“You know, my dear Captain Bishop,” Vadime said, “we always face German pilots who have much better aircraft than we do. They have more speed and a higher ceiling, and they have a better training system.”
“Yes, Vadime, and the weather is also a significant factor on the Western Front, with the prevailing westerly wind favoring the Germans.”
“But of course, Captain Bishop,” Vadime said, sliding his soup bowl aside. “So, the most important thing in fighting is the shooting, then come the tactics, and last comes the flying.”
Edward thought about that. “Yes, Vadime, you are right about that. In nearly all the cases where I’ve seen planes shot down, it was during a dogfight that was very short in duration. The successful machine gun fire occurred within a minute after the fight began.”
“Enough about war, you flying soldiers,” Mata Hari said. “You talk about war as if it were a woman you are about to make love to, when you have two beautiful women right here before you, wanting to be made love to. Now, not another word about war and flying those damned flimsy machines.”
Mata Hari turned to Trace. “My dear Trace, please tell me what you have been doing with yourself while in France.”
The French waiter, dressed in black tails and white tie, leaned toward Trace with a silver tray that held plump pheasant breasts, covered with crispy ham and dripping orange sauce. Not being used to serving herself, she fumbled the serving spoons, finally managing to drop the breast onto her porcelain plate with a little bounce.
After the party was served, Trace prepared herself to answer the question she knew was on everyone’s mind. Where had she come from, and how had she dropped in from out of nowhere?
Trace needed all her acting skills to tell the story she’d worked on and polished while taking a bath. Fortunately, she’d had a dancing part in a Broadway musical two years before, called Woman at the Front. It was set during the First World War, and even though the show closed after only 80 performances, Trace had learned some important facts about World War I.
The musical’s story had been loosely based on a real person, Lena Ashwell, an actress, impresario and suffragette, who had bravely and brazenly fought the War Office to travel to France to entertain the troops. The War Office did not share her views on “entertaining troops.” As far as the generals were concerned, soldiers made their own amusement: playing cards and dominoes, and writing letters, interspersed with playing a little football. The generals felt that the men did not need women causing a raucous sensation, and complicating matters behind the front lines.
But Lena Ashwell persisted, finally winning a wealthy patron's support. So, Lena and a troupe of women and men actually did travel to Europe. In1915, the first concert tour got underway, with 39 concerts in two weeks.
Trace remembered parts of Lena Ashwell’s story and managed to recall lines from the show, bits and pieces of monologues and songs’ lyrics. From these, Trace had put together a story—a convincing story she hoped, one she had rehearsed, both in her head and aloud—and now she was about to share it with her curious and waiting dinner guests.
“So, why did you come to France?” Edward repeated.
Trace calmly lifted her crystal wine glass and took a swallow of Chardonnay, drifting into performance mode.
“I came with Lena Ashwell, to perform for the French troops behind the lines.”
Silence. The candles, burning in the silver candelabra at the center of the table, flickered and danced.
“Who?” Mata Hari asked.
“Lena Ashwell. I’m sure you’ve heard of her. She grew up in Canada and attended The Royal Academy of Music in London. She’s an actress and suffragette.” Trace had worked hard to remember to tell Lena’s story in the present tense.
“And what are you?” Mata Hari asked, her eyes narrowing. “An actress? A suffragette?”
“I’m an actress, dancer and singer.”
More silence. Edward stared, dumbly, not moving, not blinking. “An actress?”
Trace knew what that meant to these people. During the course of rehearsing Woman at the Front, Trace had learned that in 1915, being an actress and dancer was looked upon by polite society with disapproval and suspicion. At that time, actresses were considered loose women, who drank champagne all day long, languished on sofas, and received bouquets from countless lovers, who patiently waited in lines at the stage door to present themselves, hoping for a night of love in return for money and favors. In other words: Mata Hari’s own way of living.
Trace took another sip of wine, wanting to get buzzed and relaxed as soon as possible.
Vadime spoke next. “My dear girl, you certainly must stir the hearts of those soldiers. I for one would love to see you perform.”
Mata Hari glowed with jealousy. “Miss Rutland, who are your current admirers? Generals? Marquis? You must have many, with that thick blonde hair and those red lips.”
Edward lowered his disappointed eyes to his food. He laid his fork aside and blotted his lips with his linen napkin, as if his appetite had fled.
Though she fought it, Trace turned defensive, her tone edgy. “I have no admirers, Mata Hari. I worked very hard to become an actress, singer and dancer.” Now Trace launched into the meat of the story she’d rehearsed.
“Life behind the front line is not easy, I can assure you. We often find ourselves wading knee-deep in mud towards candlelit huts, barns or tents. We carry heavy props and musical instruments and costumes, only to find that the stage is covered with a pile of suitcases, which we must move to set up for the performance, after having had little or no sleep. But the men—those good and weary, and sometimes sick and wounded men—who have seen the horrors of war—eagerly await our performances. In those smoke-filled rooms, jam-packed with soldiers, we perform, and they're excited and thankful for it, and they applaud the songs and the recitations with such laughter and enthusiasm that it brings tears to our eyes.”
Edward leaned back in his chair with renewed interest, his hands in his lap.
Trace continued. “At the base camps, we often spend time after concerts with the wounded, sometimes sitting quietly, singing to just one man. Over time, I believe we have proved our worth, and now, there is an increasing demand for what is known as ‘firing-line parties.' We are now being invited to many base camps to perform.”
Trace set her wine glass down, firmly, as a kind of punctuation, a period, to end her dramatic speech. What she’d said had all been true—it had happened just the way she’d spoken it, as the entire cast of the musical had learned during rehearsals from the writer of the show.
The dinner guests quietly went back to eating. Trace felt satisfied that at least she’d made them aware of the women and men who were currently performing in France. Of course, she also hoped they’d believe her, and she’d survive another day.
After another brief silence, Edward began to applaud, and Vadime soon joined in. Finally, Mata Hari smiled, warmly, tapping a spoon against her crystal glass.
“Brava, Miss Rutland,” Mata Hari said. “Brava to you and those brave women.”
Edward raised his wine glass. “And to the brave soldiers who fight for us all.”
Their glasses chimed as they touched.
Trace let out a little breath of relief. For now, she was okay.
Vadime said, “My dear Captain Bishop, I believe you have found a girl with, as I hear the American pilots say, ‘A girl with moxie.’”
Trace turned her eyes toward Edward, and although she saw his eyes shining at her, she could also see that those eyes held more questions. Questions that he’d surely want answers to in private.
After dinner, they retired to the library, where the men had cigars and cognac and the women, glasses of port. Trace, not used to the stinking smell of cigars, nearly gagged when Mata Hari left to retrieve one of her scrapbooks of photographs, newspaper clippings, playbills and calling cards from her years of performing in many European capitals. They sat in elegant chairs as Mata Hari
turned the pages slowly, reminiscing, commenting on photos of her in seductive poses and suggestive costumes. Trace masked her astonishment when she realized she was looking at the same scrapbook she’d seen at Cyrano Wallace’s library, as part of his Mata Hari collection, far into the future.
“I haven’t really danced since 1915, you know,” Mata Hari said. “Maybe I’m getting too old. Although,” she pointed to a newspaper clipping in her scrapbook, “look at that. Look at how The Daily Telegraph of London described me only last year. “I’ll read it out loud, so everyone can hear. This reporter says I’m ‘mahogany in color, rather tall, aged between 35 and 40, a very pretty woman.’ End quote.”
Vadime applauded. “And yes, my dear, you are a very pretty woman.”
“Hear! Hear!” Edward said, raising his glass so he and Vadime could clink a toast.
Mata Hari sighed. “Oh well, this damned war has spoiled everything. The salons and the theatres all play those silly patriotic shows now. They don’t want me.”
Edward spoke up. “But Mata Hari, they do help keep up the people’s morale.”
“Good plays and popular reviews would do a better job of it, Edward.”
“You should go back to dancing, my love,” Vadime said. “It would be good for you, and the public.”
“I tell you, they don’t want me anymore, Vadime. You know that. The world is changing, and not for the better. I’m sure you saw that awful pamphlet that sold more than 75,000 copies in one week, written by ‘A Little Mother,’ which basically states that women were ‘created for the purpose of giving life, and men to take it.’”
“What a bunch of bullshit,” Trace said, without thinking.
All startled eyes in the room stuck to her.
Edward managed a smile. “My, my. Is that American slang?” he asked. “That word?”
Trace blushed, looking down.
Vadime spoke up in her defense. “My dear Captain Bishop, I have heard the Australian troops using that very word. Miss Rutland must have picked it up during one of her troop entertainments.”
“Well, I like the word,” Mata Hari said, with an emphatic jerk of her chin. “It's so…alive with meaning. I have never heard of it. Bullshit! Yes, I like it, and I will surely use it. If it's good enough for those brave Australians, then it's good enough for Mata Hari.”
The conversation soon fell into the trivial, and as the clock ticked on toward eleven, Trace worried about where she was going to sleep. If they shared the same bedroom, would Edward try to force himself on her? And what was she going to do in the morning? Where would she go?
The dinner party finally concluded near midnight, when Edward wrapped a possessive arm around Trace’s shoulders and said, “Well, my friends, it’s late, and I for one am exhausted. Thank you, Mata Hari, for a wonderful evening. Trace and I bid you both a very good night.”
Trace stood stiffly, with a tight smile, feeling the pressure of Edward’s hand on her arm. “Yes, thank you for a lovely evening. Good night.”
Mata Hari fixed her attention on Trace. “What are your plans, Miss Rutland? Where will you go? Will Edward take you away on Monday?”
Trace looked at Edward for help. She didn’t realize he was leaving on Monday. “Well, I…I didn’t know Edward was leaving so soon.”
Vadime took Mata Hari’s hand. “Yes, Miss Rutland. Captain Bishop and I are due back at the airfield. We have sorties to fly on Tuesday, over the Western Front. There will be a lot of action.”
Mata Hari spoke up. “If you’re not returning to entertain the troops, Miss Rutland, you could always stay here with me. I could use the company when Vadime is away.”
Edward spoke up quickly. “That is kind of you, Mata Hari, but Miss Rutland is going to Paris. She’ll be staying at the Hotel Elysee Palace.”
Trace shot him a side glance. “I am?”
“Of course, my darling. Don’t you remember? We discussed it in some detail driving up here.”
“Well, if you change your mind, Miss Rutland, you are welcome to stay with me,” Mata Hari said.
With his arm linked in hers, Edward and Trace left the library, strolling down the long hallway that led to their bedroom. Trace remained silent until they entered the bedroom and Edward shut the door behind them. They were very alone, with only the ringing sound of insects outside.
Just as she turned to speak to him, Edward took her shoulders, pulled her into him and kissed her. She felt the stirring sensation of his lips. She nearly relaxed into his arms, but she fought it, pushing him away.
They stood staring, Edward’s eager eyes exploring her, she stepping back, her expression cool.
“Is there another bedroom I can stay in, Edward?” she asked.
“No.”
“Aren’t there plenty of rooms in this house, or chateau, or whatever it is?”
“Yes, but Mata Hari will know, and our lies will be discovered.”
“I’ll tell her we had a fight.”
Edward sighed. “Miss Rutland, I apologize for that kiss…Actually, no, I don’t apologize for it—it was quite wonderful—but I apologize for springing it on you like that. I didn’t intend to. It’s just that I’ve been wanting to kiss you again, ever since that first time, and the impulse simply took me over.”
“I am not going to sleep with you, Edward,” Trace said, firmly.
“My, but you are very direct, aren’t you, Miss Rutland? It’s quite all right, I promise you. I will not compel you to do anything you do not want to do. I will sleep on that couch or settee or whatever it is, and you can have the bed. I assure you that I am an English gentleman.”
Trace eyed him suspiciously. “I wonder. Somehow, I doubt that.”
Edward held a hand over his heart. “You have my word of honor, Miss Rutland, that I will not make any further advances…that is, unless you ask me to.”
“I am very tired, Edward. I just want to sleep.”
“Then I will watch over you.”
“No, please, just stay on the settee… and sleep.”
He gave a little bow. “Yes, Miss Rutland. As you wish.”
Trace used the bathroom first, appearing once again in her 21st-century pajamas and a silk robe. She hurriedly climbed into bed and slid under the sheets.
She was fast asleep by the time Edward left the bathroom, turned off the light and crept quietly to the couch. As he lay in darkness, his mind spinning out romantic possibilities, he sat up.
“Miss Rutland, what shall we do tomorrow? We’ll have a whole day and night together.”
He heard a little tearing snore, and he grinned. “Ah, the lady snores. How wonderfully human she is. And I thought she was all goddess.”
As he lay there, feeling, thinking, it took all his willpower not to leave the couch, cross to the bed and slip under the sheets beside Trace. He was sure he could coax her into lovemaking. He'd seen the sparkle of attraction in her eyes. He'd felt her heated desire for him.
From his point of view, Trace Rutland was the most attractive and magnetic woman he had ever met. As he lay there, he began to sense a difference in himself. Since he’d met Trace, a new kind of fear had emerged. As a hard rain began to fall, and flashes of lightning strobed the room, he became freshly aware that he could very well be dead on Tuesday.
It was that cold fear of dying—of leaving the world—that impressed him more than ever. Yes, he could die, never having had the opportunity to get to know Trace, of having a relationship with her.
Yes, he wanted that now. He wanted that very much. He wanted them to laugh and touch and explore, and grow to know each other, to make love and, as crazy and rash as it sounded, perhaps even to marry. It was an irrational thought. He had only just met the girl. What would his father, Sir Alfred Kenyon Bishop, say?
Was it the war that made him feel so boyishly reckless and spontaneous—the fact that he could die at any time? He was not by nature a rash or impulsive man, but the possibility of imminent death does change a man. He’d seen the change
in others: Brits, Americans, Australians, French and Canadians. Death is no respecter of men, of class, race or nationalities.
He’d seen so many men shot down in flames, plunge to the earth and die. He had been scared to death countless times, with a sickening stabbing fear, a fear that swelled and pounced and twisted happiness into dark mockery. Live today, tomorrow you’re dead, my boy.
But on that stormy night, Edward faced a new kind of fear: a raw, tearing, ice cold fear.
Had Trace appeared at the right time in his life? Or was it all wrong? Had he met the woman of his dreams—this lovely, lively girl he could imagine spending the rest of his life with? The thought thrilled and terrified him.
The vision of a glowing, joyful life with Trace, complete with children and happy old age, seemed both plausible and preposterous. After all, he lived in a daily kind of hell, amidst the near certainty of dying in a bloody war that likely wouldn’t end for years. How could he even consider a courtship, a relationship, a marriage? He certainly hadn’t given it much thought where Miss Pemberton was concerned.
But with Trace, everything was different. He knew, instinctively, that a life with Trace would be a wonderful, unpredictable and endless adventure. So, what was he to do? Trace had dropped into his life like a star falling from the sky, and he knew he would never be the same again.
It took a good hour before he could drift off into a restless sleep.
CHAPTER 11
Sunday was a washed and shining morning. After breakfast on the patio, Trace and Edward walked in the sunshine across the spreading green grass, looking off into the soft blue distances. The uncertain wind stirred the trees, ruffled the high grass and played in Trace’s hair. They paused near the pond and Edward took her arm, staring at her in a daze of pleasure. She wore a simple linen day dress with white shoes, again a loan from Mata Hari. Edward stood tall and somber in his uniform.
“Won’t you please come back with me tomorrow, Trace? Won’t you please stay in Paris? I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of everything. I’ll give you anything you want.”
“No, Edward. I’ve decided to stay here. I don’t know anyone in Paris and I don’t even know you. We’ve just met.”
The Lost Mata Hari Ring Page 8