days after we met, and I broke off the engagement. After I met you, I knew there was nothing between Miss Pemberton and me. Nothing but friendship, that is. Now, finally, will you marry me, Trace?”
Trace swallowed.
“Trace, will you?” he said with restless, impatient energy.
Perhaps living in this time would not be so bad after all. Perhaps living on a beautiful estate and raising children with Edward would not be so bad. Actually, living a life with Edward and a family could work out—perhaps it would be a better fate than if she returned to her own time, where ro
mance and marriage had become confusing, to say the least.
“And face it,” she thought to herself. “It’s not like you’ve ever met a man in your own time who even remotely turned you on as much as Edward does. Just looking at him makes you weak in the knees.”
Trace’s smile started small, then stalled. Edward leaned forward, waiting.
“If I say yes, Edward, will you promise me that we won’t live with your family? Will you promise me that we will have our own home?”
“Of course we’ll have our own home, Trace. I told you about it. It’s a lovely place in Henley on Thames. You will love it. I promise you.”
Trace inhaled a breath and let it out slowly, still fighting apprehension. “All right, Edward, then I will marry you. Yes.”
Edward leapt up, circled the table, grabbed her shoulders and lifted her to her feet, holding her at arm’s length.
“Hurrah, Trace! Hurrah!”
He pulled her into his arms for an embrace.
Startled heads turned. There were sour faces, happy faces and shy faces, all gawking at the couple with keen interest. Edward didn’t care about propriety.
Their lips met, and a flicker of a kiss soon deepened and flowered, and Trace flushed with swelling desire, as Edward’s strong arms pulled her tightly against him.
If nothing else, Trace thought, heat rushing to her face, the sex will be great.
CHAPTER 19
Trace and Edward were married three days later, on Saturday, July 29th, at St. Michael’s Anglican Church, an old stone church about two miles from town. Twelve pilots from Edward’s flying unit attended, along with six airplane mechanics and three of their French girlfriends. Mata Hari and Vadime were there, along with a few doctors, nurses, orderlies and officers, many of whom were anxious to catch a glimpse of Mata Hari.
When Mata Hari was told about Trace’s and Edward’s plans to marry, she’d once again come to the rescue. She was all hand-patting and efficiency, with a girlish excitement and energy that galvanized everyone.
The Lost Mata Hari Ring Page 14
