Would they think she was good enough for Edward? Pretty enough? Smart enough? What would they expect of her? Would they ask about Edward? Of course, they would.
Sir Alfred led Trace to his family and introduced her, first to his wife.
“Trace, this is my wife, Lady Gwendolyn.”
Trace immediately saw that Edward had inherited his mother’s forehead and sharp nose. She was a thin, elegant, middle-aged woman, with graying stylish hair, who radiated class and polish. She offered Trace a gracious hand, and when she spoke, her voice was smoothly mellifluent.
“We are so pleased that you have come to us, Mrs. Bishop.”
“Thank you, Lady Gwendolyn. I am so happy to meet you,” Trace said, feeling a chilling wind whip her hair about. She raked it back in place.
“And I to meet you, Mrs. Bishop. We have heard so many delightful things about you, and we so look forward to getting to know you.”
Trace felt Lady Gwendolyn’s expert, watchful eyes perform a quick assessment of her face, hair and stature. Did she approve? Trace wondered.
Sir Alfred had told Trace that his daughter, Bryanne, was the eldest child, now thirty-two years old. Her husband, a doctor, was working at a field hospital somewhere in France.
Bryanne was attractive, but not an especially pretty woman, being rather full in the hips, with a long neck, close-set eyes and a tight button of a mouth. But her hazel eyes were lovely, as was her glossy chestnut hair, formed in tight curls. Her smile was genuine, and Trace sensed a keen intelligence behind the reserved expression.
“Happy you have come, Mrs. Bishop,” she said, formally. “We have been looking forward to this for many days.”
Trace took her warm hand. “I am very happy to be here,” Trace said.
Thomas Bishop was dressed in his brown military officer’s uniform. He was 28 years old, and he did not look like Edward. He had short black hair and wore black-rimmed glasses that made him look both professorial and older than his years. Thomas was shorter than Edward, his features not as refined, and he presented a rather awkward demeanor, as if meeting new people were not easy or preferred. He did not meet Trace’s eyes as they shook hands limply.
“You are most welcome at Bishop Manor, Mrs. Bishop,” he said, stiffly. “I hope you will find us pleasant, and our home both welcoming and comfortable.”
“Thank you, Thomas, I’m sure I will.”
Sir Alfred introduced Trace to Charles, the head butler, and then he rubbed his hands together, looking skyward. “Let’s get out of this cold wind and gather around a cozy fire with some tea. Trace, Bryanne will show you to your room, where you can freshen up before we have our tea in the corner drawing room, which I will take you to now.”
Inside, Trace saw layers of distinctive crown moldings, artistically carved plaster, and rounded doors. Strolling down dark wood corridors, she noted lighted gilded framed oil paintings of seascapes, landscapes and portraits of 18th and 19th-century men, looking solemnly out at the world with confidence and a challenge.
On a brief tour of the house, Trace passed under the high ceilings of spacious rooms, including a ballroom, an airy family room, and a grand dining room, seating up to twenty-five.
There were twelve fireplaces; hardwood floors; richly carpeted bedrooms, dens and drawing rooms; and French doors that opened to covered terraces with panoramic views of rolling meadows, sculpted hedges with walkways, and a distant forest.
Bryanne ushered Trace upstairs to her luxurious bedroom, and they were soon followed by a stocky house steward, who carried Trace’s leather bags and trunk, containing new dresses, lingerie and toiletries, all of which she’d purchased in Paris only a few days before.
After Bryanne and the steward retreated, Trace took in her room, all nerves and excitement. It was stylish and lavish, decorated in burgundy, gray and white, with a glowing fireplace that warmed the room. Her canopied bed immediately caught her eye, and she wished she could flop down onto the thick creamy comforter and sleep for days. She’d still not fully recovered from her illness and ordeal at the prison, and the trip to England had been an exhausting one.
But the Bishop family was waiting in the drawing room, seated around a generous natural stone fireplace, waiting for her to begin afternoon tea. Waiting for her to tell them about herself, and surely about Edward.
Trace turned in a circle, amazed and dizzy from the day, and from the last few months. What a stark change this room was—this house was—from Saint-Lazare Prison. She shivered when she realized, again, how close to death she had been. If she had not written Sir Alfred and if he had not come for her, she would have surely died by now. Dear Alfred. He’d been the perfect gentleman, the perfect father-in-law, and the perfect friend when she’d needed one the most. How would she ever be able to repay him?
As Trace descended the wide mahogany staircase to the first floor, her eyes were busy, her thoughts circling around Edward’s memory. He’d grown up in this house, knew the portraits, the rooms and the land. It had all been a part of him, and it had helped to make him the quality person he had been.
She imagined him there beside her, linking arms, strolling down the stairs, smiling that silly boyish grin that always warmed her and stirred her to want him. And then she ached for him.
Approaching the drawing room, she heard muffled voices coming from inside, and she fought a mounting dread of what was to come. She was all this family had left of Edward’s last months. She had been his love, the one true witness to his mind and his heart. It was she who had heard his last, dying words.
The family stood when Trace entered, and that made her feel even more out of place. She wasn’t royalty, after all. Sir Alfred motioned for her to sit next to him in a burgundy leather chair, a comfortable distance from the roaring fire.
After the under butler, Saunders, served them tea in rose china cups with golden rims, they all sat rather awkwardly, searching for the right pitch of conversation.
Lady Gwendolyn was the first to speak. “How was the weather in Paris, Mrs. Bishop?”
Trace lowered her cup to her saucer and lowered her voice. “Lady Gwendolyn, perhaps you should all call me Trace or Tracey. I know Trace is an uncommon name, but where I’m from, it is not so unusual.”
Lady Gwendolyn gave a faint smile. “Very well, my dear, if that is what you wish.”
Sir Alfred spoke up, hoping to lighten the mood. “Trace insists on calling me Sir Alfred, however. She thinks I look regal.”
“And so you do look regal, father,” Bryanne said.
Trace smiled and then answered Lady Gwendolyn. “As to Paris, Lady Gwendolyn, it was gently snowing when we left, and it was quite cold.”
“I trust your journey was a pleasant one…Trace,” Bryanne said, haltingly, as if she were trying out the name.
“Yes, it was, thank you,” Trace said.
“Trace is being kind,” Sir Alfred said. “It was not an especially pleasant journey, and it hasn’t been ever since that damned war began. The trains are slow, stopping every fifteen minutes or so, there are no private railcars, and the food is an abomination. But this is war, and everyone is making great sacrifices. Paris and France are suffering greatly. Frankly, I found Paris damned depressing, and I thought I would never hear myself say that.”
Thomas stared down at his tea. “I heard there were more Zeppelin raids over Paris, father. From our last report, there were forty fatalities.”
“Yes,” Sir Alfred said, with a sorrowful shake of his head. “Trace and I were in the hospital, just north of Paris, when that one occurred. A very sad business it was. Women and children were some of the unfortunate victims. It’s monstrous what these Huns are doing. Absolutely monstrous.”
Lady Gwendolyn gently cleared her throat, endeavoring to bring the conversation back to a more agreeable tone.
“The weather here has been quite pleasant until yesterday. Bryanne and I were able to take a walk in the gardens, wearing only light shawls.”
Bryann
e spoke up. “Yes, mother is so right. But then last night, winter returned, and I had to call Saunders to make up three more fires.”
Thomas seemed preoccupied. “Trace, are you fully recovered from your distressing ordeal? I was completely overcome with outrage at the way the French intelligence treated you. It was quite unfair and unnecessary. They did not have one shred of evidence against you. I read the complaint many times. It was beastly what they did to you.”
Lady Gwendolyn and Bryanne noticeably stiffened. Sir Alfred turned his soft attention to Trace.
“Quite right you are, Thomas. They were using Trace as a scapegoat for the French military leaders’ incompetence. I dare say, they’ll be finding additional poor innocent souls to parade around and execute as spies, so the French population will believe they are killing the people who are responsible for their losses. The French people are plenty mad at the daily casualty list, and rightly so.”
Lady Gwendolyn’s voice was clear, and at a near whisper. “We do hope you are recovered, Trace, from your dreadful tribulation.”
“Yes, thank you, I am much improved, thanks to Sir Alfred, and thanks to you all. It is so good to be here.”
Sir Alfred nodded, pursed his lips, folded his hands across his belly and looked toward the ceiling. “I know we are all beating about the bush here. I am aware that we would love to hear from Trace about Edward and his last days. Trace and I have had some rather long talks on the matter. But today, I believe we should let Trace have a good rest before dinner, and then let us see how she feels about sharing her thoughts, impressions and words about Edward.”
Trace spoke up. “If I may, Sir Alfred, I would like to say something about Edward.”
The room dropped into silence, only the crackling fire filling the silence.
Trace gathered herself before speaking. “Edward loved you all very much, and he said so many times. He often spoke of you, individually, with fondness and humor. He loved this house, and so longed to return to it, and to all of you. I’m telling you this because, while we were on our honeymoon in France, I told him, in a rather inspired moment, that I hoped to meet his family someday. He brightened and smiled with such pleasure. He said, ‘They are all the best of souls, with the best of humor, and the kindest of hearts.’”
Lady Gwendolyn blinked rapidly, as if tears were close. When she spoke, she fought to maintain her cool dignity. “Thank you, Trace. Thank you so much for sharing our Edward’s thoughts.”
She was the first to rise, her face suddenly pale. Sir Alfred’s eyes held sadness. Everyone stood as Lady Gwendolyn retreated, handkerchief flowing from her hand.
Trace did not attend dinner that night, having had a kind of relapse. When she arrived back in her room, she’d stumbled and grabbed for one of the bedposts for support. Perhaps it was seeing Lady Gwendolyn’s suffering face and Sir Alfred’s red-rimmed eyes. Perhaps it was the sudden impact of knowing she’d never be able to return to her own time. She knew she’d never find the Mata Hari ring now. She was lost, and she was trapped in this time for the rest of her life.
And then the bleakness, and the grief, and the ice-cold memories shifted within her, and she lost breath, and wilted to the floor.
Bryanne found her an hour later. Frantic, she called for Sir Alfred and Charles.
Trace remained in bed for the next two days. The family physician, Dr. Felix Chambers, attended her, feeding her soup and tea, constantly monitoring her fluctuating temperature.
On the third day of her illness, the Bishop family waited in the drawing room, all raw nerves, anxiously awaiting Dr. Chambers’ update.
Sir Alfred paced with locked hands behind his back. Lady Gwendolyn stared gloomily into the fire, and Bryanne sat in the corner reading, although she wasn’t absorbing the words on the page. Thomas had returned to London, to continue with his war work.
“When will this terrible war end, Sir Alfred?” Lady Gwendolyn said. “I just can’t bear much more of this awful agony.”
“I don’t know, my dear,” Sir Alfred said, mournfully. “I just don’t know.”
They settled into their private thoughts.
“I miss Edward so much, Alfred,” Lady Gwendolyn said, her voice shaking. “I don’t know how I shall bear it having Trace here.”
Sir Alfred gave her a side glance of surprise, but he said nothing.
CHAPTER 33
By the time Christmas arrived, Trace was stronger mentally and physically, but she still fought a weary spirit. Edward was always on her mind, especially living in the house where he had been born and raised. Thoughts of Nonnie were also with her day and night. Three times she had tried to compose a letter to the girl, but each time, she’d concluded that the tone and style were all wrong. In one, she’d suggested they meet. In another, she’d suggested that Nonnie visit her in England. In the third, Trace hadn’t mentioned meeting at all. She was conflicted and on edge.
She also wasn’t looking forward to Sir Alfred’s and Lady Gwendolyn’s traditional Christmas Eve party. She would have to meet and be judged by so many strangers. At first, the family showed little interest in the party, but Sir Alfred convinced everyone that Edward would have wanted them to continue their traditions. At least it was going to be a modest affair because of the war and Edward’s death.
For a time, the party preparations seemed to cheer the family, even Lady Gwendolyn, whose struggles with depression and grief seemed to age her right before Trace’s eyes. But the holly and the ivy, and the mistletoe, and the Christmas trees in the drawing room, parlor and ballroom, all lifted Lady Gwendolyn’s mood, and she fussed and busied herself with the details of the decorations and the menu.
Trace had found that it was not easy to be around the woman, who subtly gave off the vibes that somehow Trace was to blame for her son’s death. But Trace realized the issue was something else after she overheard Lady Gwendolyn and Bryanne in the drawing room one Sunday afternoon, speaking in little whispers about how they both wished Edward had returned home to marry Elizabeth Ashley Pemberton. They were not unkind to Trace, but their formal manners and lack of warmth did wear on her, and she grew anxious to leave Bishop Manor.
Sir Alfred was solicitous of her, and even fawning, something Lady Gwendolyn and Bryanne observed with mild irritation. Did they think his attention to Trace was romantic? Yes, she thought so, but she knew better. Sir Alfred and Trace had spent a lot of time together while she was recovering. He’d spoken candidly about Edward and his own life, sharing stories of triumph as well as regrets, and they had shared tears over many things. They had become friends.
Trace also knew that Sir Alfred saw her as the last connection to his son, and it was clear that he approved of her. He made a point of saying so to his wife, something Trace overheard one afternoon. Nonetheless, Trace had resigned herself to the reality that Lady Gwendolyn would never really approve of her, for whatever reason.
On Christmas Eve, the guests began arriving at 6pm, the men dressed formally in tuxedos and white ties, the women adorned in extravagant displays of emerald and burgundy-colored satin gowns, or bustle dresses in cream and light peach silk. Their hats were lavish Edwardian styles, some broad-brimmed with feathers, some made of silk crêpe with veils, and one that stood out from the rest, boasted an extravagant blue ostrich plume. All the women wore shimmering jewels that sparkled and glinted in the light.
Trace wore a black, full-length mourning dress, crafted in Edwardian style, with a lace collar and black laces. Sir Alfred had suggested she purchase the dress while they were in Paris. Trace felt that she looked a little like Morticia Addams from the movie The Addams Family, but she was assured her dress was stylish and appropriate.
Trace’s hair, cut short in prison, had lengthened, and with the help of Bryanne’s lady’s maid, it was arranged up, designed in careful, artistic curls. Trace had gained weight and, even though she wasn’t overly fond of the gown, she knew she looked pretty at least.
As the guests entered and were announced
, Sir Alfred and Lady Gwendolyn stood in the great hall, smiling their greetings, while Trace remained behind, standing next to a demure Bryanne, who wore a conservative black satin gown and black satin hat with feathers.
A reluctant and nervous Thomas was dressed in his brown woolen captain's uniform, with a tunic and straight legged trousers, and a stiff peaked cap tucked neatly under his arm. Trace had not seen much of Thomas since she'd arrived. He spent most of his time in London, working in secret, which seemed to suit his personality.
He leaned toward Trace’s ear and whispered. “I despise these bloody parties. Edward loved them.”
Trace gave him a quick glance and a smile. “Yes, Edward loved parties.”
“Did you know that Elizabeth Ashley Pemberton has been invited, and that she accepted?”
Trace kept her pleasant demeanor, but inside, she felt a twist of tension. “No, I didn’t know.”
“She’s not so bad, really,” Thomas whispered. “Not Edward’s type, but not so bad a girl. More my type, I think. I dare say, she is not so fond of these parties either. She’s rather bookish, having a particular fondness for Dickens, Christmas crackers, and Walkers shortbread, which, incidentally, so do I.”
Trace kept her eyes focused ahead, nodding and smiling at the guests, who were commenting on the pine garlands strung along the crown molding, and the 10-foot Christmas tree, aglow with lights and decorated with paper chains. The lengths of colored paper were stuck together with a paste made from flour and water, and they had been created by the children of the servants.
Lights from the sparkling multi-teared chandeliers added a shiny glitter, and made the world seem as though they were all stirring about, like bubbles, within a glass of champagne.
From lofty distances came music from a string quartet, playing waltzes, Haydn and Mozart. Trace longed to dance, and she wished to dance with Edward. Yes, he would have loved this party.
When Elizabeth Ashley Pemberton entered with her father, a distinguished white-haired man with a ruddy complexion and impressive handlebar mustache, Trace lowered her eyes and grabbed a breath.
The Lost Mata Hari Ring Page 23
