The Lost Mata Hari Ring

by Elyse Douglas

  So, as you can see, it seems our lives are moving in different directions. Dear Trace, I wish I could invite you for a visit, but my father has never recovered his favor for you, ever since that night you dined with us. I do not know what occurred, and I won’t ask, but it is quite clear that my father does not wish me to see you again. It makes me sad, of course, Mrs. Bishop, but I must obey my father. He means everything to me, and he needs me now, more than ever.

  Please know that the time we spent together was a golden time and one that I will never forget. You lifted me up and gave me support, affection and love. What greater gifts can one receive?

  Perhaps, Trace, at some time in the future, we will meet again. I’m sure of it. Until then, dear friend, I leave you with just a portion of one of my favorite Shakespeare sonnets, which reminds me of our friendship:

  Sonnet 29

  Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

  Like to the lark at break of day arising

  From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate.

  You will always be my treasured friend, whose presence lifted my spirits when they most needed lifting. Every time I sing, I think of you, dear Trace.

  With fond affection and love,

  Juana-Luisa MacLeod

  CHAPTER 37

  Trace accepted Nonnie’s decision. She had to, didn’t she? But she was touched by and grateful for her affectionate words. For the rest of her life, she would remember and celebrate the time she’d had with Nonnie. She would be grateful that, for some mysterious reason, she had been granted the grace and privilege of seeing her lovely daughter once more and, this time, they were able to part lovingly, with full hearts. What more could she ask for? Trace realized that she couldn’t change the past for Nonnie and Mata Hari, but she had been able to change herself. She had been able to love Edward. She had been able to love Nonnie. What greater gifts were there?

  Trace booked a hotel room in Southampton, disappointed that the first passage she could get to North America was on a cargo ship, sailing to New York on January 22, 1917. For the most part, since 1914, passenger ships were nearly non-existent, having been requisitioned by the British government and used as transport ships for troops and supplies to support the war effort.

  Trace had been lucky to find a cargo ship and to book a private cabin. Of course, she would never board the ship, that is, unless the Mata Hari ring was impotent and had no real power to return her to 2018. Until then, she had to pretend her voyage would indeed occur on January 22, and she would have to wait, not something she liked.

  On the afternoon of January 17th, over tea, Trace finally relayed her travel plans to Sir Alfred. He grew noticeably nervous as he listened, despairing that she had booked passage on a merchant ship, afraid it would be sunk by a torpedo or a mine, just as the sister ship to the Titanic, the Britannic, had been sunk less than two months before, in November, 1916.

  He tried to persuade her to stay in England, at least until after the war.

  “Trace, I fear you put yourself in great peril. Look what happened to the Britannic, a hospital ship carrying 1066 souls. You read the account in the papers. It was sailing in the Aegean Sea when it was rocked by a massive explosion, surely from a mine or a torpedo. Fortunately, only 30 perished, but it is too dangerous for you to make such a crossing right now. We are hopeful the war will be over soon. Please wait until then to return home. What is the hurry?”

  “I’ll be fine, Sir Alfred. Stop worrying. I have to go. I must go.”

  They argued for another ten minutes before Sir Alfred finally admitted defeat.

  “All right then, I will travel with you to Southampton to see you off. That, of course, I must do.”

  “No, Sir Alfred. I have traveled alone many times in my life, and I will be fine. You have a lot of work to do, especially now that Lloyd George has become Prime Minister. You’re needed in London, Sir Alfred, more than ever. You must not come with me.”

  He stood with his back to the fireplace, saucer and teacup in hand, worry lines on his tired face. “Trace, I shall never forgive myself if anything happens to you.”

  Trace lay her cup and saucer aside, got to her feet and crossed to him, looking up at him tenderly. “Sir Alfred, I’m going to be all right. I promise you.”

  “Like you can promise such a thing in this unscrupulous and capricious world.”

  “You must relax, Sir Alfred. You must let me go.”

  He sipped his tea absently. “Well, anyway, you will write to your old friend, won’t you, Trace?”

  Trace had thought about this, although she had never been able to come up with a satisfying answer. How do you write to someone when you live a hundred years into the future, and they have been dead for many years? It was an insurmountable problem.

  Trace took in a little breath, running a hand through her hair, which had thickened and returned to its original luster.

  “You will write, won’t you, Trace?” Sir Alfred repeated, almost at a pleading whisper, appraising her guarded expression.

  “Yes, of course I’ll write, Sir Alfred.”

  She turned and started back to her chair and sat. They were quiet for a time, as they sipped their tea.

  “Is Lady Gwendolyn feeling better?” Trace asked.

  “Yes, although she still stays in her room. I wanted her to join us for tea, but she regretfully declined. I am sorry, Trace.”

  “Don’t be. Once I’m gone, I’m sure her health will improve.”

  “Why would you say such a thing, Trace?”

  “Please, Sir Alfred. After all the confessions you and I have had these last few weeks; and those confidential talks we had when I was in the hospital. A woman knows things.”

  He screwed up his lips and shook his head. “A woman is a puzzle and a trial sometimes, Trace. I wish I could say otherwise, but I find it increasingly so.”

  Trace laughed a little. “So we are, Sir Alfred. So we are, indeed.”

  Sir Alfred rested his warm eyes on Trace. “How I regret Edward’s death, my dear. How I wish you two could have lived here in love and harmony. I could have spent the rest of my years playing with and spoiling my grandchildren.”

  The room receded into a heavy silence.

  CHAPTER 38

  On January 20th, a gray, misty morning, Trace left Bishop Manor for the last time. Thomas had returned from London to see her off, and Trace was surprised and grateful to see him one last time.

  Bryanna and Lady Gwendolyn presented pleasant faces, while Sir Alfred struggled to hide his sadness. Charles sheltered Trace from the cold mist with a black umbrella, as she hugged Sir Alfred, kissing him on both cheeks, her eyes wet and his red. His stiff upper lip was quivering.

  “You will write to your old friend, won’t you, Trace? Send me your address and I will certainly write to you. I want to hear everything you are up to.”

  Trace was choked with feeling as she touched his cheek, staring into his kind, searching eyes. “Yes, I will write to you, Sir Alfred, and I will tell you things that will amaze and astound you. Things you will never believe.”

  He chuckled. “I hope that is true, my dear Trace. An old man likes to be astounded now and then. It keeps his blood warm and his heart ticking, you know.”

  Lady Gwendolyn looked on with keen interest, silently wishing Trace happiness, and yet privately thanking God that she was leaving.

  Thomas embraced Trace warmly, his eyes soft on her. “Return at any time, dear Trace, and we will throw you the party of parties.”

  Trace winked at him. “When you sat and spoke at length with Miss Pemberton at the Christmas party, no one seemed to disapprove, and the world is still spinning around. I think the lady is smitten, Thomas.”

  He smiled. “All in good time, Trace. All in good time.”

  Bryanne extended a mechanical hand and wished Trace luck and every happiness.

  As the car putted off and the family remained in a single line, waving, Trace twisted around and waved back until t
hey grew smaller and smaller, finally fading into ghosts in the gray, foggy mist.

  As Trace settled into her seat, she shut her eyes, recalling her final visit to Edward’s grave the day before. The sun had slid in and out of clouds, at times bathing the peaceful family cemetery in golden light, at times blanketing the world in shades of gray. There was a quick, chilling wind.

  Trace had knelt before the grave, bowed her head in prayer, and placed a bouquet of flowers she’d found at the local greenhouse that morning. Edward’s marker was a towering obelisk gravestone, with a cross at the crown, and angels with curled wings on either side, their pious faces gazing heavenward. The inscription read:

  CAPTAIN EDWARD KENYON BISHOP

  BORN AUGUST 6, 1891

  DIED SEPTEMBER 14, 1916

  BELOVED SON OF SIR ALFRED KENYON BISHOP

  AND

  LADY GWENDOLYN ANNE BISHOP

  WORTHY IS THE LAMB, WHO WAS SLAIN, TO RECEIVE POWER AND WEALTH WISDOM AND STRENGTH AND HONOR AND GLORY AND PRAISE!

  It was early the next evening, January 21st, when Trace wearily checked into the five-story South Western Hotel in Southampton. It was a very Victorian structure, built of yellow brick, with chocolate trim, and turrets shooting into the sky.

  After her bags and trunk were delivered to her third-floor room, Trace collapsed on the large upholstered panel bed and shut her eyes. It had been a long day and an arduous trip, with her train being delayed in London. She’d spent the night in a London hotel and caught a rerouted train the next morning, finally completing her journey to Southampton.

  She managed to eat a modest dinner in the club car, while ignoring several British soldiers, who were casting flirty, lusty eyes her way. They looked like boys, fresh out of high school, frisky and confident. She hoped they were not on their way to some front to be slaughtered.

  During the train ride across the foggy, unraveling countryside, Trace mentally began to compose her letter to Sir Alfred. She started it several times, erased it, and started again, eventually finding the right pitch and tone.

  In her hotel room, Trace sat at a mahogany ball-and-claw-foot writing desk, a flickering oil lamp beside her. She removed a piece of hotel bond paper and a brushed gold pen from the drawer, and she began to write. After several smudged words, Trace finally found the right way to use the odd little pen, and she wrote swiftly, feeling emotional.

  Dearest Sir Alfred:

  There are no words to express all the love, gratitude and emotion I feel in my heart. When I saw your shocked and kind face as I stumbled out of that prison, squinting against the bright light and in a delirious state, I wasn’t sure who you were. No one had told me, not the nuns or the guards. Certainly not Captain Ladoux, who had come by my cell one last time to look at me with disgust and loathing. He actually spat at me. I truly fear for Mata Hari. She will meet him soon, and there’s nothing I can do about that.

  You were my savior, Sir Alfred, and when I felt your kind presence in the room or saw your large shadow sitting close by, you were my guardian angel, my protector.

  And then there were the talks we had about Edward. How we both cried our eyes out. I was honored that you shared so much of your life with me—your memories, your regrets, your hopes and wishes. You had asked me for my life story—for my regrets and wishes. I told you I didn’t want to recall anything about my past, that I just wanted to get away from that prison and France, and never go back. Remember when the nightmares and my screaming awoke you? You calmed me and soothed me; you were so kind and loving. How I needed that. How that healed me more than anything else.

  Remember, I told you how lucky Edward was to have you as a father? And how he’d often said how much he loved and admired you and his mother, Lady Gwendolyn? I wanted to tell her that so many times—I wanted to explain things to her—but I could see she was not comfortable in my presence. I hope you will tell her these things that Edward said, and thank her again for all her kindnesses.

  Now, Sir Alfred, I am going to tell you about my past—or rather about my future. I am only telling you now because I will never be able to write to you again, and it hurts me deeply to have to tell you that. Sir Alfred, you will never hear from me again, so I must tell you the truth, whether you believe me or not. You deserve to know the whole truth.

  There is no easy way to tell you my story, so I’m just going to come out with it.

  Sir Alfred, I am not from your time. Again, I was not born in your time. I came to this time as a time traveler from the future. I know that sounds crazy. But please read on.

  Why did it happen? How? It was a bizarre twist of fate, or an anomaly, or something I don’t understand and probably never will. Anyway, I did come to this time—your time of 1916-1917—from the future. To be exact: I came from the year 2018.

  I can see your face now, Sir Alfred. It is filled with confusion, disbelief and alarm. You might even be laughing, believing that this is some kind of joke. It is not a joke, I can assure you.

  I could have told you many things about the future that you would have found to be both wondrous and disturbing. I could have said so many things, but I didn’t, and I won’t now, except to tell you these few things that will happen. The Great War or World War I—as it will be called—because there will be a World War II beginning in Europe in 1939… Anyway, The Great War will not end until November of 1918, and the peace treaty will be signed in Versailles.

  Also, Mata Hari will be executed on October 15, 1917. All her appeals will come to nothing. No one will be able to save her, as you saved me. That is all I’ll say about that. If you doubt what I am writing, just wait, and then perhaps you’ll believe me.

  I never told Edward these things. Perhaps I would have in time, but our time together was always so short, and I wanted to enjoy all of it, without any intrusions, and believe me, it would have been an intrusion. I wanted Edward to enjoy all the time we had together, and I believe he did.

  Why did I time travel to the past? I believe it was to meet Edward and fall in love. I had never fallen in love before. I had never met a man who touched me so deeply in so many infinite ways. I also came to reunite with a young girl who had haunted my dreams for years. I came to reconcile my relationship with her. Also, I came to see myself as I was in the past, to learn from that and then to grow to be a better woman, a better person. I hope and believe I have succeeded. But without your help, Sir Alfred, I would not have survived. Thank you, dear friend.

  I am hoping to return to my time, Sir Alfred, and if it all goes well, I should be there soon. If not, well, I will still make my way home to America and try to find my great-grandparents. That will be strange, but if it comes to that, then I will be in touch, and perhaps I will return to Bishop Manor someday. But don't count on it. I fully intend to vanish from your world forever.

  Just know and believe me, Sir Alfred, when I tell you that I will never forget you, and I will hold you in my heart for the rest of my life and perhaps beyond. Who knows, we may meet again in another time and place. The world truly is a strange, beguiling place, isn’t it, Sir Alfred, my good and truest friend?

  You will always be in my thoughts and prayers.

  With love,

  Tracey Peyton Rutland Bishop

  Southampton, England

  January 21, 1917

  Trace posted the letter downstairs with the friendly hotel clerk, and then promptly returned to her room, flushed with a mounting anticipation. Inside, she bolted the door, hurried to the desk and removed another sheet of paper. She sat and dashed off a final quick note.

  To Whom It May Concern:

  I, Tracey Rutland Bishop, had to leave town suddenly. I am fine, of sound mind, and I am in no danger. Please give all my items herein to charity.

  Yours sincerely,

  Tracey Rutland Bishop

  With every task completed, there was only one thing left to do.

  Breathing in her nerves, Trace opened her purse and gingerly removed the red velvet cloth that held Mat
a Hari’s ring. The Victorian mantel clock ticked away in the loud silence of the room, as Trace carefully loosened the strings, allowing the velvet sides to fall away, revealing the awaiting emerald ring, its center shining with tiny fires. She glanced at the mantel clock. It was 12:35am, January 21, 1917.

  Outside, she heard the clop of a horse's hooves on the cobbles, and a squeal of wind rounding the hotel. She lay the velvety cloth on the desktop, the ring between two fingers, ready, so close to her left-hand fourth finger.

  She hesitated, willing her galloping pulse to calm and settle. There was no use to wait any longer. Her decision was made. It was now or never. With a sudden inhalation, hand trembling, she slipped the ring onto her finger.

  Instantly, the hair on the back of her neck stood up, as the air around her begin to shimmer, like heat on a hot, summer day. There was a tickle across her skin, as if feathers were brushing her face, her neck, her chest. Bursting blue glittering dots appeared and twirled about her in a dazzling display of motion and color.

  Trace stared rapt, as a flash of light—like a flashbulb—exploded, blinding her for a time. She heard bells—deep throated bells—to her right, her left, and high above. The floor beneath her shifted and moved, as a rumbling, whirling wind whipped her hair, scattering her skirt. It flapped around her legs.

  Suddenly, the room was pitched into darkness, and Trace couldn’t tell if she was looking up, down or sideways. Helplessly disoriented, she reached. She fell, falling, plunging down, heart pounding. She was flung on wild currents, feeling that pit-of-the-stomach sensation of freefall, completely at the mercy of motion.

  A whooshing wind slammed into her, pitching her head-over-heels, and she screamed as she was sucked into a tunnel of golden blue light, and hurled away into spinning stars and blurring lights.

  Voices called her name—sirens wailed, explosions and bursting flares sailed by, cries for help and ghostlike figures reached, and faces flew by.