A Tale of Two Sisters

by Merryn Allingham

  Maybe this was the real Lydia and the mission for Ismet the dying embers of a woman she had pretended to be: the rebel, the plotter. Just a girl who needed to make waves. But for what? To say in some way who she was? Perhaps it was being a third child, the afterthought of the family, that had been the spur. Alice was the dependable daughter, Charlie the beloved son. She couldn’t be a boy like Charlie, though she had often wished it, and she couldn’t be a girl like Alice, loved for being good, though she had wished that, too. There had been no space for her, it seemed, unless she made one for herself. By being different. By being unconventional. And where had that led her? There was nothing more conventional, she thought bitterly, than being seduced by a man who said his wife did not love him.

  ‘Miss Lydia?’ It was Sevda, tripping through the door and looking excited. ‘You are busy?’ Busy tormenting myself, she thought, but found a smile for her friend.

  ‘There will be a party for the Christmas,’ Sevda announced.

  ‘How is that?’ She could not imagine there had been a mass conversion overnight.

  ‘For you,’ the girl insisted. ‘For Christians to celebrate.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Where?’

  Her languid tone surprised Sevda. ‘You do not want to go? But you must.’

  ‘Where is it?’ she asked again.

  ‘Monsieur Valentin Boucher is giving a party. At his house on Friday, and I will find you beautiful Turkish clothes to wear.’

  Lydia had no wish to dampen her companion’s enthusiasm, but this was one party she would not be attending. ‘I am afraid I will have to miss it. I have a fair amount of work to do – reading and marking and finding new books for the girls. I don’t think I can spare the time.’

  Sevda looked around the room. The evidence of work was meagre, but it had been the only excuse Lydia could immediately summon.

  ‘Soon your school duties will lessen.’ The girl was never anything but diplomatic. ‘The princesses are not here and you need not prepare yet for their return. They remain at Yıldız for several weeks.’

  She felt a fraud and tried to turn the conversation. ‘I know. I had a message from Esma this morning. She seems fascinated by the renovations that are going on there.’

  ‘They will see the palace come alive again. It will be good for them. And they have their brothers and sisters and their cousins to play with.’

  ‘I am sure they will have a great deal of fun.’

  ‘They will. And you will have fun, too – at the party.’

  She was not going to escape. Sevda was looking expectant and she cast around for a way in which she could avoid the threatened event, since avoid it she must.

  ‘I will think about it,’ she prevaricated.

  ‘And I will look for a special tunic.’

  ‘You are such a kind girl, Sevda. I don’t deserve you.’

  Sevda beamed. ‘Is anything I can get for you?’

  ‘Nothing. I am a little tired that’s all. I’d like to rest.’

  Her companion made small noises of agreement and slipped quietly away. As soon as the door closed behind her, Lydia felt relief. All she wanted these days was to be left alone. She would have to give thought to an excuse for Friday, but first she must sleep.

  By Friday, though, she had thought of nothing and when she woke that morning, her limbs felt almost too heavy to move. It was depression, she realised. Somehow she would have to get through this hateful evening, since if she absented herself without good reason, it could provoke the kind of talk she wished to avoid. She dragged herself from the bed and across the room to the chest of drawers. She had begun pouring water into the flower-covered basin when a sudden flush drenched her face and her forehead burst into beads of perspiration. There was a dreadful heaving deep in her stomach. She was going to be sick.

  Afterwards, she tottered back to the divan and fell exhausted onto the counterpane, just as Naz came in. The girl’s nose twitched censoriously.

  ‘I am sorry, Naz. I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me last night.’ What it had been, Lydia could not think. She had eaten hardly anything. The girl removed the bowl and returned with cold flannels which she placed on Lydia’s forehead and the nape of her neck. She felt pathetically grateful.

  ‘Naz,’ she called to the girl as she left. ‘I am feeling horribly weak. It would be better I don’t attend the party tonight.’

  The girl seemed not to understand. ‘The party at Monsieur Boucher’s?’ Naz nodded at that. ‘Do you think you could get a message to him that I am unwell?’

  Naz bowed her head. Lydia was sure the slave had understood and would be quick to report to Valentin Boucher. And to the Valide Sultan, she imagined. The woman had stayed aloof and anonymous, a sinister presence at the centre of the web of intrigue that pervaded the palace. The girl could well spy for her, and certainly spied for Boucher. This time, though, it would work in Lydia’s favour – at least now she had her excuse. When Sevda arrived an hour later with an armful of clothes, she faced her with a smile.

  ‘That is so sad, Miss Lydia.’ Sevda was genuinely upset. ‘This is only celebration for Christmas. Such a pity you are sick.’

  ‘I’m feeling a good deal better now,’ she assured her, ‘just too weak to spend all evening at a party.’

  ‘But yes – you must stay in bed.’

  Lydia snuggled down beneath the silk counterpane. There was nothing that appealed to her more than to stay in bed. Thank goodness the princesses were happily employed elsewhere and she had no responsibilities for at least two weeks.

  ‘I think maybe it was the kofta,’ Sevda said anxiously. ‘It is very rich and perhaps last night the taste was not quite right.’

  ‘Perhaps that was it,’ she agreed, knowing full well that she had eaten none of the kofta.

  * * *

  A day in bed had her wake bright and early the next morning, feeling considerably better. But when she swung her legs from the bed, the same rush of nausea rose in her throat and almost choked her. She ran to the basin and retched uncontrollably. Naz must have heard her because, within seconds, the girl had slid into the room and silently taken the basin away. Whatever sickness she had contracted was not going to let go easily. The next morning she was ready for it and as soon as she woke, rushed from her room to the bathroom a few steps away.

  Sevda arrived an hour later and brought with her a new dish of sherbet. When she saw that yesterday’s remained untouched, she frowned.

  ‘You no longer like my sherbet, Miss Lydia?’

  ‘I like it very much. But my stomach is misbehaving at the moment. I will feel better soon and then you must bring me three dishes of sherbet a day.’

  She was almost certain that would not happen. A dreadful suspicion had been growing in her. Surely, it could not be. Please God, let it not be, she prayed. But as the week progressed, so did the sickness. She began to feel nauseous throughout the day and stopped eating almost entirely. The occasional glass of pomegranate juice and a few slices of pide bread was all she could manage. She had never felt more miserable. The weather had turned cold and wet, and she slept and woke to the sound of rain beating at her window. Outside, the sky lowered to a uniform grey and the summer sheen of the bushes had been replaced by a dull ochre.

  Sevda had continued to call each day and this morning she arrived looking determined. ‘Miss Lydia, you must see doctor. You are a sick person.’

  The time had come, she knew, when she must confess. ‘I will see a doctor, but I don’t need him to tell me why I am unwell.’

  Sevda’s innocent face nearly broke her heart. How could she say the words she must? She sat her friend down beside her, taking her hand but looking blankly across the room at the window opposite.

  ‘I have something to say that will be painful for you to hear.’ Then after a deep breath, her voice hardly audible, she said, ‘I believe I am with child.’

  Sevda gasped. She said something in Turkish, then tightened her grip on Lydia’s hand. �
��It is not possible.’

  ‘I am afraid it is.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I cannot speak of it, Sevda. All I can say is I have made a very bad mistake and now I must pay the price.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Lydia, this is terrible.’

  Lydia inclined her head. ‘I am in a wilderness. I have no idea what I should do.’

  The girl’s response was immediate. ‘We must tell the Valide Sultan. She will know what to do.’

  Lydia pulled sharply away. ‘That I cannot.’ The thought of that imperious woman sitting in judgement on her was too much to bear.

  ‘But you must. She has to know. This is haremlik and she is in command.’

  They sat silently for some minutes and then Lydia said wearily, ‘I suppose she will know soon enough.’

  Sevda glanced down at Lydia’s still flat stomach. ‘It is best to tell her now. I will go.’

  Without waiting for a response, the girl got up from the divan and whisked herself out of the room. Lydia remained where she was, stupefied and too weak even to get up and close the door. She had no need since in ten minutes Sevda was back, her face grave.

  ‘Sultan Rahîme is most displeased.’

  ‘I didn’t think she would be dancing on the ceiling.’ The old Lydia had surfaced momentarily.

  As always, the irony was lost on Sevda. ‘This is what she say: you may stay until baby is born, but then you must go.’

  ‘Go where?’

  Sevda lifted her hands helplessly. ‘This I cannot tell you. Valide Sultan has said she wishes you to stay within the haremlik always and you must never leave the palace.’

  ‘To hide myself away, in fact.’

  ‘This is necessary. No one must know.’

  ‘And what about the women in the harem?’ Her friend looked uncomfortable. ‘Do they know already?’

  ‘They wonder. There is gossip.’

  ‘And where will that gossip go? Will they spread the story?’

  Sevda shook her head furiously. ‘They talk only here. They are sorry, Miss Lydia. They know it is very bad for you and wish you well.’

  Lydia felt tears pricking her eyes. The women could do nothing to help her, but their friendship was precious and she knew she would be cocooned in kindness for the next few months. After that, there was only darkness. But her pupils, what was to become of them?

  ‘Esma and Rabia?’ she asked unhappily. ‘They return at the end of the week.’

  ‘Sultan Rahîme say you may carry on teaching, but now you must put on Turkish dress. It covers much.’

  ‘So, I can stay and teach her grandchildren, but only on her terms?’ Her helplessness infuriated her, but she was in no position to refuse the woman’s commands.

  ‘The Valide Sultan is always right,’ Sevda said simply.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Constantinople, May 1906

  ‘Not fair. I want to be Peter, Miss Lydia. Esma gets best parts.’

  ‘Peter Pan isn’t the only good part,’ Lydia said pacifically. ‘You can be Tinkerbell. She is a fairy. That’s magical.’

  ‘But Peter Pan magic, too. He flies.’

  ‘And Tinkerbell dies,’ Esma added unhelpfully.

  Lydia sat down, an upsurge of weariness hitting her. The girls were generally well behaved but today they were tired from a late bedtime and the schoolroom was uncomfortably sticky. In the last few days, the weather had become a great deal hotter, and adjusting to the change was taking its toll on all of them.

  ‘Tinkerbell does not die,’ Lydia corrected. ‘In the end, she recovers thanks to all the little children in the audience. Remember? And if you play Tinkerbell, Rabia, you can also play Captain Hook. He is a pirate and you would like that.’

  At this, Rabia jumped up and danced around the room chanting in Turkish.

  ‘What is she saying?’

  ‘That she is a pirate,’ Esma translated gloomily. ‘But it’s not fair. I want to be a pirate, too.’

  Lydia sighed. She had heard enough. ‘You are either Peter Pan or you are Tinkerbell and Captain Hook. You can go away and talk about it. Come back when you have chosen. We have done enough for today, but if you really want to put on the play for your mama and her friends, you will need to stop quarrelling. We have two weeks left – that’s all.’

  The girls looked ashamed and began packing their books way into their desks without speaking. At the door, they stopped only to say, ‘Goodbye, Miss Lydia.’

  ‘Goodbye, girls. I hope tomorrow we can make better progress.’

  Two weeks, she thought, packing her own books into the old linen bag. Then her pupils would be off to Dolmabahçe Palace for their summer break. And not before time. She had been mercifully free of sickness for months now, but the tiredness never left her, and once the girls were gone, she could rest. At least for a while. They would be miles away when she gave birth and would know nothing of their teacher’s predicament, and that was how it should be.

  She did not want to think about the birth. This was a child foisted on her in the most wretched circumstances. A child conceived without loyalty and without love. An intruder in her life that for ever she must wear like a stone around her neck. The future was too bleak to think of; all she wanted was to rest. But when she reached her room, she found it unusually stuffy though Naz had thrown the windows wide. She would walk a while in the courtyard, she decided. It was a good time of the day to choose, since most inhabitants of the palace were eating and she could walk there unobserved. Not that her figure had changed that greatly, and in baggy trousers and loose overcoat, her growing bump remained undetectable.

  Once in the courtyard, she found welcome shade beneath the palace walls and walked slowly up and down, trying to breathe deeply. The temperature had risen astonishingly fast and the air was cloying and heavy. The garden would have made a far more pleasant walk, but she had never returned there since the morning she’d bid Paul Boucher farewell. Thinking of him now for the first time in weeks had seemingly brought him to life, since at that moment, she saw him cross the courtyard and make his way towards the arch that led to the buildings housing his office. His head was down, his eyes fixed on the gravel. Had he seen her? Most probably, but she had told him all those months ago they must have no further communication and he’d been obedient to her word. He could know nothing of the baby, and for that she was grateful. Naz must have reported the fact to his father; she had seen the slave eyeing her stomach when she thought herself unwatched. But Valentin Boucher would not tell his son. He would assume Paul’s involvement – who else could it be when the two of them had spent so many hours together? – but he would not tell. The marriage he had arranged was already rocky and he would not want to add fuel to the fire.

  No one else would know of her plight, except the inhabitants of the harem, and amazingly none of the women had spoken of it unless it was among themselves. They had fussed over her, brought her small presents, given her what she took to be titbits of advice. Many of them were mothers several times over, but none had forgotten their first experience of childbirth and thought her fearful of what was to come. In truth, she felt no fear. She had no idea if she would come through the ordeal and thought that on balance it would be better if she did not. For everyone. But if a miracle were to happen, and she and this child lived, how would they survive? It was this that made her fearful. Of one thing she was certain: she could not return to England with an illegitimate child. She could not pile such distress upon her family.

  ‘It is possible you stay here in the city,’ Sevda said one day, standing at the dressing table and twisting Lydia’s hair into an elaborate plait.

  ‘For that I need money. I have managed to save a little of my salary, but it will not go far.’

  ‘There are very cheap rooms in Constantinople, and if you are in the city, maybe I see you.’

  ‘It’s an idea,’ she agreed, though she could not imagine she would be allowed any kind of contact with the palace once the baby arrived. But sh
e knew the girl was worried and did not want to see her upset. The suggestion of a room in the city appeared her only option, but it was only a temporary solution. The savings she had amassed would not be sufficient for a long stay in even the cheapest room, and what was she to do when they were exhausted? Find another job, she supposed, but where and how when she spoke so little Turkish? And if she were lucky enough to find some menial work cleaning or cooking, who would care for the baby?

  ‘Maybe I should go to another city in Turkey,’ she said. ‘One that is cheaper. It might be better in the circumstances.’

  Sevda nodded sadly. She had never asked the father’s name, though she must have guessed. They had all guessed, she imagined, for who else could it be?

  ‘It is best you go home, Miss Lydia. To England.’ There was a decided note in the girl’s voice.

  ‘I cannot do that. It would bring disgrace on my family. Women who have babies and are not married are considered very bad in England. People turn away, you understand?’

  ‘Here it is the same. But you can pretend – you had husband, but he died.’

  ‘A widow?’ Lydia forced a laugh. ‘I doubt I’d be a very convincing one. I would never manage to keep up the pretence – I’d be found out in no time and that would be even worse. I’d be guilty then of deception as well as loose morals!’

  * * *

  The girls left for Dolmabahçe Palace on a hot, sunny day. She envied them. From several of the corridors in the harem, she could catch glimpses of the Bosphorus glinting in the gold of the sun, and would stand and look and think how wonderful it would be to spend days by the sea.

  ‘Why do you not come with us?’ Esma asked, as they waited for the carriage to arrive.