The Lost Mata Hari Ring

by Elyse Douglas

The car turned left onto a dirt road and bucketed along past a fenced-in field under heavy trees, until it arrived at a two-story modest house nestled under a cluster of majestic trees. The car stopped, and the driver swiveled around, speaking in English. “Madam, we have arrived.”

  She nodded. How she wished she could have taken a yoga or dance class that morning. After so many years of dance lessons, her body missed the movement, the expression, the relaxation it gave her.

  She paid the driver, asked him to wait, and then she stepped out into the quiet day, hearing birdsong, noticing the play of insects in the manicured flower garden, where startling red roses burned the air around them. There was golden light falling on a distant pond and a boy with a long fishing pole wandering its shores, a hat pulled low over his forehead to keep out the glare of sun.

  What a lovely place to raise a child, Trace thought, wanting to impress this moment on her mind; wanting to recall every detail accurately. She stared at the house where Nonnie lived—the house where Trace was about to meet her former husband—her husband from another life.

  When Non stared into Trace’s eyes, would she intuit something unusual—something familiar? Would Trace? Trace’s chest tightened, her pulse raced, and sweat beads formed above her upper lip. She gently blotted her mouth with a hanky.

  Every cell in her body became alert, heightened by memory and remorse. Every buried memory awakened and chastised her for what she had done to her daughter in this time, so long ago—yet so bizarrely here in the present. A past that had been frozen—now a present that could thaw that past, if she handled the situation just right. Now, she had a second chance. Perhaps this was the primary reason she had been thrust back into time.

  Trace took a step forward and stopped. More memories flooded in—fresh and vivid and terrible from a long time ago. She had been awarded legal custody of Non, but with MacLeod withholding financial support, it was a struggle to keep her Non. After she lost the battle with the Dutch government for a share of MacLeod’s military pension, she had headed for Paris, leaving Non with family friends, fulling intending to bring Non with her once she got on her feet.

  What could she do? She needed money, and so she explored her options as a lady’s companion and a teacher of German conversation and the piano. She took rooms, not at the Grand Hotel, but at an English guesthouse in the 14th arrondissement, and they were very austere. They were not extravagant and had no real conveniences.

  But then everything changed. Then came the allure and excitement of fame, and the money and the men—those lovely officers. They became like a drug to her, and she lost control. She had made so many bad choices. And then everything went crazy and spun away into confusion and terror, until the day she was executed.

  Trace didn’t move for a time, as memory shook everything lose again. She couldn’t stop the stampeding memories, and God, how she wished she could.

  In her mind’s eyes, she saw five police inspectors and their superior enter her room at the Élysée Palace Hotel and arrest her on charges of “espionage, complicity and intelligence with the enemy.”

  She saw herself on trial for being a German spy. She was dressed in a tricorn hat, a dark-blue coat and a low-cut frock, unaware at that time that she was actually fighting for her life, as she faced a jury of seven officers, who would later send her to the firing squad.

  And then, in another scene, she saw little Nonnie running toward her, arms outstretched, her face lit up with joy at seeing her Mama again.

  Trace staggered, grabbing for the wrought iron gate for support. It took minutes to gather herself and shake off the past…the future… the present. The taxi driver emerged from the car, concerned, waiting.

  Inside the house, a curtain parted, and a shadow face peered out. She moved toward the front door on wobbly legs. She must go through with this. Trace paused before the two-story brick building with a wrought iron gate. A pair of trees framed stone circular steps that led to a black panel door with a center knob and a single brass knocker.

  She hoped someone in the house spoke English. She climbed the steps, lifted the knocker and rapped gently on the door. She waited, feeling sweat trickle down her back, feeling her left eye twitch.

  Moments later, a middle-aged woman with a stern, pudgy face, wearing a white day dress and maid’s cap, stared back at her with cool, steady eyes.

  Trace swallowed. “Hello… do you speak English?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Yes…”

  “I am Mrs. Tracey Bishop. I was hoping I could speak with Captain MacLeod.”

  The woman’s eyebrows lifted in suspicion. Her voice, already low and clipped, thickened with a heavy accent. “And what is your business with Captain MacLeod?”

  Trace had prepared for this. “It is about his daughter, Louise Jeanne.”

  The woman blinked, thought about it, thought about it some more, and grunted.

  “Wait. I will see if he will speak with you.”

  The maid closed the door and, as it clicked shut, Trace inhaled a breath and waited, her nerves frayed, the anticipation boiling inside her.

  When the door swung open and Captain Rudolf MacLeod, Johnny, stood glaring, an avalanche of emotion and memory crashed down on top of her.

  He stood stiffly in his dark suit, as if at attention, his eyebrows thick, the full bushy mustache streaked with gray and turned up at the ends. His bullet bald head seemed belligerent, his eyes hard with accusation.

  Trace was transfixed. Frozen for a moment. Stabbed by fascination, wonder and terror. She had been married to this man for seven years—seven miserable years. She’d lived through his drunken rages, felt his blows on her body and face, and endured his shouting abuses.

  “What do you want?” he asked, brusquely. “What is this about you wanting to see my daughter? Who are you?” he demanded.

  His English was remarkably good, but his accent made it sound aggressive and Germanic. Trace fought for poise and a steady voice. She had to make her case, for Nonnie’s sake. For her sake. Trace lifted her chin in an appearance of confidence, but she kept her voice soft and pleasing.

  “Captain MacLeod, I am a music teacher. I have heard from a friend that your daughter plays the guitar and the piano. I wish to offer my services to you.”

  He frowned. “She has a music teacher.”

  “Yes, Captain MacLeod, but I also teach singing, and I have heard that your daughter wishes to improve her voice.”

  He considered that. “Who sent you?”

  “Greta Janssen, sir. She lives in The Hague. I have a letter of introduction from her. I have sung in New York, Chicago and Paris. I can offer your daughter a variety of both American and European styles and, I assure you, sir, my services are reasonable.”

  “Sung where? In theatres where rich men wait for women outside the theatre doors?”

  “Oh, no, Captain MacLeod,” Trace lied. She knew, of course, the history of American theatre. She knew about the “stage-door Johnnies” who routinely lingered around stage doors wanting to meet women. They paid handsomely for sexual relationships.

  “No, Captain MacLeod. I sang in churches, and for literary and social gatherings, and at universities.”

  “Where is this letter of recommendation?”

  Trace fumbled in her purse until she found the envelope. She handed it to the Captain. He opened the flap, drew out the folded page and snapped it open. He read, one eyebrow arched, his expression dark.

  Trace saw that Captain MacLeod had already made up his mind to say no. But then he looked at her again, studying her, curiously. He narrowed his eyes on her and seemed to see her for the first time. This is what Trace had hoped for, was praying for—that he was seeing something in Trace that he couldn’t quite put a finger on, but something familiar.

  “What is your name?”

  “Mrs. Tracey Bishop.”

  “Where is your husband?”

  “He’s a pilot, flying for the Allies in France.” Trace knew that Captain MacLeod
respected military men. “He is also a captain, sir. His name is Captain Edward Bishop.”

  “He’s a captain, you say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Captain MacLeod stared with a new interest. “…You’ll excuse me, young woman, but have we met someplace before?”

  Trace wanted to say, you bet we have, but instead, she said, “Not that I am aware of, Captain MacLeod.”

  Trace could almost see the wheels and gears of his mind turning and working. He twirled the end of his mustache as his eyes wandered, and he looked out into the sunshine, suddenly lost in memory. A moment later, his eyes settled on her again.

  “Do you know who I am, Mrs. Bishop?”

  “I am aware, sir, that you were once married to the woman known as Mata Hari.”

  His mouth twitched at the mention of her name. His eyes hardened.

  “Why did you specifically choose my daughter to give lessons to? Surely, there are plenty of young girls in The Hague to whom you can teach music? If you are seeking notoriety or something more sinister, I can assure you that you will get nowhere with me.”

  His booming voice brought back soul memory and images of domestic quarrels and physical fights.

  “Captain MacLeod, I heard that your daughter is musically talented. I want to be away from cities, away from people and away from war. When my friend, Greta, told me about this place, so quiet and peaceful, she also mentioned your daughter. She had seen her play the piano at the young women’s concert. I simply thought it would be pleasant to be in this place for a time and teach your daughter what I have learned.”

  As he stared at Trace, his eyes softened. At times, he looked puzzled and preoccupied and she wondered if he was fully listening to her.

  Trace continued. “I communicated my wishes to my husband, Edward, and he agreed that I should occupy myself with satisfying work, but just for a few weeks—just until late September or so. By then, Edward will have a long leave and we will travel to his home in England.”

  Captain MacLeod continued staring at Trace, and she was sure she saw desire rising in his eyes. “Where are you living?”

  Trace had called the night before and booked a room, anticipating that she may have to stay the night.

  “I’m staying at the Hotel Quisisana.”

  Captain MacLeod lifted an eyebrow in approval. “It’s a good hotel. A fine place. Yes. To be frank with you, Mrs. Bishop, I need to think about this. This whole thing seems odd and quite irregular to me. However, it might be good for Non,” he qualified, “that is for Juana-Luisa. If you meet her, you can call her by that name. Anyway, she gets bored here and she does love her music, and she spends a lot of time practicing. She wants to be a teacher, you know. She also has an interest in America and Americans. Just the other day she was asking me about America. I have never been, you know.”

  Trace breathed in her nerves.

  “All right then, come by tomorrow at 4pm sharp. I’ll give you my answer then. I don’t promise anything, you understand?”

  Trace gave him a little bow. “Yes, Captain MacLeod. Thank you. I will see you tomorrow at 4pm.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Trace spent a restless night in her soft feather bed, fighting the sheets, as warm night air blew in from open windows. Toward dawn, she finally burrowed into a deep sleep, her fleeting dreams filled with Broadway dances, Nonnie’s girlish laughter, beckoning fingers, and Edward’s soft kisses. She’d dreamt that she and Edward were on a picnic, food, flowers and wine spread out on a wide, checkered blanket under golden sunlight. She’d tilted her mouth up and Edward had kissed it, thrilling her, awakening an early morning longing for him.

  She arose still sleepy, pulled on loose pants, tied back her hair and practiced some yoga stretches and simple dance routines, to help ease her ragged nerves, to get the kinks out of her neck, and to relax her tense muscles.

  She ate a light breakfast in the dining room while reading The Times, and walked the manicured hotel grounds, her thoughts crowded with thoughts of Edward and Nonnie.

  At 4pm sharp, she was knocking on Captain MacLeod’s front door. He opened the door, dressed in a dark brown suit and tie and, although he didn’t smile at her, his eyes were friendly.

  He stepped aside. “Please come in, Mrs. Bishop.”

  Trace took a fast, supportive breath and entered a polished foyer. Captain MacLeod closed the door behind them.

  “Please forgive my bad manners yesterday, Mrs. Bishop, for not inviting you in. I am very protective of my daughter, her being the daughter of that infamous woman, Margaretha.” He looked down with distaste. “I refuse to use her ridiculous stage name. Anyway, we have had curiosity seekers and reporters wanting to speak with Non. I refused them all, of course, and will continue to do so.”

  Captain MacLeod indicated toward a room off to the right, and Trace followed him across a thick, blue-patterned carpet onto dark wood floors that led to a wide wooden staircase. The Captain proudly offered a tour of several large rooms, including a living room with a decorative fireplace and heavy furniture, and a music room with a black baby grand piano, a tufted velvet sofa and club chairs. Old maps of Europe were framed and hung on the rose-colored walls. A cheerful drawing room had a semi-antique rug, card tables, floor to ceiling bookshelves and open windows that looked out on groves of trees and gently rolling fields.

  The house was clean, somewhat austere, and as silent as a convent.

  As they were returning to the music room, Captain MacLeod turned, stood upright and looked at her, resettling his shoulders and arching his eyebrows.

  “Mrs. Bishop, my daughter will be down to meet you shortly. I want it made quite clear that she will be the one to agree, or not agree, to this arrangement. Is that understood?”

  “Yes. Of course,” Trace said, managing a tight smile.

  Trace and Captain MacLeod sat stiffly in the music room, sipping tea that the sullen maid had delivered. Trace could feel the Captain’s eyes steal toward her, but she pretended to be occupied with some old battle maps that she thought would have been hung more appropriately in the drawing room. They were peculiarly out of place in this room.

  When Trace heard soft footfalls on the staircase, she sat bolt upright, hearing her heart thud in her ears.

  “That will be Non. You may address her by her birth name, Juana-Luisa.”

  Trace set her teacup aside and stood, waiting, trembling, as the footsteps drew closer. The Captain also arose and waited, his hands locked behind his back, his head lifted in pride.

  Juana-Luisa entered the room somewhat meekly, dressed in a simple white blouse and a dark skirt, with a raised hemline to the ankle. The shoes were a kind of low heeled clog.

  Trace tried to swallow away a lump, but she failed. Juana-Luisa stood tall and beautiful, with an appearance that resembled her mother’s. In many ways, Trace thought this lovely young woman was even more beautiful than Mata Hari had ever been. Non had a natural sensuality, a kind of gentle magnetism and mature poise, with smooth creamy skin and a pretty mouth. Her gleaming, raven black hair was combed back conservatively and tied behind into a bun, but it did not look matronly on her.

  Non’s dark blue and observant eyes seemed to take in everything with a nervous glance. When she gave a quick respectful bow to her father, he nodded back, keenly aware of his daughter’s polish and charming allure.

  And then Trace felt Juana-Luisa give her a few seconds of appraisal, and all of Trace’s thoughts stalled. Was there any recognition in Non’s eyes? Did she sense a thread, a mother-daughter bond between them?

  Non approached Trace, presenting a gentle hand to shake. “Hello, I’m Juana-Luisa,” she said with a friendly smile, with hardly any accent.

  Trace took the hand softly, and when their hands touched, it was electric. Trace was lost in a thicket of emotion, and she struggled to find her voice.

  “I’m… I’m, Mrs. Tracey Bishop… Friends call me Trace.”

  Non held her smile. “Trace… I’ve never h
eard that name. Is it American?”

  “Yes… it is.”

  “Where in America are you from?”

  “Kentucky. Lexington, Kentucky.”

  Non brightened, her eyes lighting up. “I’ve read about Kentucky. It’s known for horses and for the Kentucky Derby, isn’t that right?”

  Trace nodded with some surprise. “Yes, you’re right.”

  “Is Lexington near where they hold the Kentucky Derby?”

  “It’s not far. About an hour and a half away… maybe a little more.”

  Captain MacLeod spoke up. “Anneke brought tea, Non. Shall I pour you a cup?”

  Non turned her head, distractedly. “No thank you, father.”

  Non indicated toward Trace’s chair. “Please sit down, Mrs. Bishop.”

  Trace did, and the Captain offered Non the chair opposite Trace. They all sat, and Non placed her hands in her lap, gently twisting them.

  “My father said you sang in New York, Mrs. Bishop.”

  Trace noticed Non had not called her by her first name. Of course, Trace thought. This was a much more formal time. No young woman called an older one by her first name.

  “Yes…Various women’s clubs and churches.”

  “Have you lived there, in New York?”

  “Yes, for a few years.”

  Non’s eyes changed, becoming thoughtful. “I’d love to go someday. I’ve heard so many delightful things about New York and America.”

  “I hope you can come,” Trace said.

  Captain MacLeod spoke up. “Non is about to receive her teaching certificate. She studies in Leiden.”

  “Congratulations, Juana-Louise. And what will you be teaching?”

  “Kindergarten. I hope to teach in Velp, which isn’t far away. I can take a streetcar to the school.”

  Non was visibly eager to hear more about America, asking question after question. Finally, the Captain cleared his throat and suggested that the two women move to the piano and begin the audition.

  Trace was not the best pianist, but she had taken eight years of lessons and she could read music, if it wasn’t too difficult. She sat on the piano stool, adjusting it to her comfort, as Non stood by. Both women were fighting nerves.