The Lost Mata Hari Ring

by Elyse Douglas

  “What would you like to sing?” Trace asked Non.

  “I’m a soprano, Mrs. Bishop. I’d love to sing Vilja from the operetta Die Lustige Witwe, that is, The Merry Widow. I’m sure you know it.”

  Trace smiled nervously. She’d heard the song, but had never sung it, and had never played it. She had seen the great opera star Renée Fleming sing the title role at the Metropolitan Opera in 2015, but she didn’t know who wrote it.

  “Oh… Yes. That’s a lovely piece.”

  The Captain cleared his throat again, and his right eyebrow lifted in a soft rebuke. “You know, Non, that The Merry Widow was written by Franz Lehár.”

  Non looked at her father apologetically. “I know, father.”

  Trace had no idea what the issue was.

  The Captain narrowed his eyes on Trace. “Of course, Mrs. Bishop, you know that Franz Lehár is an Austro-Hungarian composer.”

  Trace wished she’d studied more World War I history. Fortunately, she’d lived in this time long enough to know that Austro-Hungary, along with the Ottoman Empire and Bulgaria, were fighting against the Allies, who were Britain, France, Russia, Italy and the United States. Trace had also learned that World War I began when Archduke Ferdinand, of Austria-Hungary, was assassinated by a Serb in 1914.

  Non was holding the sheet music in her hand. “I know, father, but it is such a beautiful piece and I feel it will give Mrs. Bishop a true rendering of my voice. May I please sing it, father?”

  Captain MacLeod’s lips tightened, but his eyes softened.

  “And we are a neutral country, aren’t we, father?” Non concluded.

  “We may be neutral, but I have no love for Austro-Hungary, Non.”

  There was a brief silence, while Trace witnessed the power Non had over her father.

  He gave his lovely daughter a brief smile. “All right, Non. Just this once. All right. Sing it for Mrs. Bishop.”

  Trace took the sheet music and placed it before her. When she saw what key it was in, she wanted to heave out a sigh of relief. The music was in the key of F major, which meant it contained only one flat, which meant Trace could play it.

  Trace relaxed her shoulders and began to play, though her hands were shaky and clammy. Surprisingly, the piano keys felt sure and solid under her fingers, and the fine instrument was tuned to perfection. The touch was light, and the notes sang out, filling the room.

  Non eased into the aria in a feathery light voice that was both warm and ethereal. As the aria progressed, Non’s voice revealed a natural and stylish line, along with a dark moody touch that was surprising in a young woman. Toward the end of the piece, she managed to lighten the quality and resonance of the top notes, until by the final A natural, her voice lingered, then gradually fell away into a kind of breathy, romantic diminuendo.

  When she finished, and the last of the music had faded into silence, Captain MacLeod rose to his feet, applauding enthusiastically. “Brava, Non. Brava!”

  Trace, too, applauded, impressed and moved by her daughter’s artistic voice. Without being aware of it, her eyes had filled with tears.

  How could she have been such a fool? As Mata Hari, how could she have left this treasure of a girl for money and officers? Why hadn’t she had the courage to hold onto this beauty at all costs? Why had she been so selfish?

  Non bowed, demurely, and looked at Trace, shyly, for approval. “Do you have any suggestions or comments, Mrs. Bishop?”

  “You have a lovely voice, Miss MacLeod. Truly, it is an exceptional instrument and your technique is good. I compliment your teachers.”

  “Please call me Juana-Luisa, Mrs. Bishop.”

  “All right. I’ll offer only one little tip—something I learned from my teacher in New York. Be aware of your chin. Tilting your chin an inch higher or lower can adversely affect the quality of a note. Also, it can color the sound. But be careful, it can also push the note a little sharp or a little flat.”

  Non was excited by the suggestion, and she asked Trace to play a few bars of Vilja, so she could try it out. After singing six measures, trying the new suggestion and hearing the effect, Non broke into a sunny smile.

  “Yes, I see, Mrs. Bishop. I can feel and hear the difference.”

  Captain MacLeod applauded again. “Yes. Yes! I hear the difference. Brava, ladies. Well done, Mrs. Bishop.”

  Trace and Nonnie spent the next half hour singing and practicing scales, while Trace offered suggestions on breathing, and singing on the breath.

  An hour later, Captain MacLeod escorted Trace to the front door. He shook her hand, staring deeply into her eyes. Trace felt his attraction, and he held her hand much too long. If it was agreed she would give Non singing lessons, would Captain MacLeod make a pass at her?

  His eyes sharpened on her, as Trace slowly retrieved her hand.

  “Mrs. Bishop, you have given us a delightful afternoon. Non is already very fond of you. Non and I would love for you to come and give her singing lessons. When can you begin?”

  CHAPTER 24

  On Saturday, September the 9th, nearly four weeks later, Trace and Non took a break from their music lessons and went walking arm in arm, in lush afternoon sun. They strolled leisurely through a shady grove of English Oaks, out along a dirt path which led to a small duck pond.

  They had bonded quickly, becoming close friends and confidants, laughing easily, sharing philosophies, hopes and wishes. Both looked forward to the twice-weekly lessons, and they reveled in each other’s company, which exhilarated Trace. Every day spent with Non was a soul restorative day. It was as if, after a lifetime, deep inner wounds were finally being healed. Some of the aching emptiness and guilt Trace had felt since childhood were steadily melting away.

  Each time Trace gazed into Non’s eyes, she was nearly overcome by an infinity of love—by a mother’s love, longing and hope that her daughter would find true love and happiness, and never know the sharp pain of abandonment.

  It was on that day that Trace decided to ask Non about her mother, about Mata Hari. Trace had tossed a pebble into the pond, and she watched the rippling circle expand out and glisten in the sun.

  “Do you ever think of your mother, Juana-Luisa?”

  Non became thoughtful. “Yes. Yes, I think of her often. Do you know that when I go to school, I carry my lunch in a Mata Hari biscuit tin? Her image is on so many things. It’s not like I can ignore her. Yes, I do think of her. I think, what is she truly like? I’ve read so many things, both bad and good.”

  Trace turned to Non. “Bad and good things?”

  Non sighed. “I can’t talk about my mother the way I’d like to. I have heard so many rumors about her life in Paris, but every time I ask my father about what happened, he gets terribly vague and upset. I know she wrote him once, asking for permission for us to meet, but the meeting never occurred. I don’t know why.”

  “Maybe you could still meet her? Arrange another meeting?”

  Juana-Luisa turned sullen. “Do you know that some months ago, my mother and I were both living in The Hague at the same time? I’d heard that she was living there, and I was curious, and I guess a little scared too. I was living with relatives, and so I got up the courage to go see her.”

  Trace picked up another pebble and tossed it into the pond. “What happened?”

  “I walked by the house. There were no men around, but there were lovely curtains in front of the windows.”

  Non toed the ground. “I didn’t go to the door. I kept on walking.”

  “Why didn’t you go in, Juana-Luisa? You could have met her. Talked to her. I’m sure she would have loved to see you.”

  Non shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I was scared she didn’t want to see me. What if she turned me away? What if she was with somebody? A man? I don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry…” Trace said, her voice tight in her throat. “I am so very sorry.”

  Non linked her arm in Trace’s, examining her cloudy face. “You have no need to be sorry, Trace. You’v
e done nothing to be sorry for.”

  Trace looked at Non, tenderly. “She did love you, you know. Your mother loved you very much. She just couldn’t get out of herself. She was all locked up in her own self-importance and her silly, ridiculous career, and her own selfishness. But she did love you, Nonnie. She did, very much.”

  Non studied Trace carefully. “You’ve never called me Nonnie before, Trace.”

  Trace grimaced, realizing she’d blurted out her thoughts without editing them, as she often did. She’d been overcome, both by love and guilt.

  “I’m sorry, Juana-Luisa. I said too much.”

  “You spoke about my mother in the past tense, Trace. Is she all right? Has something happened to her?”

  “No, no. Nothing has happened.”

  “Have you met my mother? Do you know her?”

  This was going all wrong. Trace wished she’d kept her big mouth shut. She decided to deflect the question. “Juana-Luisa, I know you weren’t feeling well last week. Did you see a doctor? Do you have a good doctor?”

  “You’re changing the subject, Trace. Why?”

  “Because I want you to go see a good doctor. The best doctor in the Netherlands.”

  Non stepped back, concerned. “Trace, you’re frightening me. You seem changed today.”

  Trace grappled for words. “I’m sorry, Nonnie, I mean, Juana-Luisa.” Trace searched for excuses and found a real one. She quickly gathered her thoughts.

  Three weeks ago, Trace had moved all her things from The Hague to the Hotel Quisisana in De Steeg, and she’d written Edward about it, including her new address. His letters were coming less frequently, and when they did arrive, she sensed an undertone of emotional distance. She worried about his mental state. Was he suffering from battle fatigue or depression? Could he be questioning their marriage? Trace missed social media, where they could have easily kept in touch by texting and emailing and posting photos on Instagram or Facebook.

  “I’m worried about Edward,” Trace said, in a low voice.

  “Worried? Has something happened to your husband?”

  “No, not exactly. It’s just that his letters aren’t the same. He seems distant. Not like himself. There used to be such life and humor in his letters. I’m worried about him.”

  Non turned her head. “I hope you won’t be leaving soon, Trace.”

  Trace tugged Non closer. “I don’t know… I plan to stay another three weeks, unless I hear from him and he tells me he can get away from that awful war. I sent him a letter earlier today, begging him to write and tell me how he is as soon as possible, or maybe even send a telegram.”

  Non lowered her head. “You must miss him terribly.”

  “Yes, I do miss him, very much.”

  “If you must leave, you will come back, won’t you?”

  “Of course. Of course, I’ll come back, and I’ll bring Edward. I’d love for the two of you to meet. You’ll love him, and he will adore you. I just know it.”

  Non shined with happiness.

  Minutes later, Captain MacLeod came walking toward them. Trace hoped she didn’t show her bitter disappointment. He nearly always appeared whenever she and Non were alone, obviously growing increasingly jealous of the time they spent together. Whenever he came near, it was as though a cloud were covering the sun.

  “You two ladies must be telling secrets again. Perhaps you could let me in on them?”

  “No secrets, father. Just women talk. It wouldn’t be of any interest to you.”

  He rested his ready, sparkling eyes on Trace. “You must stay to dinner tonight, Mrs. Bishop.”

  Trace had always declined his offer, not wanting to spend any time with the man. She was intent on discouraging any advances, which she feared would happen if they were alone.

  “Thank you, Captain MacLeod, but I…”

  He held up a hand. “I will not take no for an answer this time, Mrs. Bishop, and I’m sure Non would love for you to stay.”

  “Oh yes, Trace. You must stay to dinner.”

  After dinner, as Trace had feared, Non excused herself and went upstairs to rest, stating that she wasn’t feeling well. To Trace, this by itself was distressful enough, but to also be left alone with Captain MacLeod, who’d been drinking heavily, was doubly upsetting. The Captain’s eyes were glassy, his voice wandering, his face shiny from the booze.

  After Non had left, the candelabra between the Captain and herself gave off a warm glow that contradicted Trace’s sudden gloomy change of mood. Sitting opposite the Captain at the oak table, Trace looked at him with concern. During dinner, she had seen the change in Juana-Luisa’s color—from a healthy glow to a sickly pallor.

  “Is she often like this?”

  He, too, seemed distressed. “Not often. Sometimes. It comes and goes. She’s really quite healthy.”

  Trace knew better. “Has she seen a doctor recently?”

  The Captain’s expression turned dark, his eyes brooding, an angry thought drawing him up from the table. He reached for a cigar, snagged a match and lit the thing, puffing, blowing plumes of gray smoke toward the ceiling. He waved a dismissive hand.

  “Doctors are frauds, thieves and killers. It was a doctor who killed my son when he was just a baby, my little Norman. That damned doctor nearly killed Non as well, not that their bitch of a mother was of any help. But I will not continue with this conversation, only to say that I despise doctors. Most should be shot. Anyway, Non is a strong girl, and a very resilient girl. She will be fine. Rest is what she needs. I always tell her to rest, rest, and get more rest. She works too hard on her studies. She is much stronger than most women…Yes, stronger every day.”

  It was obvious that he was trying to convince himself. Trace tried to mask her doubt and annoyance. She fought to control a sudden eruption of rage, a near volcanic anger that was shooting up, from deep within her soul. It was a raw, remembered anger directed at this clueless, ignorant man, and it was an anger at whatever energy or force had trapped her here in this time and place.

  If she was helpless to change the past—improve it—then what in the hell was she doing here? What was the point?

  If Juana-Luisa didn’t get a doctor’s care—an expert doctor’s care—she would die in 1919 from a cerebral hemorrhage, brought on by complications of syphilis. Syphilis her father had contracted from one of his whores. How could she ever forgive this drunken, violent, empty shell of a man?

  “Are you quite all right, Mrs. Bishop?” the Captain said, moving toward her. “You seem to have lost your good mood. We must try to get it back. We are alone now, and I want us to become very good friends. I want you to trust in me and confide in me, like you do with Non. Perhaps I can drop by your hotel one day and we can talk and learn each other’s secrets.”

  When he laid a heavy hand on her shoulder and began to caress it, Trace’s hands went to fists. Acid began pumping in her stomach.

  He lowered his voice to a near whisper, but it still carried strength.

  “I am still a good and strong soldier, Mrs. Bishop. I think I would surprise you, if you gave me the chance. Yes, I could make you happy, and satisfy you in many ways.”

  She felt his hot gaze travel her body, and it sickened her. She felt an old buried hatred, and she felt a new boiling hatred. Her eyes fell on a serrated steak knife, lying before her. How easy it would be to grab the thing and plunge it into his chest, again and again, until he was dead. How she would love to do that.

  The Captain continued his booze-induced blurry talk. “I am most touched by your concern for Non, Trace, if I may call you that, but don’t be worried. Believe me. I know her. She will be fine. She is quite strong. But you and I, we are a different matter. You are a very appealing woman, Mrs. Bishop.”

  Intoxicated by rage and disgust, Trace squeezed her eyes shut, fighting for control of her emotions. She must control them, for Nonnie’s sake, for her own sake.

  This time, she had to choose a different path from the one she had chosen as Mata H
ari. She had to control her mouth and her boiling fury. She had to swallow her rage and sacrifice her need to express it for something greater—for her infinite love for Nonnie.

  Isn’t that why she had come here? To face the wrongs of her past? To choose another way, a better way, to make better decisions? To establish a strong, healthy relationship with Nonnie? Right here and now, she could finally begin to stop the guilty tears that had filled so many of her nightmares since her childhood; the awful dreams of abandoning her daughter, and of living a silly, indulgent selfish life that had sent her to her death.

  She had succeeded in being with Nonnie now, and no matter what happened in the future, she could always hold fast to the memories of her daughter’s lovely smile, her lilting singing voice and her vanilla scent, hovering in the soft summer air.

  One false move or one wrong word could threaten everything.

  Trace took in a breath and sweetened her voice. “Captain MacLeod, how can a woman not be flattered by your kind words? You have been so generous to me during the past few weeks, and I will never forget it.”

  She paused, gauging his response. He hadn’t remove his hand from her shoulder.

  Slowly, she turned her head toward him, smiling. “How I wish you and Edward could meet. I know you two would get along very well. He would love this house, and especially those framed military maps.”

  She saw Captain MacLeod’s face change. He slowly released her shoulder, but he didn’t move away. When he spoke, his voice was low, holding some irritation, even as it returned to formality.

  “You are most fortunate, Mrs. Bishop, to have a soldier as a husband. They make the best husbands, you know. Yes, the very best.”

  Trace watched as he squared his shoulders. “I, too, would serve again if it weren’t for certain health issues.”

  He cleared his throat. Trace exhaled in silent relief as he started back to the far side of the table. “Of course, I must be here for Non. I cannot be away from her.”

  Trace nodded in agreement. “Of course you must be near her, Captain. Juana-Luisa is a fine, lovely girl. And I’m sure she needs you now more than ever, as she grows fully into a woman.”