A Tale of Two Sisters

by Merryn Allingham

  Sevda shook her head. ‘No, Miss Alice, no one knows. She asked me what she should do. To write to you and tell you what had happened and hope you would understand? Or go back to England and hide herself away? Or maybe hide herself in Turkey?’

  ‘And what advice did you give her?’

  ‘I could not advise. I do not know her life in England. Then one morning, I come here for her and she has gone. The baby has gone.’

  ‘What did you think had happened? Did you not search for her?’

  ‘We looked for her in the palace, but she had gone. I thought she had made her decision at last.’

  ‘You didn’t think it strange she said nothing to you of what she intended?’

  ‘I wished that she had and was sad. I thought maybe she did not trust me after all. Or maybe she thought it best for everyone that she went with no word.’

  Alice stayed sitting, her shoulders bent beneath the weight of this dreadful discovery. She felt Sevda looking anxiously at her and tried to pull herself together.

  ‘I am sorry, Miss Alice, that you are so troubled. Maybe a little sweet tea? I can bring you some now.’

  Sweet tea was not going to ease the heartache, but she was grateful for the girl’s sympathy and guilty that she had suspected her of bad deeds. ‘No, thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s not necessary. I need time to think, that’s all.’

  ‘I understand.’ Sevda rose from the divan and went to the door. ‘Do not think bad things of her, Miss Alice.’

  Alice could hardly swallow for the force of emotion, but she managed to say, ‘I promise. And thank you for being a true friend to her.’

  Sevda gave a small bob and disappeared.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Left alone, Alice remained sitting with the tiny bonnet in her lap. The story of Lydia and the baby would have seemed unbelievable if she had not read that page from her sister’s journal. She could have dismissed it as cruel hearsay, but she had read the diary entry. She knew what Lydia had intended and now the sequel seemed all too credible. How on earth was she to tell her parents? Even Aunt Cissie, more open-minded than they, would be shocked. Everyone she knew, every acquaintance she had, would be shocked. And somehow she would have to find the words to tell them.

  But not telling might be worse, and she wouldn’t tell if she never found Lydia. How could she? For her parents, the anguish of a child conceived in such tawdry circumstances would be unbearable. She would have to hold the truth fast to herself and allow it to eat her slowly from within, the knowledge that her sister was alive somewhere in the world, that there was a nephew she would never see, a grandson of whom her parents knew nothing. Which was the worst outcome? It was hard to choose.

  And what of Paul Boucher? Undoubtedly, he was the child’s father. For a brief instant, Ismet had come to mind, but it seemed Lydia’s friendship with him had been a disappointment – shallow and short-lasting. The night Alice had met him in that miserable room, his attitude to her sister had been detached, impassive. Lydia was the girl who had failed him and nothing more, that was the overwhelming feeling with which she had come away.

  Whereas Paul Boucher had clearly been entranced, if the diary entry was to be believed. How had he reacted to the news of the baby? Or perhaps he did not know he had a child. Lydia had remained hidden within the palace, most of her time spent within the harem, and the wider world including Paul Boucher could have stayed unaware of her plight. Her sister’s feelings towards the man, so clear in the journal, made it more than likely she would not have told him herself. But Elise – a sudden thought gripped Alice. Elise knew. She knew about the baby. It made sense of her conviction that Lydia would return, since she must also know of her husband’s part in the disaster. It was why she was so sure that Lydia would come back. She believed the girl had run away – perhaps fearful of the scandal she had caused – but in the end would stop running and return, because the father of her child was here in Constantinople.

  Alice could see now that the kidnap was a tale she had allowed herself to create, her frantic attempt to explain the inexplicable. It was true her sister had been forced to leave Topkapi, as she’d always maintained, but for a very different reason. Lydia had run away, too ashamed to tell her family the disgrace into which she had fallen. Run away and left behind a pendant and a baby’s bonnet. Alice was distraught. The thought of Lydia, still recovering from the birth, with no settled home and living from hand to mouth in a strange country, was horrifying. Was the embroidered purse sent to Sevda in fact a cry for help? She could not condone her sister’s conduct – Lydia had behaved very wrongly – but it was fear not moral scruples that triumphed. Fear for her sister wandering in the unknown, somewhere in Turkey maybe, or Greece, or in another country still. Somewhere of which Alice had no idea.

  How could she ever find her? How could she rescue her? Her hands kneaded the small white cap, twisting and pulling at it until the seams began to unravel. I am close to breaking down, she thought in an oddly detached fashion, but I cannot afford to. Not now. I must tell Harry. Harry would be her anchor in this ocean of troubles. There was a lump in her throat that would not be dislodged, but now there was something she could do, some action she could take.

  She tucked the baby’s bonnet into her pocket and stepped into the corridor. For once, Naz was absent, and Alice was grateful for even such a small mercy. She made her way to the harem entrance meeting no one, another mercy, but as she was about to step into courtyard, she came to a halt. Outside one of the pavilions in the middle of the immense square, Harry was talking to a man she did not know. He was wearing a different suit, she noticed. It did not quite fit, the jacket a shade too long, the trousers bagging a little around the ankles. He must have bought it from the local market, or maybe the Grand Bazaar, to replace the clothes he had lost in the fire. As she watched him, she was swept by a feeling of tenderness. ‘Lost in the fire’ was a simple phrase, said in a moment, yet the man had been left bereft of everything he cherished – books, pictures, letters, the illuminations she had admired. He had lost them all, and had done so because of her. ‘Sorry’ was a poor reward.

  His companion was thickset, an expensively tailored jacket struggling to contain him. As they talked, she noticed he had positioned himself very close to Harry, too close, as though he were about to step over him. But their conversation appeared friendly enough. When the older man clapped Harry on the shoulder and strode away, she walked swiftly across the courtyard. Harry had turned to go back to the library, but when he heard her footsteps on the gravel, he looked round.

  ‘Alice! How good to see you. You are in time to admire my new clothes. I’ve been shopping.’ And he pointed to his suit and shirt. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘They are very smart.’ A small white lie would not hurt. ‘Who was the man you were talking to?’

  ‘That was my employer.’

  ‘Valentin Boucher?’

  ‘The very same.’

  It would be, of course. The man’s figure, the language his body spoke, chimed perfectly with the image Alice carried in her mind of the person she felt she knew but had yet to meet.

  ‘Did you speak to him of the fire?’

  ‘I mentioned it certainly, but he claims to have no direct knowledge. He congratulated me on my escape.’

  ‘And you believed him? That he knows nothing?’

  ‘No, but I hope I gave a good impression of doing so. I have no proof he was involved, not yet at least, and I would be foolish to voice any suspicions.’

  ‘Is that all he wanted with you – to congratulate you on your escape?’

  Harry looked annoyed. ‘That was by the way. He stopped me to ask me – no, tell me – to close the library for the day. Tomorrow. It’s a bad time, too – I have a stack of new books to catalogue.’

  ‘Why does he want it closed?’

  She gave herself an inner shake even as she asked. She had sought Harry to share with him the awful weight she carried, and instead here she wa
s asking paltry questions. They were a distraction, she could see, a distraction from news that was tearing her apart.

  ‘He said something about fitting the Sultan’s reading corner with a new divan. An even more opulent design apparently. I wasn’t consulted so I have little idea of what has been decided.’

  ‘The old divan looked fine to me.’ Again, the distraction. Anything to stop her thinking.

  ‘Me, too, but it his library and I have little say.’ They had walked together into the third courtyard and reached the library steps. ‘I never asked you – were you coming to see me?’

  Harry, the new suit, the closure of the library, all faded to pinpricks. Reality returned. ‘I was.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I have to tell you something that is shocking.’

  He paused on the top step, looking alarmed. And it was then that she began to shake violently, unable to control her juddering limbs. His arm went around her and he half carried her over the threshold and into his office, pushing her gently into a chair. He poured a glass of water and knelt down beside her. ‘Here, drink this.’

  She did as he asked, clutching the glass in a hand that still shook. ‘I am so sorry,’ she said, barely able to breathe.

  ‘Don’t speak. Just drink.’

  When the glass was empty, he took it from her, then sat back in his chair. ‘When you are ready, Alice, I am ready to listen.’

  She could still feel her wayward legs twitching and trembling beneath her skirt, but she knew she had to begin. Very slowly and with many stops and starts, she managed to relate her conversation with Sevda. When she had finished, he sat immobile, looking as stunned as she.

  ‘Did you have no idea of what might be happening?’ she asked him. It was a foolish question.

  ‘None. I hadn’t a clue. Although… looking back, I suppose it was strange that I hardly saw her in the new year. But if I thought anything, it was that the princesses had tired of their library visits long before they left Topkapi for the summer.’

  ‘If you had seen her, I doubt you would have suspected. She wore clothes that concealed, and never went beyond the palace. And the women of the harem protected her behind a wall of silence.’

  ‘Alice,’ he began, and then seemed to think better of it.

  ‘What is it?’

  He fixed her with a steady look. ‘Forgive me for asking you this, but do you have any idea who might—’

  ‘Who might be the father? Almost certainly, Paul Boucher. I can think of no one else – Lydia spent a great deal of time with him.’

  He got up then, striding back and forth across the small office, his hands sunk deep in his trouser pockets. ‘My God, what a mess! But where could she have gone with such a small baby?’

  ‘I have no idea. And… Harry, I cannot bear it – she is out there somewhere, struggling, ill maybe, and I have no way of finding her.’

  He came to a stop beside her and lifted her into his arms. ‘There is no way of finding her, Alice. You must face that. But she is sure to come back.’ It was an unconscious echo of Elise’s words. ‘If we think this through rationally, how far could she travel, so impeded? She cannot have gone any distance.’

  ‘You think she may still be in the city?’

  ‘It’s more than likely.’

  ‘Yes… you’re right. Sevda has a purse that Lydia is supposed to have sent. And Elise seemed certain my sister would be back.’

  ‘Elise – you have seen her?’

  ‘I didn’t go to her house,’ she assured him. ‘She was visiting the Valide Sultan and I stopped her before she left. I wanted to get from her everything she knows.’

  ‘And what does she know?’

  ‘Very little, or so she contends. She says only that Lydia will come back.’

  ‘And so I think.’

  ‘And if she does not?’ Alice wailed.

  ‘She will. You have to believe that.’

  His arms tightened instinctively around her. She felt the lump in her throat expand and burst, and the tears that had so far refused to fall spill down her face. He bent his head and kissed her wet cheeks, then found her lips and kissed her gently on the mouth. She hardly noticed, but clung to him until he kissed her again, and then again.

  ‘You kissed me,’ she said, dazed. She was surprised to find herself lying against him, her head on his chest.

  ‘And very good it was, too.’

  ‘Despite the tears?’

  ‘Despite the tears. But without them I think it might be even better.’ And this time he made sure she knew she was being kissed.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  LYDIA

  Constantinople, December 1905

  There were no Christmas celebrations at Topkapi. It was obvious there would not be, but Lydia still felt cheated. It was a time of the year she had always loved, until, that is, Charlie died. Every December when he returned from Winchester or from Oxford, they had decorated the Pimlico house from top to bottom, laughing and joshing together, teetering on tables and chairs, hanging off step ladders. A few days before Christmas, they would go to the market and buy the largest tree they could find, then climb up to the attic and rescue the odd assortment of decorations that survived year after year – baubles that had lost their paint, stars no longer quite as sparkling, the misshaped plaster of Paris figures they had made as young children. Christmas Eve brought a tantalising rustle of tissue and crackle of paper, and next morning the delicious aroma of an enormous Christmas lunch that even Cook could not ruin.

  Last December had been different though. There had been no Charlie. And no tree or decorations, and the family’s present giving had been confined to a single hastily wrapped gift each. The four of them had sat doggedly through a silent lunch, much of it remaining uneaten. There had been no joy, but it was Christmas and they would celebrate. Charlie would have wanted it. Charlie would have wanted it became a constant refrain over that holiday until Lydia felt she would scream if anyone so much as began the phrase. It had been summer when she had left for Turkey, months away from the winter festival, but she could remember thinking, Thank goodness, I will miss Christmas this year.

  Now, though, her heart yearned for it. Or rather, yearned for her family. Her sister would manage some kind of celebration, she knew, even though they were only three. Alice could be controlling at times – she knew that to her cost. But this Christmas Day the silver would be newly polished, Dora and Cook would have their annual boxes, and lunch would be on the table at one o’clock. Lydia wanted to be there, sitting down with them to eat.

  These days, though, she could hardly bear to think of her sister, but still she longed to see her, to confess her misdeeds, to receive some kind of absolution. Writing home had become a torture and put off for as long as possible – her letters were a few lines only, superficial and guarded, giving nothing away. She was adrift and unhappy, but could not allow Alice to know it.

  She had no idea of the path she should follow. After that shameful night in the summerhouse she had vowed to leave Topkapi as soon as she was able, but here she still was. It was as though, along with her virginity, she had lost herself. She had become a different person, someone without purpose, without conviction, and without the energy to take charge of her life and make the decisions she must.

  Her friendship with Ismet was dead. She had met him only once since that night and it had been a demeaning experience. She had been in the library with the princesses, and Ismet had come to collect a briefcase he had left behind. The librarian, Harry was his name, was looking gloomier than ever since Ismet had been told he was no longer required and Harry would have to do without his colleague’s help. When he had disappeared into his office to get the briefcase and her pupils were busy studying a sumptuous volume of Islamic art, she had managed to speak to Ismet alone for a few minutes. Her plan had failed, she told him. She kept from disclosing the true account of that night – she could not acknowledge how low she had fallen – but said merely that she had managed to gain access to Paul’s o
ffice only once, and then had been interrupted by an angry Valentin Boucher.

  ‘I am sorry to disappoint you,’ she said, when she saw his face darken.

  He looked past her shoulder, refusing to meet her eyes. ‘It is not your fault. The task was too difficult.’ He did not add ‘for a woman’, but the unvoiced phrase hung in the air.

  ‘And I cannot try again,’ she was quick to say. ‘Valentin Boucher is already suspicious of me.’

  ‘I would not ask you to.’ The beautiful brown eyes held a look she had not seen before. ‘I would be stupid to do so – it’s more than likely you have alerted the Bouchers to what we seek.’

  ‘I very much hope not.’

  She felt a rising anger. Swayed by his beautiful face and smooth manners, she had scraped the depths for this man and his cause. Yet his response now was dismissive, almost hostile. She would have liked to beat him with her fists, but then hopelessness took over. She had believed – what exactly? That the attraction between them might one day flourish into something wonderful? Instead, it withered as she stood here. How naïve she had been – and how stupid to be surprised now. Ismet was no different from any of the men at that meeting. From the moment they had seen a woman in their midst, their objection had been clear. She had been worth their notice only as a means to their ends.

  ‘I hope not, too,’ he said stiffly. ‘But it has left us with a problem.’ He ruffled his thick brown hair until it stood up in a sharp cockscomb.

  She saw Harry Frome coming out of his office, briefcase in hand, and was quick to say her goodbyes. Ismet drew himself up and brought his heels together with a click, almost as though he were an officer dismissing a particularly hopeless recruit. ‘Thank you for your help, Lydia,’ he said, his tone even more formal. ‘I know you will remain committed to our cause.’

  That was something she didn’t know. Not any more. It was all very well to talk grandly about freedom, but there was nothing grand about the tawdry encounter she had shared. These last few months her desire for justice had faded and she no longer knew herself. As long as she could remember, she had refused to accept the way the world was. She had challenged and fought, but now the urge to fight had gone. She was tired and listless, her enthusiasm for the palace, for Constantinople, even for teaching, was waning by the day.