She proudly presented Trace with a stupendous flowing dress made from fine cream cotton, trimmed in silk, with silver beads and long ruffled sleeves. The matching shoes fit tightly, and pinched Trace’s toes, but the broad white silk hat with a plume of ostrich feathers was a definite standout.
When the first notes of the pipe organ swelled with The Wedding March, Captain Masloff and Trace linked arms and started down the aisle, Vadime still needing the aid of his cane to walk.
Edward’s eyes shined with love and adoration as he watched his bride glide toward him, beaming, floating in a graceful radiance. Mata Hari had styled Trace’s hair high, in cascades of long, easy curls, and with the hat tipped to one side, her hair gleamed under the soft candlelight.
Trace’s heart opened fully when her misty eyes took in Edward in his crisp military uniform, standing tall and resplendent, his hand reaching out for her as she approached.
During the ceremony, she hovered in a kind of trance as the minister uttered the pretty, lofty words that would join the two for “as long as you both shall live.” She remained calm and quiet as Edward produced the diamond ring he'd purchased only the day before, promising her he'd replace it with a 3.31-carat platinum ring, a family heirloom, when they traveled home to England. Tears stood in Trace's eyes as he gently slipped the ring on her finger and whispered, “Forever, Trace.”
After they were pronounced man and wife, their lips brushed several times before Edward leaned in for a passionate kiss. Mata Hari wept, and the congregation seemed to hold its breath, as they waited for the newlyweds to break from their long embrace.
The reception was held at the glorious gold-leaf mirrored Hotel de Ville ballroom, where the chandeliers glistened, the champagne flowed, and the nine-piece orchestra thrilled the room with waltzes, tangos and the foxtrot.
Trace was delightfully impressed by Edward’s skillful dancing. They circled the floor, all laughter and elegance, dipping and twirling to applause, tilting under the luster of chandelier light, Trace feeling the buzz of the Champagne.
As the party began to wind down, Trace and Edward swept from the ballroom to the awaiting carriage. The humid night air, the close, blinking stars, and a round, buttery moon made the night wildly romantic, as if it had been ordered especially for them.
And then the white enclosed carriage and the proud chestnut horse carried them away to intimacy, and toward a new, soon-to-be unwrapped life. They could only pray that their budding love would grow, and their life together would flower.
Trace and Edward sat close, hands clasped, as the single horse carriage trotted through the quiet, winding cobblestone streets, arriving at a quaint, three-story hotel on the outskirts of town. Here, they’d spend their two-day honeymoon. Edward had to be back at his unit, a subject they refused to discuss.
At the heavy mahogany front desk, Edward signed the leather register in the name Mr. and Mrs. Edward Bishop. The stout hotel matron grinned at them, showing gapped teeth. With a clasp of hands and emotional wet eyes, she said something in French that neither Edward nor Trace understood. They thanked her in French, and that excited her, starting another round of rapid-fire French that the couple couldn’t comprehend.
The honeymoon suite was on the third floor. The concierge toted the bags up the stairs with a straining effort, cursing the out-of-order bird-nest elevator. Edward had offered to help the man, but he refused. He was small, spare and old, and he sighed a lot, muttering things in French that seemed like incantations to the gods asking for the strength to survive another day.
Edward shouldered open the heavy oak door, swept Trace up in his arms and carried her across the threshold, her eyes filled with laughter.
It was a wide room with an ancient four-poster bed, covered by a thick cream comforter and a scattering of fresh rose pedals, which Edward had ordered earlier. Trace squealed with pleasure, planting a wet kiss on his nose.
Back on her feet, she explored the swallow-you-up green quilted chair, the faded patterned rug, and the gleaming pine fireplace. Several potpourris placed about the room gave off fragrances of vanilla and rose.
On the center table were two large vases, both blooming with fresh flowers that Mata Hari had chosen. Trace skimmed her nose over them, inhaling the sweet, delicate scents.
Edward reached for Trace and pulled her close, staring at her completely and silently. He touched her cheek and, in a whisper, he said, “I love you with all my heart, Trace. We are going to have a wonderful life together. I promise.”
They’d forgotten about the concierge. He cleared his throat and lowered the bags, speaking in English. “Do you like fire? More fire for you?”
“No thanks,” Edward said, reaching into his pocket and drawing out some coins. He handed them to the thankful man. “Thank you, Monsieur. Everything is perfect. Thank you for all your assistance.”
The man bobbed a bow. “Merci, Monsieur …”
And then he was gone, closing the door softly behind him. The newlyweds were alone at last.
Edward placed his hands on his hips, examining the room. “I chose this old place because it seemed romantic somehow. Being the hopeless romantic that I am, I thought we’d remember it always: the frayed carpet, the broken elevator, the quaint furniture and…” His eyes strayed toward the bed. “The double bed.”
Trace felt a sudden rush of love for Edward. Had a woman ever been so loved by a man? By a handsome and courageous man? By a good man?
Trace lifted a shoulder and slowly moved into him, parting her lips, holding him in her eyes. “I do love you, Edward.”
Edward switched off the light and, in the firelight, they danced for a time to silent music, kissing, touching, working their way toward the bed, slowly undressing. Trace felt Edward’s heat and stiff desire, and it made her high and wanting. All the questions, the ragged emotions, the confusion she’d felt since arriving in this time, soon melted away when Edward kissed her and made love to her.
Trace awoke deep into the night. Flickering firelight played on the walls and she heard the occasional crackle of burning wood. She smelled pine, and the hovering scent of fresh flowers. Edward must have built a new fire after she’d fallen asleep, and as she watched the dancing flames, she was gripped by fear. How much longer would Edward have to fly in this war and risk his life? It seemed unfair and impossible that he would have to leave her and fly against men who wanted to kill him. He was a good and a true man. A sweet and strong lover, and they had joined so easily, so tenderly, so profoundly. Love for him arose and expanded and filled every part of her. How had that happened? Where had it come from?
She turned to watch Edward sleep, partially covered by the comforter, his breathing soft, his hair askew, his eyes fluttering.
What was he dreaming? she thought. She watched him for a while, wonderingly, before gently leaving the bed and slipping into a creamy satin robe, another gift from Mata Hari.
Barefoot, she went to the fire and gazed at it, enchanted by the trembling flames. Folding her arms across her chest, she wandered to the window, parted the heavy curtains and stared out into the dark night.
A bright blue click of lightning crawled across the sky. There was a distant rumble of thunder, and as she lifted the window, a wet wind rushed in. She smelled rain.
Somewhere out in that volatile night world was her world—the world in the future—the world of her time. What was going on in that world? Had it stopped since she’d left, or was it rolling along, jet airplanes crossing the skies; cars and trucks racing along freeways; TVs, laptops, cell phones all active with communication; and the unending 24-hour news cycle beating out the events of the day? What were the new TV shows, the new movies, the new Broadway musicals? How were her family and friends? Well, none of them had been born yet. They didn’t exist, did they? The future, her future, was so far away.
She watched fidgety veins of lightning flash, lighting up the world like flashbulbs. Thunder tumbled in closer, and soon the first drops of rain struck the
window.
Minutes later, rain fell so hard it roared. The storm did not awaken Edward. Good, she wanted him to sleep. She’d seen the deep fatigue in his eyes as they’d danced, laughed and celebrated. She wanted him to sleep and erase the violent images of war and death. She wanted him to rest and forget that they would be separated in two days. She wanted his good and kind mind to heal.
As the rain pelted down, Trace stared, recalling the conversation they’d shared after that first delicious climax. Edward had kissed her hair and neck, traced her lips with a finger, and whispered lovely, romantic things. Things about forever.
“When I leave, you’ll go home to England, Trace. You’ll be safe there, and you’ll have everything you’ll want or need. I won’t be able to get a leave for quite a while now. Things are really heating up again.”
Trace had been gently startled by that. “Edward, I’m not going off and leaving you. I’ll stay in Paris.”
“No, Trace… It’s not safe. It’s not safe for you to stay with Mata Hari.”
“What do you mean, Edward?” she asked, although she knew what he meant—of course she knew. She just didn’t know that he knew.
“My dear one… There’s talk about Mata Hari, and from more than just one source.”
Trace pressed. “What kind of talk?”
Edward adjusted himself so that he was looking down at her. Edward had not yet built the new fire, and in the darkness, she could see only his silhouette.
“Trace, Mata Hari is not as popular or as young as she once was, and she’s fallen out of favor with some very powerful people. She wants to marry Vadime. She needs money and, worst of all, she is very naive about the realities of this war and espionage.”
Trace lifted up. “Espionage?”
“Yes, Trace. I hear she may be spying for the Germans, as well as for the French. Now that may sound absurd to you, but I heard it from a reliable source—from my brother, Thomas, who works for British intelligence in London. Thomas said that just before Mata Hari traveled down here, she was approached by the Deuxième Bureau, France’s external military intelligence agency, and was asked to spy on Germany. The only reason she was allowed to come and see Vadime is because she agreed to be a spy. But there’s even more disturbing talk: that she is also spying for the Germans, and she’s doing this because she needs money for her and Vadime. If she is spying for Germany, Trace, she’s playing a very foolish and dangerous game.”
“She’s not, Edward. I know that for a fact. She is not spying for the Germans. She took money from them because she was broke, but she didn’t take the spying seriously. If anything, she’s spying for the Allies. For the French.”
The room settled into silence, and she couldn’t see Edward’s expression. When Edward spoke, his voice was at a troubled whisper.
“And how do you know this? How do you know anything about this, Trace?”
Trace sagged back down, wishing she hadn’t been so talkative. “Because I know, that’s all.”
“Did she tell you?”
“No… well, no, not exactly… Well, some things,” Trace said, as an afterthought, to make her knowledge sound plausible.
“You’re being evasive, Trace. Why? You’re worrying me.”
Trace reached up, wrapped a hand around Edward's neck and pulled him down for a kiss. Afterward, Edward rolled over on his back, and laid an arm across his forehead.
Trace lifted up on an elbow to look at him. “Edward, don’t ask me to go to England to live with people I’ve never met, and who won’t want me. I can’t do it. We’re married, and I am going to stay in Paris where I can be close to you.”
Edward sighed. “Trace, part of what made me fall in love with you was your mystery. I felt it the first time we met—all the secrets you keep. Yes, that was very attractive. A mystery woman. You’re a walking secret, a kind of riddle, a code that I can’t crack. But now, things are different. We are married now, and I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me.”
“Trace…sometimes I wonder if I know who you really are. I still don’t know where you came from—and I don’t believe a damned word about your performing with some traveling theatre group. Why can’t you trust me and just tell me the truth about things? We are man and wife now, Trace. Why can’t you tell me who you are?”
“Because I can’t right now. I just can’t. I told you we didn’t know each other. I said we were getting married too fast.”
“Stop it, Trace. We got married because we love each other.”
Trace dropped onto her back with a heavy sigh. “Edward, you’re going off to war and I don’t know if I can bear it. What am I going to do while you’re gone? I’ll be worried sick every day, wondering how you are and where you are.”
Edward sat up. “Let’s not talk about it, Trace. Not tonight, of all nights. Tonight, there is no war. Tonight, I don’t give a damn about your past or what you’ve done. I don’t even care if you’re a spy.”
Trace sat up, sharply. “I’m not a spy, Edward.”
“Fine. I don’t care, but I do care that by your being with Mata Hari, you could be suspected of being a spy, as she is now. The French are very paranoid right now, Trace. They are shooting spies. The Allies are losing a lot of men—thousands of men in every battle—and they need scapegoats to save their careers and their own necks. I’ve even heard rumblings that some military divisions have begun to talk about mutiny. People in France and England want an end to this bloody war, and they are sick and tired of incompetent leaders. Trace, all I want is for you to be safe. That’s why I want you to go to England, away from all this cloak and dagger business. You’ll be safe there with my family, and I’ll feel so much better about it. I’ll come to you as soon as all this killing business is over, and we’ll move into our own house. You’ll love it, Trace. I promise you. Will you do that for me? Will you go to England?”
The storm had passed, and the fire was slowly dying when Trace turned from the window, her shoulders sagging. The quick breeze that blew in was cooler. She shivered and lowered the window.
She couldn’t lie to Edward. She had finally told him she couldn’t go to England. Not without him.
Edward had taken her declaration in silence, finally turning away from her and falling asleep.
Trace didn’t tell him that as soon as he left for war, she had plans to travel to The Hague to see Louise Jeanne MacLeod—Nonnie—Mata Hari’s daughter—Trace’s daughter. Trace had to convince her to see a doctor so that she wouldn’t die, either from a cerebral hemorrhage or from complications related to congenital syphilis, on August 10, 1919, at only 21 years of age.
But what about the Mata Hari ring? No matter what happened, Trace still needed that emerald ring, and she was determined to get it before she left for The Hague. With that ring, Trace would have the choice to stay in this time for as long as she wished, or to return to her own time, if things suddenly turned bad, or if something happened to Edward.
CHAPTER 20
Trace and Edward spent their two honeymoon days in glorious sunshine, exploring the countryside on bikes, picnicking on a mossy green hill, wading through clear, cold streams, and sharing stories of their childhood. It would have been ideal if Trace hadn’t been required to be on guard, to make sure she gave no hint of her “other” identity. Any story she told had to be reset in the early twentieth century.
They avoided any talk about the war or the future. At night they dined locally, strolled under a gray marbled moon, and returned to their little nest to sip wine and make love, while the fireplace hissed and popped, and firelight played across the walls.
During those wandering days, Trace felt torment and ecstasy. She had fallen in love quickly, and her rich love had now deepened. It helped to heal and soothe her. Edward’s kisses softened the anxiety of future and past, and chased away nightmares. His love had a transformative effect and, for a time, all the pieces that had been broken and scattered were mended
and whole.
But the cruel knowledge that Edward would soon be flying again, fighting again, rushed the loving hours, and that was a torment. What would she do if he didn’t return? She couldn’t even think the word ‘killed.’ What would she do if he was taken from her? And what would she do if he did return? Could she continue to live a lie for the rest of her life here, constantly in fear that she would make a mistake and say something suspicious? If she managed to find the ring, could she persuade Edward to time travel with her to an uncertain future, where he would have no wealth and no social standing? And what if they had a child? There were no clear answers, no clear decisions, no clarity anywhere.
Edward left on Tuesday, August 1st, on an overcast day—a gloomy day that threatened rain, with moving gray clouds lowering to the tops of trees. The two lovers had returned by carriage to the Hotel de Ville, Edward forcing smiles and Trace struggling to hold back tears.
Edward held her close, looking skyward. “Not good flying weather,” he said. “Lots of wind up there.”
“Don’t talk about flying, Edward. Not now.”
“All right, my dear.”
He looked at her softly and held her eyes. “Trace, I have cabled my parents and written them a long letter about my feelings for you, and about our marriage. I told them that if anything happens to me they are to ensure you are provided for.”
“Edward, I don’t want…”
Edward cut her off. “Shhhh. Let me finish. And they will provide for you. I have included all the particulars for your provision in my will, which I drew up the day before we were married, and I have sent copies to my solicitor and to my parents. Everything will be quite legal. You will never want for anything, Trace. As my wife, you will always have money, property and a comfortable home.”
The tears streamed down Trace’s cheeks, and she didn’t bother to wipe them away.
“Nothing is going to happen to you, Edward, do you hear me? You are coming back to me,” she said with a choking sob.
“Of course, my darling,” he said, giving her a peck of a kiss. “Of course, I’m coming back. But this way, while I’m still flying, I’ll know that you will be taken care of. I’ll feel so much better knowing that, Trace.”
The Lost Mata Hari Ring Page 15
