A Tale of Two Sisters

by Merryn Allingham

  ‘And that is significant?’

  ‘It means only that he is a little removed from the centre of power.’

  ‘And you? As a European, are you similarly removed?’ She could feel her interest quickening. Centres of power were intriguing. She had dared to challenge a centre of power; that was the very reason she was sitting in this carriage.

  He brushed the query aside. ‘I am an office man, pure and simple. It is my father who enjoys friendship with Sultan Abdülhamid.’

  She had her answer. The man sitting opposite her had no importance within the Court, but his father had. She wondered about his wife – where did she fit in?

  ‘Are your parents living in France, madame?’ she asked politely. She couldn’t quite bring herself to call her Elise.

  ‘They are, Miss Verinder. They live in Paris and we have been visiting them these last few weeks.’ For the first time the woman’s face came alive.

  ‘But I imagine you see them in Constantinople, too?’

  ‘That would not be advisable.’

  Lydia’s surprise must have been evident because Paul intervened. ‘Elise and I are cousins – her mother is my father’s sister. We would not wish the court to feel overwhelmed by Bouchers. Two families are sufficient, I think.’

  ‘You have children then? Do they live with you in Turkey?’

  Two blank faces stared back at her and she knew she had asked the wrong question.

  ‘No children, not at the moment, but one day perhaps.’

  His voice was so quiet that she could hardly hear him and she felt herself redden. Unwittingly she had touched on a raw subject. And after he had been so hospitable, inviting her to eat with them so that she would not dine alone, answering her inane questions about life at the palace. It was perhaps the moment to leave and when the waiter appeared with a coffee pot, she was quick to rise from her chair.

  ‘Thank you so much for a delightful evening.’ She managed to conjure a smile.

  ‘Delightful,’ Elise murmured, her accent more noticeable now.

  Her husband got to his feet. ‘It has been most enjoyable meeting you, Lydia. No doubt we will see a good deal of you at the palace. You can find me most days in my small office – do visit at any time. I shall be happy to help if I can.’

  Elise Boucher straightened her shoulders and gave a tremulous smile. ‘And eat with us again tomorrow evening, if it suits you. We will be here at seven o’clock.’

  Lydia was too surprised at the unlikely invitation to say anything. Instead she gave what she hoped was a friendly nod and left for her compartment. The evening had given her much to think about. There was something disturbing about the Bouchers’ relationship, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Elise was certainly a mystery. She sensed there was a woman there, within that rigid carapace, a woman who could one day become a friend, but whether that would ever happen she doubted. And as for Paul Boucher, he was pleasant enough, but evidently of small consequence within the palace. It might be helpful, though, to recognise a familiar face if ever she needed one.

  * * *

  In her absence, the compartment had become a bedroom and she looked forward to the night ahead. There was an excitement in travelling through darkness, anonymous and untethered. It was another kind of freedom. She remembered to hang her frock on one of the many hooks that dotted the carriage. Tidiness did not come naturally to her, but in such a confined space it was essential. It was fortunate she had the compartment to herself – the palace had paid for a single berth. She slipped on her nightgown, feeling the swift chill of nakedness, and unhooked the pendant she was rarely without. Looking for a safe resting place, she decided on a small shelf above the bed. Charlie had given her the sapphire necklace on the last birthday she had spent with him. It matches your eyes, was all he’d said. A rough, brotherly compliment, but it had been precious.

  She clambered into the bed and took up her notebook. She had decided before she left London to keep a diary and tonight she would write about the dinner she had just shared. From Paul Boucher she had learned a little of the place she was to call home, but she was keen to discover more. In particular, to know something of his father since it was evident the older man held sway in the Court. If she took up Elise’s invitation, she would have the opportunity. For a while she chewed on her pencil, staring ahead at the wall of shining wood. The next two evenings could prove interesting – as long as there was no more mention of the qualifications she lacked.

  That prompted a smile. Alice would have made a far more convincing governess than she would ever be. But imagining her sister travelling to Constantinople had her laugh out loud. The sky would need to fall before that was ever likely. She must write and tell her all that had happened since the moment they’d kissed their goodbyes at Victoria station. She would make sure to send Alice every piece of news she could. Her sister deserved that at least.

  Chapter Five

  ALICE

  Constantinople, February 1907

  Alice kept to her compartment for the remainder of the journey, the steward bringing her what food she needed. Not that she needed much, since the lack of activity had affected her appetite badly. She felt unsettled, her mind skittering and her hands longing for something to do. After a day of gazing through the window at the changing landscape, she reached for her book, but managed to read scarcely a chapter. Even the short stops the train made – at Munich, Vienna, Budapest, Bucharest – failed to interest her for long. At home, she had yearned for solitude and to be free of the constant demands on her time, but now she found herself desperate to hear the familiar call of ‘Alice’.

  The situation was entirely her fault. She might have passed at least some of the wearisome hours with her fellow passengers – the steward had told her of a ladies’ drawing room aboard – but she had made the decision to remain in her compartment, to hide away, in fact. After the difficult meal with Harry Frome, she’d felt unable to face another and had wanted to keep her distance from him and from everyone else on the train. She was unsure what to make of him, whether he could prove a friend or quite the opposite. At times he had relaxed and been a charming companion, but at others he’d taken offence at comments she had thought innocuous. A touchy cove, Charlie would have said, steer well clear.

  And so she had, but at a price. Over the last three days, her solitude had forced on her the realisation of how foolhardy this journey was. If she could have turned tail, she would have. Why would the palace say Lydia had left them if she hadn’t? There was no sensible reason, and it had been instinct alone that suggested otherwise. And if the palace were speaking truly and her sister had gone without a word, how was she to find her? She was a woman travelling alone and unprotected, a stranger in a country of which she knew nothing. She had no idea even what would happen when she reached Constantinople. Would she be expected to share a conveyance with Harry? She imagined someone from the palace would meet them both – if not, she had no clue how she would go on.

  In the event, she need not have worried. When the train pulled into Sirkeci station, a line of carriages were drawn up for hire and before she’d had time to enquire how much it would cost to take her to Topkapi, a splendidly uniformed man came forward, whip in hand.

  ‘Mees Werinder?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was uncertain.

  ‘Come.’

  ‘But—’she began nervously.

  ‘Come,’ he ordered.

  There was no doubting his meaning. And he had to have come from the palace, hadn’t he? How else would he have known her name? She allowed him to hand her up into one of the waiting vehicles, seeing with relief that her suitcase had already been loaded. Looking across at the queue of horses, she glimpsed Harry Frome climbing into a second carriage. He gave a brief wave of his hand before both vehicles trundled from the station.

  The journey to Topkapi proved full of interest and though she was tired and her eyelids drooping – sleep had not been easy on the train – she was riveted, glancing fr
om right to left and then back again. Despite a smattering of rain, the streets were filled with movement. Stalls lined each alleyway, some piled high with spices, others with fruit and vegetables of every shape and colour. A gaggle of geese pecked its way from street to street, while a cobbler mended shoes on what looked to be a blanket. And passing him, a potter carrying a huge basket of bowls on his back. The driver had to slow abruptly when a coffee seller, wooden bar strung across his shoulders, a wonderful aroma following his every step, darted in front of them.

  But they had travelled only a short while when the bells on the horse’s reins began to jingle less loudly and she realised they were slowing down. She lifted her eyes and looked ahead. Then took a very deep breath. She had read of the palace’s immensity, but nothing had prepared her for what she saw.

  Two enormous towers, their conical roofs almost reaching the sky, stood on either side of a magnificent white and grey marble archway. Sentries stood in niches carved into the marble, dwarfed by their surroundings, but dressed from head to toe in scarlet and bearing rifles that looked ready for use. Above them and either side of the arch, plaques of spun gold spelt out what Alice took to be Turkish lettering. Without a sound, the tall gates swung open, allowing her a view of distant trees and, towering above them, a gold-topped dome. The driver flicked his whip and they passed into a large gravelled square bounded by a cluster of buildings.

  But they were not to stop here. Through yet another guarded entrance and into a second courtyard, even larger if that were possible, this time ringed on three of the four sides by colonnaded buildings, its central space dotted with small kiosks and decorated pavilions. It was here the driver finally pulled the horse to a halt. Alice was relieved. The further they had travelled from the main gate, the greater the sense of enclosure she had felt. The driver helped her down and swung her luggage to the floor. He led the way to a door in the middle of one of the colonnades.

  In a few seconds, a young woman appeared at the doorway and came towards her. Large black eyes beneath well-shaped brows looked out from a head covering of finest silk. Those eyes seemed appraising.

  ‘I am Sevda,’ the young woman said. ‘I am guide, Miss Werinder.’ She waved her hand at the driver, dismissing him.

  Stunned by her surroundings, Alice somehow found her voice. ‘Thank you, Sevda. I think I may need a guide.’ She gave the girl a cautious smile, taking in the young woman’s beauty and feeling herself decidedly travel-stained.

  Sevda seemed not to be dressed in any kind of uniform, but in trousers that fell loosely to the ankles, ending in a cuff. They were made from a rich satin and brocaded with silver flowers so that as the girl moved, she gave the appearance of walking through a garden. Over the trousers she wore a long-sleeved robe of figured damask, held fast by a girdle at least three fingers broad and fastened by a brooch of pearls.

  ‘This haremlik,’ Sevda announced, gesturing to the rooms that lay ahead. ‘This where women of palace live – and Sultan and sons. No other men. I show you room.’

  Seemingly out of nowhere, a man dressed in palace uniform appeared at Sevda’s shoulder. The girl issued a sharp command and he took Alice’s suitcase in one hand and her cloak bag in the other.

  She was puzzled. Hadn’t her guide just said there were no men in the harem other than the Sultan and his sons? Her face must have shown her confusion because Sevda said, ‘Not man.’

  For a moment, Alice did not understand, then when the significance of the girl’s words became clear, her face flushed scarlet. Sevda looked delicately away until her guest had regained her composure. She said something to the servant sagging beneath the weight of luggage and the little trio set off.

  They were soon passing what seemed to be a guard room, then walking the length of a wide corridor until eventually it opened out into a space so large it was almost a courtyard in itself. The room was marble-floored and its walls bore a dazzling scheme of patterned Iznik tiles. A fountain played at its centre and the splash of water echoed around the tiled walls. In an odd contradiction, braziers of hot ashes stood in each corner.

  They were not alone there. A number of women were seated on scarlet and gold covered divans which ran along each side of the room, while others occupied silk cushions placed at a distance. A social distinction, Alice wondered? Some of the women sewed, some were reading, many simply talked in low voices.

  Sevda pointed towards them. ‘This ladies’ room. You come here.’

  Several of the women looked up and smiled. ‘You meet later,’ Sevda said, and on they went, winding through a labyrinth of narrow spaces and interlinking rooms. ‘And this schoolroom.’ They were passing a huge cedar wood door set off with silver nails. ‘Your room just behind.’

  Just behind proved a lengthy trudge through a network of green and blue tiled corridors. Occasionally Alice caught a glimpse through a window of distant minarets, or the glint of the sea, that told her the outside world still existed, but the sense of the hidden was strong and for the first time in her life she began to feel claustrophobic. If Alice had felt bolder, she would have asked how on earth she was ever to find her way in this maze of rooms and passages. But she wasn’t feeling bold. Just the contrary. She was feeling almost a prisoner, irreparably cut off from a world she understood.

  At the end of yet another narrow passage, they stopped at a cedar wood door, indistinguishable from all the others except for the mother-of-pearl that ornamented its carving. The servant dropped the luggage with a grateful puff while Sevda produced a large iron key that had Alice’s heart dropping further. Until, that is, the door opened and she walked into a bright, square room, wainscoted in cedar and painted with flowers. The wooden ceiling, inlaid with more flowers, was a riot of blue and gold and red. A large divan, covered in deep blue silk, sat against one wall, its entire surface filled with a profusion of cushions, some of brocade, some of white satin embroidered in gold wire. White linen curtains were at the window and moved slightly in the breeze and, beneath the window, silver bowls of sweet-smelling herbs sat in little arches.

  Alice was immediately drawn to the window. It overlooked a wilderness of trees, a green cavern full of shadow, with scattered pools of water amid the sound of small streams. A grape hyacinth grew close to the window, along with a group of tiny sea green iris already in bud.

  ‘It is beautiful.’

  Sevda’s smile was genuine. ‘This room your sister’s. You like to stay here.’

  Lydia’s room. Lydia had been here, sleeping in that divan, sitting in that chair in the corner, looking out at this very view. Alice’s heart did a little jump. Could she feel her presence? But no, there was nothing. The wooden walls looked back at her, the chair stayed untouched and the bed was newly made. There was nothing of her sister here. Not even a whisper of Lydia. The heaviness in her heart returned, but she was given no time to dwell on the harrowing sense of loss.

  ‘And this Naz.’ A younger girl had slipped through the open doorway. ‘She your slave,’ Sevda said. ‘She look after sister.’

  Your slave. The words were ugly.

  ‘Everyone has slave – even slaves,’ Sevda said indifferently, reading aright Alice’s expression.

  Naz bowed her head, her eyes downcast. Why was it then that Alice could feel her scrutiny? A scrutiny that was in no way friendly.

  ‘I take you to Valide Sultan’s rooms,’ Sevda was saying. ‘She commands. Her rooms near – between Sultan’s and slave women’s.’

  Alice felt her breath catch and the palms of her hands grow clammy. A nervousness had been gathering strength as they’d journeyed through the harem and now reached such a pitch that she felt physically sick. She had known that at some point she must face the Valide Sultan – according to Harry Frome, the first female of the Court – and so of crucial importance to her mission. But she had expected she would have time to prepare herself, time to ensure she looked her very best for a meeting she prayed would throw light on her sister’s disappearance. It was evident she wa
s not to be given that time; the Sultan’s mother had issued her command and clearly it must be obeyed.

  Chapter Six

  Within minutes Sevda had delivered her to a suite of rooms lying, it seemed, directly beyond the schoolroom. They had retraced their steps along several narrow passages and reached a corridor as wide as a small river. The Golden Road, as Alice learned later, was the shortcut between the Sultan’s apartments and those of his mother that led to the very heart of the palace. She was standing now in what she thought must be the Audience Chamber. Several of the connecting doors were open and she glimpsed the rooms beyond – a drawing room, a bedroom, a bathroom – each space elegantly decorated and filled with costly furnishings. The Valide Sultan’s quarters were magnificent.

  Persian carpets covered the floor, crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, and gold and silver candle holders lined the walls. There were several divans in the room, covered in heavily embroidered silk. And velvet curtains of the deepest blue hung at a wall of windows that framed a view of the gleaming Bosphorus. Opulence was this room’s leitmotif.

  A woman, clothed from head to toe in black, appeared through an open doorway and walked towards Alice, her hand outstretched. ‘Rahîme Perestû sends her apologies, Miss Verinder. She is unable to see you but asks that I welcome you to our home. My name is Fatma Hanim. I am sister to the Valide Sultan.’

  ‘I am delighted to meet you,’ Alice stammered. She felt relief and disappointment; it appeared she was not to meet the great woman after all.

  ‘Please, sit.’

  Her companion clapped her hands and immediately a servant came forward with a tray of drinks and an array of small gold and crystal bowls brimming with sweetmeats. Alice accepted the glass that was offered and gladly took a sip of grape juice.

  For a moment the face opposite softened. ‘You must be thirsty. And very tired. It is a long, long journey, is it not?’ Her English was excellent, Alice noted, and felt ashamed that she knew not one word of Turkish.