“Mrs. Bishop, we contacted Sir Alfred Bishop, some three days ago. We have yet to receive a response, which isn’t unusual, with the war raging on and communication often breaking down. We have tried to call as well, but we have been unable to manage a workable line.”
Trace came right to the point. “I want to take Edward home to England.”
“Mrs. Bishop, Captain Bishop is very ill. He should not be moved.”
“But he would be…”
Nurse Beckworth interrupted. “…In my medical opinion, he needs professional care and plenty of rest.”
“If I can make him understand that he’s going home; if he can see me and believe me, I’m sure he’ll recover much more quickly.”
Nurse Beckworth kept her solemn eyes on Trace. “I’m going to be frank, Mrs. Bishop. Captain Bishop is weak. Very weak. If he is made to travel in his current condition, I believe he will die.”
Trace closed her eyes, covering them with a trembling hand. Her voice took on a resigned quality, a strained, sad sound. “How are you treating his pneumonia?”
“With anti-pneumococcal serum. I’m going to be straight with you, Mrs. Bishop. So far, he is not responding. I wish I could say otherwise, but I don’t want to lie to you. Not in these times.”
They sat in a moody, swelling silence.
Finally, Trace lifted her head, removing her hand from her wet eyes. “Has Mata Hari been by to see Captain Bishop?”
Nurse Beckworth didn’t blink, but Trace saw a hint of displeasure in her eyes.
“Yes, she was here, along with a Captain Masloff, who was responsible for getting your husband admitted.”
“Okay, Nurse Beckworth. Thank you. But when Edward improves, I am going to take him home.”
Nurse Beckworth turned aside, as if to ward off an attack she knew was coming.
“Mrs. Bishop, the Army will have to approve it. Captain Bishop has not been discharged and, as of now, his commanding officer is expecting him back at his unit as soon as he recovers.”
Trace jumped to her feet, blood rising to her cheeks. “That’s complete bullshit! It’s absolutely insane. What’s the matter with you people? Haven’t you learned anything about war, and brutality, and what it does to a man? Edward will never go back to that goddamned war. Never. Over my dead body!”
Trace’s outburst and raw language startled Nurse Beckworth. She stared down at her desk, unsure of how to respond.
Trace shivered from hunger, fatigue and rage. She no longer cared what she said or what these people in 1916 thought of her.
Trace massaged her warm forehead and lowered her voice. “Nurse Beckworth, I am sorry. I’m… I’m just lost, you see. I’m just lost, and I don’t know what to do, and I’m afraid Edward is dying. You see, I can’t let Edward die. He can’t die. I can’t let him die. I’m just so lost…”
CHAPTER 26
After Trace slumped out of Nurse Beckworth’s office, and before she exited the hospital, she visited Edward again. He continued to sleep soundly, but his breath was labored and his face damp. A nurse was close by to monitor him. Trace couldn’t bear to watch him, her funny, tender lover, lying there like that.
Outside, she wandered into a corner Bistro, and sat near the front window. The waiter was old, grumpy and stooped, the bread stale, and the meat, supposed to be chicken, was drowning in a thin, tasteless sauce. The entire world seemed lost in an endless nightmare.
Everything was changing in Paris as the war took its toll on soldiers and civilians alike. It was almost as if fate had lowered a heavy cloud of despair over the city. From the next table to her left, two grumbling men wearing berets complained about how incompetent the French generals were. She understood enough French to hear them say that the military leaders and politicians should negotiate a peace with the Germans and put an end to the misery of war.
Trace sat, sipping a second glass of red wine, feeling hollow, fighting an irrepressible grief and loneliness, too fatigued to think or feel anything remotely uplifting or positive.
By the time she returned to the hospital, it was nearly dark. The guards at the entrance had changed, and the new on-duty soldiers double-checked her passport, their wary eyes scrutinizing her. She waited, impatiently, as they discussed something about her passport.
“I told you, my husband is Captain Edward Bishop. May I please go see him? I was here earlier.”
Inside, Trace returned to Edward’s room. A nurse brought a chair and Trace sat heavily, every bone in her body tired, every muscle aching, her head pounding.
How she longed to take Edward back to their little honeymoon cottage, build a pine fire and fall asleep next to him, as the scent-filled room and the shadowy flames licked at the walls.
Trace awakened with a jolt. She had fallen asleep and dreamt that Edward had called her name. She sat up, alert, listening, the lights in the ward muted, a raspy snore coming from a bed nearby.
“Trace…” Edward’s rusty, whispery voice said.
Trace shot to her feet. Even in the dim light she saw his eyes were open. She saw light playing in them.
“Edward…”
“Yes… it’s your old English bloke.”
She leaned and kissed his hot, damp forehead. “Oh, God, you scared me.”
He struggled to speak. “Can’t get rid of me, Trace girl.”
“Don’t talk, Edward. Save your strength.”
He coughed, a low hacking cough. Trace pulled a handkerchief from her purse and wiped the saliva from his mouth.
“Attractive… huh, Mrs. Bishop?”
“Don’t talk, Edward. Please don’t talk. Rest, my darling.”
“Got to,” he said, rolling his head toward her. “Trace… so sorry about the letters. Couldn’t write much. Mind couldn’t find words. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t keep my airplane in the air. Bad. Things got bad, Trace.”
“You’re fine now, Edward. I’m going to get you home to England. You’ll be fine once you’re home. Do you hear me? I’m going to get you home to England.”
His sallow face was upturned toward hers, his eyes warming on her. “My God, but you’re beautiful.”
“Edward, listen. The hospital has called your family. I’m sure they’ll be here soon.”
Edward’s mouth fell into a frown. He worked to pull his weak, trembling arm from under the sheet. He reached for her hand. She took it, pressing it to her chest.
“Trace…I’m very, very sick. I know it. I feel it.”
“No, you’re getting better, Edward. The nurses said so. I spoke to a doctor, who said you’d had a touch of pneumonia, but that you’re improving.”
His eyes stared into distances. “I’ve seen so much death, Trace. I know that bastard so well. I have lived with him, talked to him, cursed him. I’ve seen him come for all my friends. All my friends are dead, Trace, except for good old Vadime. And he is nearly blind. I saw death coming for me. I did. I saw him, a big black, shadowy specter. But the odd thing about it is, he was smiling at me. But he’s coming.”
“No, he’s not. Don’t talk like that, Edward. Stop it, you’re scaring me.”
He coughed again, a deep aching cough that racked his body. His face wadded up in pain. Trace glanced about, looking for a nurse. One saw her and hurried over, a nurse she hadn’t seen before. On the opposite side of the bed, the nurse stooped and felt Edward’s forehead. Her eyes lifted with concern.
“He’s burning up with fever. Captain Bishop needs to rest, Mrs. Bishop. I think you should go. I need to call the doctor.”
“Yes, call the doctor. Hurry!” Trace said.
“No,” Edward demanded, with another cough. “No… Stay, Trace. No doctor. I’ve got to talk to you.”
The nurse hesitated.
Edward rolled his head toward the nurse. “Alone…please, let me be alone with my wife.”
The nurse paused, nodded and faded away into darkness.
Edward squeezed Trace’s hand. “Trace…something in me is bro
ken… The war…”
“No, Edward… No… You’re going to be all right. You’re getting better. I’m going to get you to England. You’ll be home with your family. Think about that. Picture that. Imagine you and me at home in the warm sunlight. Picture it, Edward. You’ll be home and I’ll be there with you, darling. We’ll plan our life together, and…”
He cut her off. “Listen to me, darling. Please. I can’t fight anymore. I’m all fought out, you see.”
“You don’t have to fight anymore, Edward. You’ll never have to go back to that damned war. Never. I’m going to take you away from here, as far away as I can. I’m taking you home.”
“Trace…sit with me… Sit, please. I’m so sleepy. I’m so tired. Will you just sit with me?”
“Of course I’ll sit with you, my darling.”
Still holding his hand, she sat on the edge of his bed. He smiled up at her, tenderly. “Such a lucky bloke am I, Tracey Bishop.” He grinned. “So strange. You… I don’t know who you are or where you came from, but I’m so glad you married me… an old broken-down pilot.”
“Don’t talk anymore, Edward. Please just rest. I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere. Sleep now.”
He nodded, coughed again. “Good… Good. Then I’ll just sleep for a few minutes…just a few minutes.”
His eyes fluttered, he took in a little breath, and drifted off to sleep.
Minutes later, a tall British doctor came by. He took Edward’s temperature, felt his pulse, and looked grimly at the nurse.
Trace stood up, twisting her hands. “What is it, doctor?”
“You’re Mrs. Bishop?”
“Yes…”
“I’m Dr. Slater. You should go now. You look as though you could use some rest yourself. When was the last time you slept? You look utterly exhausted.”
“I’m not leaving him,” Trace said firmly.
“Look… I need to administer additional medication. Captain Bishop needs sleep. He hasn’t defeated this pneumonia.”
“I’m staying.”
Resigned, Dr. Slater received the syringe from the nurse, tapped it a couple of times and then injected it into Edward’s right arm. Dr. Slater straightened, fixing his eyes on Trace.
“Nurse Callen will stay with you, if you wish.”
“Thank you, but no. I’ll stay with him.”
After the doctor and nurse were gone, Trace eased down into the chair, still clutching Edward’s hand. Minutes later, she was overcome by waves of exhaustion and she nodded off.
At some point, deep in the night, she awakened with a start. In the faint light, she saw Edward staring at her. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.
She leaned forward. “Edward? Are you all right? Do you need anything?”
His voice was a faint whisper, as he struggled to speak.
Trace grew uneasy. Frightened. “Edward?”
“Love, I love you…” he managed, with a weak squeeze of her hand.
Trace stood up. “Edward?” she said, her pulse quickening.
He looked deeply into her eyes and for a moment, she saw him fight—fight to keep his eyes open—fight to speak—fight to stay with her.
Her voice shook with emotion as she frantically glanced about for help. “Nurse…. Nurse!”
Men stirred in their beds. Some lifted up and looked over.
In a raspy whisper, Edward said, “…Always… Trace… Always…”
Trace stared at him in helpless agony as his gritty eyes struggled to hold on to the world. But they gradually gave way, fading into an easy surrender; into a kind of glory. As Trace held her breath, she saw the soft, playful loving light go out of his eyes, like the blowing out of a candle, and Edward’s big hand, that she was still clasping, fell limp and cold.
Trace bent beside him, her eyes welling up. “Edward… No, no, Edward. Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me...”
But he was gone. His eyes were still, vacant, staring into the depths of oblivion.
Trace’s eyes were scrunched in pain, her cheeks covered with tears. She struggled to control sobs.
Finally, mechanically, she stared into the darkness, seeing nothing. Drained and disoriented, she meandered out of the hospital, into the night, with no direction in mind.
CHAPTER 27
Trace awoke in darkness with a pounding headache, twisted in her blankets. She stared into the blackness for a time, lost to time and place, and then returned to sleep.
She was awakened by the clanging of church bells nearby, and by daylight leaking into her room. Where was she? With effort, she sat up, casting her slitted, blurry eyes about the small spare room, with its leaning night table and tarnished chest of drawers, holding a chipped porcelain face bowl and water pitcher. Her ancient bed was a squeaky, lumpy thing that had fought her all night.
The single window was mostly covered by dingy, gray, billowing curtains, the breeze rushing in cool and wet. As the bells dwindled away, she heard street noises and muffled voices. She heard the tap of early morning rain on the window.
She was in some hotel. Which one? She strained to recall. It took a minute. Oh yes, it was a small, basic hotel, the Beau Séjour on La Rue Lepic in Montmartre. That’s right, after Edward’s death, she had stumbled out of the hospital, ignoring a nurse calling after her, and somehow found a taxi. She’d asked the driver to take her to Montmartre, where she’d ended up at a café she couldn’t remember.
She’d had too much to drink on an empty stomach: Pernods and maybe even a brandy. She’d drunk to help kill the pain of Edward’s death, to wash away her loneliness and to escape from this awful time of 1916. Eventually, two young British soldiers began talking to her. They reminded her of Edward and she’d alternated between crying and laughing as they tried to cheer her up, although she couldn’t recall exactly what they’d laughed about.
One of the soldiers had said she was very drunk and suggested she stay at the Beau Séjour, loosely translated as the “Beautiful Stay,” which was close by.
So here she was, with a foul sticky mouth, stiff back, and a shattering, bloody headache. What day was it? She had no idea.
She propped up a pillow and leaned against it, sighed and soon fell back to sleep.
Her growling stomach woke her. It clawed and scraped with hunger, and she’d never been so thirsty. Her lazy, sleepy eyes found the water pitcher, and with a nauseous effort, she managed to stand and stagger over to pour a glassful. She tossed back the metallic tasting water in three gulps, poured another glass and drank and then poured another.
She flounced back onto the bed and teetered before landing on her back, staring up at the cracked ceiling and chipped yellow paint. With closed eyes, she began to think and remember. With scarcely the strength to move, she forced herself to plan her next move.
First and foremost, she must go see Mata Hari and demand the ring. Trace had to return to her own time. She was finished here in this time. Her life here had been a disaster, a nightmare, and there was no need to remain. If Mata Hari refused Trace the ring, Trace would simply tell her the truth. What did she have to lose? She couldn’t remain in this place and time any longer.
A minute later, a disturbing thought arose: Mata Hari would not be in Paris. She had gone. By now, Mata Hari had set off from Paris to Belgium, via Spain, ostensibly to seduce German officers and provide secrets to the French.
In Madrid, she will seduce–or so she will think—the German intelligence attaché, Arnold Kalle, and she will give him a series of mostly worthless fake pieces of gossip about the French conduct of the war. In return, he will give Mata Hari some vague pieces of German information, which she will send to the French.
Secretly, and without Mata Hari knowing, in January 1917, Major Kalle will transmit radio messages to Berlin describing the helpful activities of a German spy, code-named H-21, whose biography would make it perfectly clear that Agent H-21 was Mata Hari.
Major Kalle will know that the French know Agent H-21 is Mata Har
i. Major Kalle’s intention? To punish Mata Hari for taking German money in return for useless and bogus information. The French will use this to help convict her and, finally, to stand her before a firing squad.
When Mata Hari returns to Paris in February 1917 and books a room in the Elysée Palace Hotel, a French judge and a dozen police officers will barge into Suite 113 of that luxurious hotel on the Champs Elysées, and they will arrest Mata Hari. She will not take her arrest seriously, and she will even hand out chocolates in a German helmet while smiling and flirting with the policemen. Months later, only days before she is to die, Mata Hari will finally see that her charms and flirtations, which have always worked miracles in the past, will no longer have any effect on these men. She will be executed.
Trace forced herself to leave the bed. For a time, she paced, nibbling her nails, and fighting back an aggressive sorrow.
Painful and agonizing thoughts of Edward’s death stabbed at her. She had purposely left him in that hospital because she knew his family would come and take him home, where he belonged. Yes, he belonged to them now. They were his history. They held close and personal memories of him. They had borne all his trials and joys and they would mourn and weep his loss for the rest of their lives.
But leaving him, and walking away like that, had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done. She had been in no mental or emotional shape to meet Edward’s family, and she did not feel a part of the Bishop family, despite the brief marriage. She did not feel she deserved the Bishops’ money or property, and she was sure Edward’s family would feel the same way, especially now that he was dead.
After she’d watched him die, she seemed to fall, sink and drown in bottomless grief. She wished she were religious and could busy her hands with rosary beads, distract her mind with a mantra, or throw herself onto the altar of any church. The truth was, she felt as though she were tumbling into a mental breakdown, black, cold and eternal.
Her love for Edward had come in a thrilling rush, and it struck with such an impact that it had startled, awakened and exhilarated her—making her believe in the magic of love.
The Lost Mata Hari Ring Page 20
