Trace pulled a hanky from her purse and blotted her eyes.
“Do you know, Trace, that this is the first time I have seen you really cry? Small tears, yes, but these big ones, well…”
Trace turned away from him, aware that he was trying to lighten their parting.
“I get all splotchy when I cry. I look terrible. Listen to me, I sound like a whiny…” She stopped.
Edward gently turned her chin to face him. He grinned, playfully. “You’re right, Trace, you do look awful when you cry.”
Trace playfully slapped him on the arm, and he laughed.
As they left the carriage, Mata Hari and Vadime met them, their expressions sad. They all said their goodbyes with hugs and kisses. Vadime grabbed Edward’s shoulders firmly, and he held his friend at arm’s length, staring with a solemn face. In a deep, determined voice, he said, “You be wise and strong up there, Edward. Don’t try to be a hero.”
“You mean like you, Vadime?”
“I must try to be a hero, Edward, for my Mata Hari. I’ll be back in the fight in a month or so. So, look for me.”
“No, you won’t,” Mata Hari said, sharply. “You will not fly again in those flimsy machines anymore. I forbid it.”
Vadime released Edward, turned to Mata Hari and laughed. “Whatever you say, my sweetheart,” and then he winked at Edward.
As Edward’s car rolled away down the drive and curved around a grove of trees, disappearing into the haze of the day, a sick misery arose in Trace. Vadime and Mata Hari tried to comfort her, but she left them, walking off toward the little rippling duck pond, as an urgency built in her chest.
Trace circled the pond, watching two swans glide and drift, watching ducks paddle about lazily and then waddle up on the grass, flapping their wet wings.
She felt as though she were being pulled in all directions: the past, the present and the future. How would she ever manage to survive without Edward? He had simply opened her heart to a love she’d never believed existed.
Being back in her hotel suite with Mata Hari was painful. How she missed Edward already. Later that evening, she declined an invitation to dine with Mata Hari, Vadime and a Colonel Orlofsky, saying she had a headache and needed rest.
Lying on the settee, Trace pretended to be asleep when Mata Hari left for dinner. As soon as she was gone, Trace arose and hurried into Mata Hari’s spacious bedroom, casting her eyes about, finally noticing that two trunks had been opened. A maid had placed lingerie in the chest of drawers and toiletries in the bathroom; had hung the gowns and dresses in the deep closet; and had arranged Mata Hari’s many shoes neatly on the floor.
Trace’s eyes fell on the second trunk that lay to the far side of the closet. She strolled over, casually, as if she were just looking around. The trunk had hardwood slats with patinated metal hardware, leather side handles and a metal reinforced bottom with tiny casters. Whenever she traveled, Mata Hari always placed her jewelry in this trunk and padlocked it. To Trace’s relief, the padlock had been removed. Mata Hari had no doubt opened it to select her jewelry for the night.
Trace glanced around, guiltily, lowered to her knees and gripped the right leather handle. She tugged the trunk out and away from the closet onto the rich burgundy patterned carpet, inhaled a breath, grasped both sides of the trunk lid, and gently lifted it.
It was a remarkable site—a spectacular smorgasbord of jewelry, elaborate golden and bejeweled headdress, a beaded metallic bra and several sheer veils. There were shimmering earrings, necklaces, bracelets and armlets, all carefully packed in silver boxes or placed in red velvet pouches.
Trace swallowed, excitement building in her chest. Surely the ring was here. Where else would it be? She methodically began her search, lifting lids and opening pouches hopefully, her hands anxious, her heart racing. She peered inside each one, and then placed it aside. Minutes later, it was clear the ring wasn’t there, and her eyes changed from hope to disappointment. Trace carefully replaced every item back in its proper place, lowered the trunk lid and shoved it back into the closet.
She stood and started back to the living room, pacing, thinking, planning and missing Edward. As she saw it, there were only three possibilities of where the ring might be. Mata Hari may have slipped it on for the night. She may have placed it in a safe or safe deposit box, or she could have given it to someone. Trace doubted that.
She crossed the room, entered her own bedroom and shut the door behind her. She sat on the end of the bed, lowered her head and closed her eyes. Perhaps it was time she resigned herself to living in this time and place, and accept the situation she was in. She should be grateful that she’d met Edward and been able to establish a new life for herself by marrying him—an impossible, irrational choice she should have never made, and yet, she didn’t regret it. Not for one minute. She truly loved him.
But it was so very uncomfortable, not being able to divulge the truth about herself to the man she loved. It was as if she were a secret double agent, living a counterpoint reality: a married woman in 1916, and a single woman in 2018, lost in a time travel fog. There was no one to turn to or share her predicament with, and no obvious option to return to her own time.
Later that evening, when Mata Hari returned from dinner, Trace told her that she’d decided to travel to The Hague to see an old friend who was living there.
Mata Hari was immediately suspicious. She asked many questions, including why she wasn’t following Edward’s wishes and leaving for England. Trace deflected Mata Hari’s curiosity by telling her she would travel to England after her visit to The Hague.
Mata Hari accepted what she said, but the look in her eyes revealed abiding skepticism.
CHAPTER 21
Trace arrived in The Hague by train at 3:45pm on Saturday, August 5th, 1916. She checked into the Hotel Paulez, located on the Short Corner Voorhout Lange Voorhout. It was a pleasant four-story hotel that Mata Hari had recommended. She'd stayed there herself the year before, while repairs were being done on her house nearby.
Mata Hari had also suggested that Trace could stay at her former house on Nieuwe Uitleg 16, now occupied by an old friend, Greta Janssen, but Trace decided on the hotel instead, not wanting to make yet another contact with someone who’d ask her about why she was there. Mata Hari had continued to voice suspicion about Trace’s decision to go, and the morning Trace left, the women had briefly argued.
“What business do you have there, Trace?”
“I told you, I have a friend who asked me to come.”
“Why do I question that? Why do I not believe you?” Mata Hari asked, as they sat for afternoon tea in the Tea Room with Vadime.
“Perhaps you should join her, my sweet?” Vadime said.
Mata Hari turned away with a shake of her head. “I have no reason to return to The Hague. I don’t have the best of memories of that place.”
Vadime turned somber as he puffed on a cigar. “My dear Mata Hari, I will have to return to flying sorties next week. Instead of returning to Paris, why not join Trace in The Hague?”
Mata Hari leaned forward, her face filled with an agony of concern. “You do not need to go back to that awful war, Vadime. Return to Paris with me. Leave this terrible place.”
“You know I can’t do that, my dear. I am a soldier and a pilot. Let us not argue about this anymore.”
Mata Hari turned her sharp, penetrating gaze to Trace. “Does Edward know you are going to The Hague, Trace?”
Trace lifted her teacup to her lips, paused, and sipped. After she replaced the cup on the ornate floral saucer, she faced Mata Hari with a sturdy confidence, the only way one could argue with Mata Hari.
“Yes, I told him.”
“You must trouble him greatly,” Mata Hari said, turning away with another shake of her head.
Trace was irritated. “Instead of telling me what I should do, Mata Hari, you should think about what you are doing. You should leave France, altogether, until after the war. You should return to The Net
herlands and stay there.”
“Why do you keep pestering me about this, Trace? I don’t understand you.”
“Because you are in danger.”
“I am not. It's preposterous. I am Mata Hari. What can possibly happen to me? You should be traveling to England, as Edward has requested. Why do you disobey his wishes and travel to The Hague? Why don't you listen to your husband?”
Trace stayed silent.
Vadime lifted an eyebrow. “What kind of danger, Trace?” he asked, his interest piqued.
Trace considered her words carefully. “Mata Hari is being watched by Captain Georges Ladoux’s men.”
Mata Hari flicked a dismissive hand. “He is nothing, that little man. He is a silly, peacock-strutting Frenchman.”
Trace settled back with a sigh. “Mata Hari, you need to take this whole situation seriously. As the war has progressed, there has been a shift in French moral values. You know this. You’ve read about it in the papers and heard about it in the theatres. Let’s be honest: you are not as popular as you were before the war. These French officers, and many of the French public, now distrust foreigners, and they’re becoming more—for lack of a better word—moral.”
Vadime spoke up. “Who is this man, Ladoux?” he asked, looking from one lady to the other. “What is all this about, my dear?”
Trace decided to come out with it. “Vadime, Captain Georges Ladoux works in French counter-espionage, and he agreed to grant Mata Hari her traveling papers to come here, but only if she agreed to spy for the French.”
Vadime sat up. “What? Spy? Is this true, my dear?”
Mata Hari sighed, audibly. “It is nothing, Vadime. This Captain Ladoux is nothing. A nobody.”
Trace continued. “Captain Ladoux believes France is riddled with foreign spies and he’s out to destroy their network. He wants attention-grabbing cases to prove his worth to his superiors and to the French public.”
Trace stared hard at Vadime. “Frankly put, he regards Mata Hari as little more than a prostitute, and he thinks she may be a German spy.”
Vadime’s jaw tightened. His eyes hardened. “This is all so ridiculous. It is an insult to Mata Hari.”
Mata Hari laughed. “Ladoux is such an ugly little man, Vadime. He has nothing on me, and he never will.”
Mata Hari pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’ve had enough of this. I’m going now. I will see you off tomorrow, Trace. Come Vadime.”
As Vadime left with Mata Hari, he glanced back over his shoulder at Trace and shrugged.
Trace settled into her elegant room at the Hotel Paulez and eased down onto a blue patterned velvet loveseat, shutting her eyes and listening to the quiet murmur of the city sounds outside her window. Moments later, she reached for her purse, retrieved Edward’s latest letter and reread sections, feeling a new swelling of love for him; feeling that pulsing anxiety that every day he flirted with death and could be snatched away from her. She leaned back and read.
The weather has been bad, with high winds and rain. We’ve been unable to fly. In this weather, I feel so dreadful for the soldiers in those muddy, vile trenches. They die of so many things: bullets, disease, despair. When will this terrible, hellish war end, Trace, so I can return to you and our cozy little room with its firelight and wine?
Being married to you makes things better and it makes them worse at the same time. I miss the scent and the look of you—the breath of you—those sleepy morning eyes looking back at me with love. And it just plain hurts not being with you. It is an agony I have never experienced, which can only be eliminated by being with you. But you keep me going, Trace, as I knew you would, once you became my wife.
My darling, forgive my English persistence, but I implore you once again to please consider leaving Paris for England. Yes, I heard from my parents. Understandably, they were shocked by our sudden marriage—especially my mother. But Trace, they want you to come. Yes, they want to meet you. Of course, I told them how incomparable you are. How mysterious you are, and how beautiful you are. I will send them our wedding photo as soon as I receive them. They will see how properly and wonderfully in love we are, and how absolutely ravishing my wife is.
On a positive note, we have a mascot—a black and white mutt dog that wandered onto the field the other day. I’ve named him Ricky-Ticky, after a flyer, Rick Thackery, who was shot down and killed about two weeks ago. Being the daft Brit boys we are, we nick-named him Ricky-Ticky, instead of Ricky-Thackery. What a great chap he was, Trace, and he really wanted to meet you. He was from Brighton. Have you heard of it?
Got to go, darling girl. Forgive the cheap paper, but it’s all I could find in this bloody place. Sending you all my love and many kisses. Looking forward to seeing you.
Your English Bloke…
Edward
Saturday evening, Trace walked through the city that seemed hauntingly familiar and, of course, it should have seemed familiar, from her life as Mata Hari/Margaretha. Young Margaretha had moved to The Hague to live with her uncle when she was 16. At that time, The Hague was a city full of colonial officials who had returned from service in the Dutch East Indies, modern-day Indonesia. In 1885, at the age of eighteen, Margaretha saw a newspaper ad that had been posted by her future husband, Captain Rudolf John MacLeod, who was searching for a wife.
As Trace walked along tree-lined streets, passing busy cafes, in a swelling August heat, she recalled her feelings at that time. At 18, she was bored, miserable, and desperate for romantic adventure, so she answered the newspaper advertisement, and enclosed a photo of herself. The article had said that Rudolf was looking to meet and marry, “a girl of pleasant character.”
Marriage seemed like a first-class ticket to a better life. Margaretha knew that officers in the Indies lived in large houses and had many servants.
Trace could hear the faint voice of Margaretha in her head. “I wanted to live like a butterfly in the sun.”
She and Captain Rudolf John MacLeod (“Johnny”) were engaged in March of 1895 and married on July 11, 1895. He was 20 years older than she.
After walking nearly two miles, Trace found a taxi. She sat staring out the window into the sunlight, passing canals, streetcars, flower vendors and parks. When the taxi bounced along cobblestones, entering a neighborhood of stylish old row houses, clean streets and a park with flower gardens and fountains, Trace sat up, awake, aware that she had seen all these places before. This had once been her home.
As she had planned to do, Trace traveled to Nieuwe Uitleg 16, the home of Mata Hari’s friend, Greta Janssen. When Trace handed Greta a letter of introduction by Mata Hari, Trace was welcomed in. There, she spent a pleasant two hours sipping tea and eating cakes and sharing stories about Mata Hari. Greta was a tall, thin, free-thinking woman, who believed that Mata Hari was years ahead of her time.
“She will go down in the history books,” Greta said, emphatically. “You can bet on that. She will show that women can make a noise in this world too. Not just the men.”
When Trace mentioned that she was off to visit Nonnie the following day, Greta was supportive and enthusiastic. She offered Trace a letter of introduction for Captain MacLeod, saying she’d need one if she was to be accepted.
As Trace lay awake that night, she felt as though she were on the verge of a great journey that could possibly change her life forever. She was about to travel to De Steeg to see her daughter, Nonnie, and her husband from her past life as Mata Hari.
As she awoke the next morning, Trace felt a cut of pain. Did she really want to do this?
CHAPTER 22
On Sunday morning, Trace packed a canvas bag with clothes and toiletries, enough for two nights. She hired a car and started off to find Rudolf John MacLeod's house, which was over two hours away in De Steeg, Gelderland. The car was expensive, but she had plenty of money, thanks to Edward. Since she hadn't spent money on new clothes or on an expensive hotel room, as Edward had requested she do, she was comfortable spending the money on a journey to
De Steeg.
Another reason for taking the car concerned the trains. They ran infrequently. Also, if she was being followed, her shadow would be easier to spot in a car, and perhaps easier to lose.
When Trace had left the hotel, she’d cautiously glanced around to see if she was being followed. She didn’t see anyone, but she couldn’t be certain.
As the black touring car left The Hague and drove west along tree-lined roads, golden grain-waving fields, past streams and green farmland, Trace felt the same aching pain she’d been feeling ever since she’d decided on this trip. She’d come a long way to see Non—many miles and many years, and she could only hope that her flimsy plan, her acting, and her practiced dialogue would gain her entry into the MacLeod house.
When the car entered De Steeg, driving along Hoofdstraat under a canopy of arching trees, her throat tightened. An image formed in her mind—vague at first—then, as if bubbling up from a clear pool, she saw it: an old postcard she’d sent to Nonnie in 1915:
Dear Nonnie. I’m dying to see you again. I always try so hard to, but it never works. Will you do me the great pleasure of seeing me? That’s the only thing that I desire from you.
But Non hadn’t gone to see her, despite the many postcards her mother had sent her from all over Europe, all ending with “Love Mama.” Perhaps MacLeod had kept them from her; perhaps her daughter had never even seen them.
As Mata Hari, Trace recalled writing hundreds of letters, sometimes six a day. In Trace’s world, with all the social media, Mata Hari would have been a frantic e-mailer and Twitterer. Her letters told everything about who she was, and the kinds of moods she was in. Interestingly, in this life, Trace was not so open about her own moods, preferring to keep her feelings guarded. She wondered if it was directly related to the life she’d lived as Mata Hari.
The Lost Mata Hari Ring Page 16
