When she and Sir Alfred arrived at the house, it was an overcast, gray winter day, with low moving clouds. The estate manager, Colin, had opened the house, and had built a comfortable fire in the deep stone fireplace.
Trace entered with reverence, passing through the quiet Victorian decorated rooms somberly, recalling conversations she and Edward had shared. The firelight reminded her of their fireplace in that little hotel room in France, where the world and the war had seemed so far away, where their new love was fresh and filled with hope.
As she took in the rooms, Edward’s presence seemed to fill the spaces; every stone, every floorboard, and every cross beam.
“He loved this house, Trace,” Sir Alfred said, warming himself by the fire. “Before he left for the war, he spent much time here, reading and walking the grounds. He preferred this little house to Bishop Manor.”
Trace did not want to linger, and when she told Sir Alfred she was ready to leave, he seemed surprised and a bit wounded.
“You don’t like the house?” he asked.
They stood outside in a blowing wind that pushed heavy clay clouds across the sky and rattled the bare limbs of trees.
“It’s lovely, Sir Alfred. I can see why Edward loved it so much, but I couldn’t live here. I feel Edward everywhere in it.”
Sir Alfred turned away, gazing sightlessly toward the pond. “My dear, we have to move on with our lives. We must let Edward go and begin anew. That is what he would have wanted. I wish that Gwen could do the same. She seems to have fallen into an even greater depression, and I don’t know what to do for her. She keeps telling me that she sees Edward calling to her in her dreams.”
While they strolled the paths back to Bishop Manor, Trace gathered her courage, working to keep her voice from quivering.
“I’m going to be leaving soon, Sir Alfred.”
He stopped short, his head whipping around, eyes boring into her as he tried to understand. “Leaving… Leaving to where? Why?”
Trace pinched the collar of her coat at her neck. “I want to go home. It’s time I went home.”
“Home? But this is your home now, Trace. Edward has left you money and property. I’ve seen to every legal matter—every detail—and I can assure you that you will live well for the rest of your life, Trace. You will not want for anything. If you don’t like the house, then fine, we’ll find you another house. That is easily done. There are many comfortable homes nearby. Maybe you want to move to London. Of course, you’re still a young woman, and you want to meet people your own age. Perhaps you find Bishop Manor too sedate for your taste. Very well, we can arrange a move to London.”
Trace watched his mind working, spinning out a desperate litany of alternatives, hoping to change her mind. Sir Alfred continued.
“And then, in time, you’ll meet someone—someone you can love again, and you will move on with your life, and you will have a family and friends and... My dear, there is no reason for you to leave.”
Trace reached for his forearm and squeezed it. “Sir Alfred…I want to go home. I’ve been away a long time.”
He licked his lips, shifting his eyes toward the Manor house, then back to Trace.
“Home to America then?”
Ever since Trace had received the Mata Hari ring from Vadime, she’d spent hours agonizing over how she would break the news to Sir Alfred. He’d become a father to her, and she knew he had come to love her like a daughter. She did not want to leave him—everything and everyone else, yes—but not Sir Alfred.
She also wanted to tell him the truth—the complete truth—but she couldn’t find the right vocabulary. How could she tell him her impossible story? Without the right approach and the precise words, Sir Alfred would never be able to comprehend all that had happened to her.
“Yes, Sir Alfred, home to America.”
He nodded, shoving his hands into his overcoat pockets. “I see,” he said wearily, his breath smoking.
Trace noticed the crown of his balding head was pink from the cold. “We should get inside, Sir Alfred. It’s cold out here.”
As they drew up to the house, Sir Alfred’s eyes held a weary misery. At the entrance, he paused, as a new idea struck.
“All right, Trace. Travel to America. Yes, return to America and visit your family, of course, my dear, that would be the right and proper thing to do. But then come back to us. Spend as much time as you need in America, and then come back home to England.”
Trace looked at him with love. “Sir Alfred… you know how much you mean to me. Without you—without all you’ve done for me—I wouldn’t be here. I’d be dead…”
“None of that matters now, my dear. You are here now, and this is your true home, no matter where you were born. England and Bishop Manor are your home,” he said, with creeping desperation rising in his voice.
Trace couldn’t bear to see Sir Alfred’s anguish.
“We don’t have to discuss this now, Sir Alfred. We have time.”
Inside the house, Charles took their coats. and as they moved toward the staircase, Trace stopped, looking him full in the eyes.
“I don’t want the money, Sir Alfred. I don’t deserve it, just as I don’t deserve or want the house. Edward and I knew each other for only a short time. As a married couple, we spent only a few days together. They were wonderful days—and all the time I spent with Edward, and wrote to Edward, and received his letters were happy times; the best times.”
Her eyes lighted at the memory. “I guess that’s what war does to lovers. It heightens everything; intensifies everything. I was in love with Edward, despite the brief time, Sir Alfred, but I don’t want anything from your family. I don’t want anything for loving Edward.”
Sir Alfred gave her a small twist of a sad smile. “You, my dear, were no doubt one of the best things that ever happened to my son. However, I insist you keep the money. It was Edward’s wish, and he was not an impulsive man, or an irresponsible one.”
Trace took a few steps closer to Sir Alfred. “Thank you for all your kindnesses. I love you, Sir Alfred. I want you to remember that, no matter what happens.”
He nodded, tears glistening in his eyes, and he turned away to hide them. “I’ll just go… I’ll just go for some tea. Yes, a good hot cup of tea sounds just about right. I’ll see you later, my dear.”
Trace watched him shamble away toward the drawing room.
CHAPTER 36
The Bishops were to attend a New Year’s Eve party at the Prescotts’ Court Mansion, about ten miles away. Trace declined the invitation, explaining that she needed to begin packing for her journey to America, and since she wasn’t acquainted with the Prescott family, she wouldn’t be missed.
Lady Gwendolyn had also declined, to the surprise and concern of Sir Alfred, Bryanne and Thomas. It was the first time—indeed the only time—Lady Gwendolyn had ever turned down such an invitation. It just wasn't done.
When Sir Alfred looked in on his wife a day earlier, she was in bed, with the draperies pulled against the winter sunlight. Sir Alfred eased down on the edge of his wife’s bed and gently stroked her hair.
“Have the spooks returned, my dear girl?”
“I’m afraid so, Alfred. I cannot possibly attend the party at the Prescotts’. Will you forgive me?”
“I shall do my very best to forgive you,” he said, jokingly.
“I have sent a note with my apologies, conveying to Lady Prescott that I am quite ill.”
“Shall I stay with you, Gwen?”
She took his hand and kissed it. “No, Alfred. You must go. We both can’t be discourteous. We shall be drummed out of society, and you will lose your position in Parliament.”
“Not such a bad thing, these days, my dear.”
Gwen smiled up lovingly at her husband. “I don’t believe Lady Mary is all that fond of me anyway, and it is obvious that she lights up like a spring day whenever you’re around, Alfred.”
“Don’t be silly, my dear. She is a calculating woman
who only desires favor for her husband. She has grand designs for him, you know. She wants me to put in a good word with Lloyd George.”
“And you will, won’t you, Alfred?”
“Perhaps… Perhaps. John Prescott is a crashing bore, but we will need all the help we can get as we try to end this war. He is a pliable man, even if he is in constant pursuit of an intelligent thought. Listen to me go on. I’ve become supercilious and insufferable.”
Alfred’s eyes wandered the room.
“You seem preoccupied these days, Alfred. Is it because Trace is leaving us?”
Alfred lowered her hand and stood, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets.
“I’m sorry you never warmed to her, Gwen. I had hoped you would become good friends.”
“Oh, it’s not so much about warming to her, Alfred, I just don’t believe Edward was really in love with the girl. It was all too fast for true love. How could they have truly fallen in love in such a short time? I’m sure Edward was infatuated, because she is certainly a pretty girl and, I dare say, a likable and intelligent one, but love… well—and then for Edward to leave her so much money and that house, that's been in our family for generations.”
“She doesn’t want the money or the house, Gwen. And she doesn’t intend to return to England or Bishop Manor.”
Lady Gwendolyn sat up and propped her back up against a pillow. “Alfred, would you mind parting the drapes a little? Perhaps some sunlight would be pleasant after all.”
Sir Alfred did so, and weak sunlight brightened the room. Alfred returned to his wife, again easing down on the edge of her bed. Lady Gwendolyn studied her husband’s long face.
“Do you believe her, Alfred? Do you truly believe she does not want the money or the house?”
“She does not…and as I said, I am certain she will not return to us and, yes, I am sad about it.”
Lady Gwendolyn stared ahead. “Alfred, I know you have grown fond of her, and you must know that I greatly admire what you did for the girl, pulling strings to release her from that ghastly prison. Of course, you know how much I admire and love you for that.”
“If you had seen Trace after she was released from that dungeon of a prison, Gwen, your heart would have shattered into rage and compassion. My God, those people are barbarians. She had red splotches on her face, arms and legs, bitten by fleas and bedbugs. She was rail thin, her skin as white as chalk. They had snipped off her beautiful hair and left her there to die. Why even the nuns had nearly stopped their visits, believing her close to death. I’d never seen such wild and fearful eyes in a woman. She wept in my arms, Gwen. She wept and held me so tightly, and thanked me repeatedly for helping her. Yes, dearest Gwen, I am fond of Trace. Yes, I will miss her greatly.”
Gwen gripped her husband’s hand. “Alfred, what you did for her was the right and moral thing to do. Yes, of course, the Christian thing to do, and I am thankful to God that she survived and has blossomed here at Bishop Manor. But, well… I have just never felt that the girl belongs here.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Gwen,” Sir Alfred answered, his voice cracking with emotion. “Edward loved her, and he charged us to take care of her in the event he did not survive the war. Those were his last wishes. Our son’s last request. It is our duty now to carry out his wishes.”
“Edward was not well, Alfred. You read the reports the Army sent us. He had become ill… His last letters to us were vague and wandering. I don’t think he knew what he was doing when he married the girl. Perhaps Trace took advantage of him in some way.”
Alfred pushed up to his feet, his eyes fired up. “Gwen, that is not fair, and you know it. Edward’s letters, before he stopped flying, were filled with admiration, praise and love for Trace. He said it was she who kept him alive, she who gave him the will to keep going when he was at his wit’s end. He was certainly well enough of mind when he courted and married Trace Rutland. I just don’t know or understand why you have never warmed to Trace, but…” He threw up his hands and sighed. “I still believe that we should…”
Lady Gwendolyn interrupted, “…Alfred, hear me out. I have thought long and hard about Trace. I have prayed for guidance. It’s just that I have never met anyone like her.”
“For pity sake, Gwen, she’s an American.”
Lady Gwendolyn held his eyes, as if willing him to understand. “I have met Americans, Alfred. I know several American women, thanks to this horrendous war and the war work we have done together. But Trace is different somehow. She moves differently, she thinks differently, she acts differently.”
Lady Gwendolyn scratched her head, struggling to find the right words. “I cannot quite grasp what it is I feel exactly. I guess it is my silly woman’s intuition, as all you men like to say. But Trace is unusual, and you must have noticed that, Alfred. Whenever I am around her, I feel as though she occupies a different space than I, or even a different time. As ridiculous as it sounds, there are times when I feel I can see right through her, almost as if she’s not really here. It is quite disconcerting.”
Alfred turned away, with a shake of his head. “You do say the damnedest things sometimes, my dear.”
They remained in silence for a time before he leaned and kissed her warm cheek. He lay a gentle hand on her forehead, and the back of his hand against her hot cheek. “You do feel warm, Gwen. Shall I send for the doctor?”
“No, no. I’m fine. Alfred, forgive me for saying this, and I do not wish to sound like a shrew, and I certainly do not wish to be unkind to the girl, but I am sure I will feel better once Trace is gone.”
Sir Alfred held his tongue, although there were many things he wanted to say in Trace’s defense.
On New Year’s Eve, Trace began packing her trunk, her stomach twisted into knots and a murmuring anxiety making her hands shake. She was anxious to hear from Nonnie. She’d hoped a telegram from her would arrive right away, but none did.
Trace did not know for certain whether the ring would return her to her own time, and if it did not, then what? The Mata Hari ring lay on the bed before her, its deep emerald gloss emanating a soft, hypnotic glow. If she stared into it long enough, she noticed that she dropped into a sleepy relaxed state, as if she were slipping away under quiet rippling waves.
Over the last few days, she'd often stopped what she was doing and returned to her room to stare at the ring in fear, speculation and fascination. Would its power send her forward in time, to her previous life? A life that now seemed a misty dream, a fanciful world of cell phones, the internet, nuclear weapons, passenger jets that shot across the sky, and cultural realities that this world of 1916—soon-to-be 1917—could have never imagined.
This time—this world—was her real world now and had been her real world for six months; the faces, the relationships, the deaths, the events, all that had happened to her, these were her world, and a quivering part of her had grown comfortable and accustomed to it.
Except for the war, there was much to admire about this world: it was simpler, gracious, cultural and, at least on the surface, genteel. With the money and property she’d inherited, she could indeed live a very good life, either here or in London.
She had fought doubts about returning to her world. But she'd also had sleepless nights, when she'd risen from her bed, switched on the lamp and gazed into the ring, greatly tempted to try out its magic.
But she couldn't do that. She couldn't simply vanish into thin air. How would it affect Sir Alfred? What would be the outcome? The police would be called to investigate; questions would be asked, and the entire Bishop family would be thrown into an ugly, unwanted publicity and sorrow. They'd had enough distress. And then there was Nonnie.
On January 10, a letter finally arrived from Nonnie. Being told by Trace that she was expecting a letter from De Steeg or The Hague, Charles brought the letter to Trace’s room right away.
Trace closed herself in her room, holding the letter; staring at the letter. She crossed the room to the mahogany uphols
tered chair and sat. She listened to the sound of her own breath, coming in and out. Trace knew this letter could be life-changing. When Trace looked at Nonnie's elegant handwriting, she felt a swelling love warm her chest. Finally, she opened the envelope and retrieved the letter, written on a heavy cream bond, the words written in a beautiful calligraphy hand.
Dear Mrs. Bishop:
Trace’s shoulders dropped. Why the formal Mrs. Bishop and not Trace?
I was so pleased to receive your letter. It had been so long since I'd heard from you, and I had been worried that something unfortunate had happened. Now, I learn that something dreadful did occur. Please accept my heartfelt condolences over the death of your husband. How terrible war is. How miserable to read of the many soldiers’ deaths in the newspapers. I have wept for you, my dear friend. I have wept over your loss.
To also learn that you have been deathly ill has also truly disturbed me. When I hadn’t received news from you, I had imagined dire things. How I wish I could have attended you, my dearest friend. I am so happy to hear that you are now fully recovered and that you are living with your husband’s family in England. That news has helped soothe my nerves.
I’m afraid I have some rather unfortunate news of my own. My father has taken ill and, even though doctors attend him regularly, he has not appreciably improved. He remains in bed, unable to walk. He also has difficulty eating. The doctors and I have tried to persuade him to abstain from imbibing, but so far, he refuses to listen. As you can imagine, I am quite worried and sad.
I’m sure you understand, Mrs. Bishop, that I cannot possibly leave my father at this time. In addition, I have been offered a job teaching kindergarten children in Velp. I start in one week. My father insists that I go. He says it will help him improve; therefore, I will begin my life as a teacher, just as my mother did. I find it strange, but teaching is what I love.
The Lost Mata Hari Ring Page 25
