Authors: Tasha Alexander
“I’m pleased you like it. There’s little more satisfying than working with one’s hands, yes?”
“I can imagine.” Careful sanding had given the wood a smoothness that was at once firm and soft.
“Do you read?” he asked. “Anyone with such an appreciation for bookshelves must.”
“Constantly,” I said, not able to stop running my hands over the perfectly finished wood. “Sensational fiction. I’ve a terrible habit of reading the most lowbrow things you can imagine.”
“Do you like detective novels?”
“Conan Doyle stuns me every time.”
He nodded. “You are someone I could like very much. I have his novels translated into Turkish as soon as they are published. The chief of my wardrobe reads them to me, and I do not let him stop until the book is done.”
“An admirable devotion to the written word.”
“I would like very much to have the bookcases sent to your house in England. A gift for you.”
“That’s generous of you,” I said. “Thank you. They will be adored.”
“I would not give them to you otherwise. What else do you read?”
“I study Greek, so lots of Homer.”
“Will you visit Troy while you are in my country?”
“I want to more than anything, if only to lie on the fields and weep for poor, slain Hector.”
This drew a smile. “I will have the trip arranged for you when this ugly business in the harem is finished.” He turned away from the piece on which he’d been working and walked to a pile of long boards, picking up one after another, running his fingertips along the length of each before selecting one to bring back to his bench.
“You’re very kind,” I said.
He pushed a yardstick against the board and began marking measurements with a chewed-up pencil. “I have a deep sympathy for Ceyden’s father. I lost my first child, a daughter, when she was very young. She was burned after playing with matches. Her mother and I suffered immeasurably at the loss. She would be your age now.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“This is not, I think, the way you’d hoped to spend your wedding trip,” he said.
“No one would anticipate such a thing, but I would never walk away from the opportunity to seek justice.”
“Justice, Lady Emily, is not always so clear.”
“Did you know Ceyden?”
“To a degree.”
“Will you not tell me more?” I watched his face, searching for evidence that he was withholding something, but his countenance was calm, focused.
“You question the sultan?” He placed his palms flat against the board in front of him, and I expected anger to cloud his eyes. Instead, I saw laughter.
“Bad form?” I smiled at him.
“Terribly.”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” I said. “I’m merely trying to form as accurate a summation of the girl’s life as I can.”
“You’ll find all you need to know in the harem.”
“Your concubines have been less than forthcoming. It’s almost as if their words are chosen for them.”
“And this surprises you?”
“Yes, because I’d been led to believe you support my investigation. A word from you would surely—”
“It is not I you must convince, but my mother,” he said.
“Does she not listen to you?”
“Does your mother listen to you?”
Laughter escaped my lips, and I felt my cheeks flushing hot. “Never.”
“We are of one mind, then, at least in this regard. And if your mother is like mine”—he leaned closer to me—“the less said about it the better. Her spies are everywhere.”
“But surely your own spies hold them at bay?”
“One can only hope.”
He was warming to me. I felt we were on a course to getting along famously, and this brought me no small measure of pride. To have so quickly made an ally of the sultan himself! A slight tug of conscience made me almost wish Colin were standing behind me, reminding me of what, exactly, goes before a fall, but I dismissed the notion and beamed, ready to forward the rest of my agenda.
“There is something else I would like to discuss with you,” I said. “I spoke with the young woman who found Ceyden’s body. She’s terribly upset.”
“Understandable. Roxelana is a sensitive girl.”
“I have heard that, on occasion, concubines are released from the harem and allowed to marry. Would you consider allowing her to do that?” It was not a perfectly satisfactory solution to Roxelana’s plight, but better, I hoped, than nothing. I would much prefer to find a way to fully free her of her bonds, to let her rejoice in independence as I did, but fear of Colin’s disapproval—particularly if my scheme was revealed to the British government—kept me from taking a more creative approach to her predicament. And this was something of which I was not proud in the least.
“There are times when such arrangements are made. Not, however, at the whim of the concubines. These marriages are careful political alliances, gestures of good faith to valued advisers from their sultan. It is a mark of the highest trust to be selected for a role like that.”
“How so?”
“Wives can sometimes be in a position to observe much.”
“They spy for you?”
“They ensure that I have staunch supporters in their husbands.”
“I’ve no doubt Roxelana would serve you well.” As I said the words, my throat clenched, and a chill of horror rippled through me. I hated negotiating as if the girl were some sort of chattel, hated even more the thought of marrying her off to some random and, undoubtedly, unsympathetic man. But so far as I could tell, there was no other way out of the harem.
He put down the pencil and flashed me a look full of power and disdain, his brow lined, his eyes narrow and strong. “No.”
“No?”
“No. Is there anything else?”
“Could we not—”
“There will be no further discussion on this topic.” He nodded sharply towards a dark corner of the room, and a tall eunuch appeared from the shadows. “He will escort you out. I did, Lady Emily, very much enjoy components of our conversation.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but the eunuch’s firm grip on my arm stopped the words. He all but dragged me, not easing the pressure of his fingers until he’d deposited me outside the palace gates, leaving me standing, dumbfounded, already feeling the beginnings of bruises.
6 April 1892
Emily, Emily, Emily:
I am writing this letter without giving you a single clue as to where I am. This is due entirely to the fact that I’m a dreadful and unredeemable human being who likes to torment her friends. You’ll forgive me, though, in the end. I’ve embarked on a magnificent trip—one funded by my parents in exchange for letting them plan for me a wedding of the sort you so wisely avoided. Can you imagine what it would take to persuade me to accept such a thing? I need hardly tell you that I insist you and Colin come to New York for the hideous extravaganza.
My poor Mr. Michaels has no idea what he’s in for. He’s agreeable—as a fiancé ought to be—to anything so long as it doesn’t interfere with his responsibilities at Oxford. The nuptials will be between terms, so we’ll have only a brief honeymoon before he has to return to his academic duties. I confess to rather obscene excitement at the thought of watching him lecture and knowing that afterwards we’ll return home together. Every nerve is full of the greatest anticipation. Can you imagine the breadth of our conversation? The perfect joining of mind and body? But of course I need not explain this to you—for at the moment you’ve a greater volume of experience than I and know well the pleasures of an intellectual marriage. How lucky we both are!
Not surprisingly, my dear parents insisted that I travel with a suitable companion, and she has already proven an incredible nuisance. Remember my mother’s friend Mrs. Taylor? She recommended her daughters’ former governess, and my mother snapped her up at once. I call her Medusa, as she’s turned me to stone at least a dozen times since we left England.
Other than that, I’ve little of interest to report. Mr. Michaels has been sending me the most supremely ridiculous love letters every day. I’m sorry to say they’re rather badly written—too scholarly—but the sentiments are heartily appreciated nonetheless.
I am, your most awful and debauched friend,
Margaret Seward
I’d refused to get out of bed that morning, insisting Meg bring my mail upstairs, where I burst out laughing more than once while reading Margaret’s letter. My American friend, daughter of a fantastically wealthy railroad baron, was a kindred spirit whose love of the study of classics had brought us together while I was in mourning for my first husband. Although she was a Latinist (formally trained at Bryn Mawr) and I preferred Greek, our interests overlapped enough to provide for an intellectually stimulating friendship unlike any I’d known before. She’d become, in the span of a few years, as close to me as Ivy, though the two of them couldn’t be more different. Margaret challenged me while Ivy offered comfort, and I couldn’t imagine doing without either of them.
Margaret’s modern thinking and passionate belief in the rights of women inspired me, and the way she managed to convince her parents to support her studies was impressive. She was an expert at negotiating trade-offs with them. A mere year ago, she’d agreed to a Season in London (with the theoretical goal of catching a titled husband) in exchange for a term at Oxford. In the process, she convinced everyone a duke (my dear friend Jeremy Sheffield) had mercilessly broken her heart and so completely won her parents’ sympathies that they hardly balked when a few months later she’d accepted the proposal of a don at Oxford. She had admitted to being rather astonished at having agreed to marry anyone but said that some charms could not be resisted, and Mr. Michaels had them in abundance. It had all turned out brilliantly.
“I don’t like it at all,” Colin said, turning over and rubbing a gentle hand over the now blooming purple marks on my arm when I’d finished reading the letter. “How on earth did this happen?”
“It was entirely inadvertent,” I said, not wanting to confess that I’d angered the sultan. “A guard was leading me out of the palace, and you know how steep the paths are at Y?ld?z. His grip was firm and I bruise easily.”
“No one’s grip is that fierce by accident.”
“I’d never before considered the possibility of deliberately violent eunuchs.” I folded the letter and tossed it aside, then scrunched the ends of my pillow and dropped my elbows in the center of it, resting my chin on my hands. “But perhaps that’s precisely what he is.”
“If only I’d been there to defend you.”
“Rest assured I have no need of rescuing.”
“I’m well aware of that.” He pulled the pillow out from under me, rolled onto my back, and kissed my neck, the feeling of his legs against the backs of mine bliss itself. “But I do think, my dear, that you underestimate the value of being saved from dire circumstances. You might find it more than a little titillating.”
“I promised you no unnecessary danger, and you must promise me no rescues.”
“I wish you’d rescue me,” he said, biting my ear.
“Stop. I’m being serious,” I said.
“I’m all too aware of it. It’s not so glamorous and invigorating as you think, necessary danger.”
“When have you known me to yearn for glamour?”
“Every morning when you dress.”
“Please, Colin, don’t tease me,” I said. “I need to know that you support what I’m doing.”
“I do. But I can’t say I’m without concern.”
“I’m still waiting for my Derringer.”
“It shall be our first order of business upon returning to England.” He laughed, shook his head. “This is a conversation I never would have thought I’d have with my spouse.”
“Would you prefer an ordinary wife?”
“Never,” he said, kissing me until he could have had no doubt that all serious thoughts had taken flight from my brain. I was so carried away that I hardly noticed the door had creaked open, then slammed shut, then creaked again.
“Madam?” Meg’s voice was low. “There’s a Mr. Sutcliffe here to see Mr. Hargreaves. Says it’s urgent.”
“Tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Colin said, heaving a sigh. As soon as she’d closed the door, he kissed me again. “We shall continue this later.”
“I’m not sure I can wait.”
“Which, first, makes me adore you all the more, and second, will make it that much better when we reconvene.”
He pulled away, leaving me aching while he dressed, and I did not call for Meg to assist me with my own ablutions until after he’d gone downstairs. I submitted to her ministrations with little pleasure, wanting nothing but my husband. It did not help that she was severe with my hair—my scalp screamed in protest—and fought a valiant battle with my corset, pulling harder than usual to force my waist into submission. The end result pleased her but left me feeling a keen discomfort as I joined the gentlemen on the terrace.
“Good morning, Mr. Sutcliffe,” I said. They were sitting at a table next to the water, a chessboard stretched between them. Colin had opened with the Queen’s Gambit, two pawns moving to take control of the center of the board.
“A true pleasure to see you again, Lady Emily.” Mr. Sutcliffe bent a silver gray head over my hand.
“I’m sorry to have interrupted your game.” I studied the board. “I’d suggest you accept his gambit. It’s not without risk. You’ll lose control of the center, but if you play it right, you’ll open yourself up to a greater freedom as the game goes on.”
“Just who are you supporting in this match, my dear?” Colin asked.
“We had only just begun to pass the time until you arrived and would not dream of continuing now that you’ve joined us,” Mr. Sutcliffe said. “I told your husband that, with his permission, I would like to speak to both of you, as it appears you’re equally embroiled in this dreadful business at the palace. I’m concerned in the extreme about Sir Richard.”
“We all are,” I said.
“The loss of his daughter is a blow from which he may not recover. I’ve seen it too often—not just from my own experience, but in the charity work I do to support families whose children have succumbed to illness. Often poverty is a mitigating factor—bettering their situations may serve to prevent more loss. At least that’s what I tell myself.”
“An admirable position,” Colin said.
“I cannot stand to see anyone suffer what I have. But when I think of Richard . . . Do you really think it wise to fuel his belief that the Ottomans have arrested the wrong man?”
“I’ve seen nothing that suggests he’s guilty,” Colin said. “And if he’s not—”
Mr. Sutcliffe shook his head and held up a hand. “I want my friend to have peace, and I’m full of fear that this investigation will give him nothing but the opposite.”
“How can he know peace until he finds out what happened to his daughter?” I asked.
“You think it’s possible to determine that?”
“It’s impossible to say at the moment,” Colin said. “Best case would be finding some physical evidence that links a suspect to the crime.”
“Wouldn’t that already have been apparent? Surely the guards would have seen it that night?”
“Oversights are made with horrifying frequency,” my husband said.
“So it’s not too late?” Mr. Sutcliffe asked.
“Not necessarily,” Colin replied, his voice all breezy confidence. “We’re taking every possible measure.”
“I can’t see the old boy hurt further. This is the sort of pain that can ruin a man.”
“I don’t think he’s verging on that territory,” I said.
“No? He’s coming completely unhinged and making more mistakes at his work than the ambassador will be able to tolerate for long. I assure you, Lady Emily, my concerns are well-founded. I’m doing all I can to help, but there are limits.”
“You’re a good friend,” I said.
“I’m far too familiar with his pain,” Mr. Sutcliffe said, “and hope that prolonging this investigation won’t make it harder for him. He’s been through quite enough.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “And in an attempt to speed the process along, I’m afraid I must excuse myself. I’m expected at Y?ld?z.”
“I wish you all luck,” Mr. Sutcliffe said. “Physical evidence, Lady Emily. I’ll be crossing fingers that you find some.”
I thanked him, gave Colin a quick kiss, and stepped off the patio onto a waiting boat. Once again, the ride was interminable to my churning stomach, set in motion this time not only by the rough water, but by anxiety. I’d sent a note to Perestu, who had arranged for me to go to the
hamam,
agreeing that it might persuade the concubines I was someone they could trust. She’d promised to send English-speaking girls who knew Ceyden to talk to me. The prospect of bathing with untold numbers of total strangers was horrific, but I hoped to uncover some information of use.
Inside the harem, I followed a guard to the concubines’
hamam,
where I was handed off to a bath attendant, an elderly woman who spoke no English but managed to communicate to me that her name was Melek. She ushered me into a tiny dressing room, pantomiming actions that could only suggest I was to remove my clothing. In a matter of moments, she had whisked my dress over my head and turned her attentions to my corset. I was two shades from mortification, a condition not helped in the least when I realized that the towel—tiny and made from the thinnest-possible cotton—she was handing me would provide all the cover I was to get. She slipped wooden-soled clogs onto my feet and motioned for me to follow her.
Hobbling behind her, I focused on keeping my feet from sliding on the slick marble floor while at the same time gripping my toes lest the slippers fly off. She opened a wooden door and led me into a large, domed room made entirely of gray marble. The temperature was warmer than in the outer chamber, but not so hot as to be uncomfortable. Evenly spaced washbasins lined the perimeter, their faucets fashioned in elaborately patterned bronze. Marble benches ran continuously between the sinks, and on them sat more than a dozen women of the harem, all of them completely unclothed.
So shocked was I by this sight that I did not notice my attendant pulling my less than adequate towel away from me, leaving me in the same vulnerable state. I leapt for the nearest bench, falling onto it in a manner lacking any and all grace. Melek picked up a silver bowl, filled it in the basin, and dumped steaming water over my head. She repeated this several times before handing it to me and motioning for me to continue myself.
With a smile so weak as to be all but nonexistent, I dipped the bowl into the sink, sending water spilling over the sides. There were no drains. The water ran into a trough in the floor and disappeared beneath a wall, the sound of its travels dancing through echoes of the bouncing hum of the faucets. The warm stone felt good against my back, but there was no part of me finding even slim comfort in the situation. Other than the sound of water, the room appeared silent until I began to listen with focused attention. All around me, the women were whispering to one another, leaning forward to circumvent the basins, heads bent together as they spoke, coming apart when they lifted their bowls above them.
I looked at my arms, astonished to find that even my limbs had blushed crimson, and dropped my head back against the wall, ashamed of myself. Much though I wanted to throw myself into the local culture and behave nothing like the typical Englishwoman, I was failing miserably at the
hamam
. Still holding my now full bowl, I clenched my teeth and poured the water over my head. Bound and determined to enjoy myself, I dunked the bowl back into the sink and sloshed the contents onto my hair, which, thanks to Melek, was hanging loose down my back.
Meg would be beyond horrified when she saw me.
A petite blonde sat at the basin next to mine and began dousing herself. “I understand we are to be kind to you,” she said. “An unusual directive.”
“Is it?” I planted my elbows on my knees and rested my chin on them, trying to hide my body.
“You should relax.” She tipped her head back and poured more water. I looked away, focusing on the floor. The marble, a superior grade, better than any I’d seen in England, shimmered in the soft light but was not enough to keep my attention. I tried the ceiling instead, counting the small circular windows cut into it and then analyzing the color of the sky, not quite cerulean. My neighbor’s laughter floated into my false reverie. “Is it so taxing?”
“Taxing?” I asked, forcing myself to meet her clear eyes.
“I have heard stories of the West, of the European courts. Didn’t believe them, but perhaps I should have. Is everyone in England so tense?”
This made me smile. “Yes, actually.”
“Tedious.” She pushed her hands against the bench, straightening her arms and arching her back.
“Different,” I said. “But I don’t know that tedious . . . yes, you’re right. Tedious.” We both laughed, and although I felt somewhat less exposed, my degree of anxiety dropped little more than the weight of a hummingbird.
“I would never go there,” she said. “You know that Perestu sent only those whose English is good to speak to you today.”
“I appreciate it. How long have you lived in the harem?”
“Since I was a girl. I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”
“You don’t feel . . . restricted?”
“Of course not. Our options for amusement are endless.”
“But you can’t leave?”
“We take excursions whenever we want. I was shopping in Pera yesterday. Not everyone’s as discontent as Roxelana.”
“You know her?”
“Her room is near mine.”
“Are you friends?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” she said. “Roxelana is very careful about her choice of confidantes. There’s an air of superiority about her—she won’t even pray with any of us. Furthermore, she prefers the friendship of men.”
“In the harem?”
“The guards. Jemal is a favorite of hers.”
“I’m surprised to learn that,” I said.
“Who else are we to flirt with? Each other? Jemal is useful. Bezime may have no power anymore, but she can sometimes help us—and he arranges it.”
“Help you how?” I asked, cataloging away in my head the fact that Roxelana and Jemal were friends.
“She practices the dark arts. Can tell our fortunes, read our charts. And she’s something of a physician as well. There’s no one I’d rather have prescribe a treatment for me when I fall ill.”
“And Jemal tells you what she suggests?”