Stealing Athena

by Karen Essex

“Please tell her that that is my belief, as well as the belief of the Scottish people. Any healthy baby is a gift.”

  Farah agreed, nodding her head, but added, “Though we know the word of God, some continue to celebrate only when the child is a boy and mourn the birth of another girl into this world.”

  Hanum, having perhaps been warned by the pasha to steer clear of controversy or any subject that might turn unpleasant, announced that a demonstration of music and dance had been prepared for Mary.

  Mary was relieved. She could not understand this strange way of life in which men and women were separated in so extreme a manner, but she did not wish to express her bafflement to these women, who exceeded all expectation in hospitality, and who were allowing her a glimpse into their secret world. As ambassadress—and as a good Christian woman—it was not her duty to pass judgment upon the ways of others, but to represent her own society in the best possible manner.

  The songs were pleasant enough, played by two women on odd stringed instruments that resembled a long-necked lute or mandola. Mary could appreciate the music; she herself was a fine player of the pianoforte. But the dances reached beyond good taste, especially for women who were forced to remain chaste by being hidden away. The writhing and twirling she witnessed seemed like something Emma Hamilton would do in private for a salivating lover. How odd that these women who were to be held above reproach had no inhibitions about moving their bodies as if simulating sexual intercourse.

  Mary thanked the dancers for their performance and decided that she would praise the wardrobes of the Turkish ladies, which she found to be beautiful, a swirl of colors that one would never find at home. Their skirts were made of silks in varied patterns, with complementing shawls draped over the hips or shoulders. Hanum’s coat in particular was striking, a deep blue velvet with an ermine lining that folded over into a collar and lapel. Their heads were wrapped in bright scarves, with beautiful bonnetlike puffs that hung down their backs. When Mary expressed her appreciation of their clothes, Hanum’s eyes lit like candles.

  She had ordered two Turkish dresses to be made for Mary, one more lovely than the other, in hues of salmon, emerald, and gold. Mary held the dresses up to her body. The sunlight through the small windows at the top of the walls shone through, making the fabrics shimmer like jewels. Dark gold threads ran through the skirts, and the paisley shawls were decorated with tiny pearls. Mary was also presented with gold slippers with furry balls that matched the fur lining on the deep crimson velvet coat that Hanum was holding for her to try on.

  Pleased that the coat fit, Hanum took a scarf and wrapped it around Mary’s head, pulling Mary’s long, dark curls through the folds. The woman’s face was flushed with the pleasure of either new friendship or generosity—Mary could not guess which. But she was certain the fondness that shone in her eyes and her smile exceeded the requirements of diplomatic politeness. Though there were not two words that Mary might have uttered that Hanum would have understood, she was sure that they had achieved some means of communication.

  “‘Now you are one of us,’” Madame Pisani said, repeating Hanum’s words in English, but Mary had already understood the meaning and responded with an embrace of gratitude.

  The entrance of the Capitan Pasha interrupted them. He looked around the room, finally saying something to his sister in their language that made her and everyone in the room laugh.

  The interpreter said to Mary, “The Capitan Pasha asked his sister what she had done with you.”

  “Capitan, you did not know me?” Mary asked.

  “I did not. You make a fine Turkish lady,” he said. His face was flushed and his eyes shone with mischief. “We have a special visitor this afternoon. I believe that he is someone who will want to meet with you.”

  THE PASHA HAD ORDERED all the women save one to seclude themselves in a room upstairs as he escorted Lord Elgin through the corridors. The sun had already set, and a small lamp lit the room where Mary sat. She heard the voices of the two men as they approached the door.

  “This is my private study,” the pasha said, opening the door.

  Elgin peered in. “Do excuse me, madam,” he said, startled. He turned, confronting the pasha’s smile.

  “How polite you are to ladies, Lord Elgin,” Mary said.

  Elgin turned around. His wife, now out of the shadows, smiled at him.

  “A fine pair you two are, playing tricks!” As she whisked by, he slipped his arm around her waist. “You’re a rascal, Lady Elgin,” he whispered in her ear, before letting her leave the room to follow the pasha.

  Though Elgin still suffered bouts of coughing, asthmatic attacks, and migraine headaches, his spirits seemed restored since his horrible ordeal at Christmastime. His skin, however, had never recovered. No one could diagnose the illness, but whatever it was, it had started to eat away at his nose. Strangely, his nostrils, which had gotten scabby during his illness, had not healed, and in the last month, the condition had worsened. Mary had a private conversation with Dr. MacLean in which she had asked him if Elgin might have either leprosy or the pox. The doctor assured her that her husband merely had had a bout with a very bad germ, and all symptoms should clear up with time. She certainly hoped so, and prayed for it nightly. She even asked God to forgive her for asking Him to restore her husband’s beauty. She did not love Elgin for the way he looked; it was just that the way he looked had made it easy to love him and to be intimate with him in the way that he desired.

  “I’ve brought Lady Elgin’s pianoforte,” Elgin said as the pasha ushered them into his parlor.

  “The ladies wished to hear our music, so I sent for it,” she said. “I shall play it for them in the morning. I did not know that it would be delivered by such an illustrious footman.”

  “Will you stay for dinner?” the pasha asked Elgin.

  “I have duties this evening which forbid it,” he replied. “I must leave my wife to your care.”

  Mary was secretly pleased that Elgin could not stay for dinner, because that would have meant that the women of the house would have had to have their dinner in seclusion, and she had looked forward to spending more time with them. After Elgin left, Mary was left alone with the pasha, which made her nervous at first, as she knew the special feelings he harbored for her. She wondered if Elgin’s comment before they had arrived in Constantinople had been accurate after all—that the women were sequestered because the men could not control themselves. Elgin must have changed his mind about it, because here she sat, with her husband’s permission, alone with this powerful and handsome man.

  Had Elgin changed his mind? Or was he willing to sacrifice Mary’s honor for his purposes on the Acropolis?

  “Show me how to play,” the pasha said, sitting beside her on the pianoforte’s bench. He put one long finger on a key and pressed, pulling back from the keyboard as he heard the sound, as if by touching it, he had done something wrong.

  “What sort of music do you like? Dances?” Mary asked.

  “I prefer something more serious,” he said.

  With her right hand, she played the melody to a sonata by Mr. Franz Joseph Haydn that she had recently learned.

  “For the first lesson, one hand only, I think,” she said.

  He watched her, and then he imitated her fingering perfectly, four bars at a time, until he was able to string together the first sixteen bars of the melody to his satisfaction. He concentrated with great intent as he worked out the tune, as focused and serious, Mary imagined, as if he were planning a strategy for a battle.

  “You are a natural talent,” Mary said.

  He shrugged. “You are a good teacher.”

  She felt uncomfortable sitting so close to the man, so she asked if they could move to the sofas and have coffee. He was only too delighted to accommodate her wishes, he assured her.

  Coffee was served from a gold filigree pot studded with rubies and pearls, poured into matching demi-cups. When Mary admired the set, the pasha insisted that his serva
nt wrap it up for her to take home. She protested, until she realized that she was insulting him by rejecting his gift.

  “There is something else I wish to give to your husband. If I send it through you, he will not be able to refuse me.”

  The pasha commanded something of his servant, who returned with another servant, carrying a jewel-studded saddle.

  “That is very beautiful,” Mary said. “But I do not think my husband would refuse a lovely saddle.”

  “No, but he has already tried to refuse the stallion that accompanies it,” said the pasha. “I wish him to have it, but he begged me to consider that my generosity was overwhelming.”

  “What makes you think he will accept it if it is sent through me?”

  “Because I have found that it is impossible to refuse you anything at all. It must be impossible for your husband too.”

  For one moment, she thought she could kiss him. She got hold of herself, of course. But he was so dear, so gentle, and so flattering. He was also handsome, sometimes ruggedly so, and sometimes, as in this moment, almost winsome, like a poet or musician. It was said that the Sultan was an accomplished poet and a great lover of music, a composer who wrote delightful melodies. Apparently the Turks saw no contradiction in an otherwise barbarous man embracing pursuits that required the participation of the soul. Mary also noticed that certain military men, known for valor and toughness, such as the pasha and General O’Hara, with whom she had flirted in Gibraltar to Elgin’s dismay, were particularly genteel with ladies, as if trying to balance their martial occupations.

  “Lady Elgin, can you explain to me why Lord Elgin protested the gift of a superb horse, but is full of gratitude for the ancient pieces of stone from the village on the coast? I do not understand, and our relations with the English are new. Is it customary to accept only worthless things?”

  “They are not worthless to Lord Elgin. I’m sure he’s told you all about his ambitions in Athens.”

  Mary imagined that in his time with the pasha, Elgin had laid the groundwork in the event that the pasha’s assistance would be required to pull off his plans. “Lord Elgin is on a mission to improve the arts in Great Britain,” she continued. “His architect, Mr. Thomas Harrison, has convinced him that England’s young artists would benefit and progress greatly if they had actual casts and precise drawings of the ancient Greek masterpieces. My husband has very broad ambitions and lofty goals.”

  “Yes, he has told me all about it,” the pasha replied.

  “You do not really approve of it?” Mary asked. Sometimes, she didn’t approve of it either. Elgin often got more upset over problems with the Athenian project than he did when things did not go well in the international affairs in which he was embroiled.

  “It is not that I do not approve. Whatever a man’s passions, he must pursue them, unless they offend God. I merely told Lord Elgin that if I were in his position, I would rather spend my money decorating my wife with jewels worthy of her great beauty.”

  Mary was not unhappy to hear the pasha’s assessment of what Elgin’s priorities should be; however, she knew that it was time to excuse herself from his company to wash and dress for dinner.

  In the city of Constantinople, April 1800

  GEORGE CHARLES CONSTANTINE, LORD Bruce—the real Lord Bruce, not his mother costumed as a man—gurgled in the arms of Calitza, his Greek nurse, who sat holding him on the sofa as Mary answered the correspondence that had been piling up since his birth. They had decided upon the name George in honor of the king; Charles for Elgin’s late father; and Constantine for the child’s birth city. The child was healthy and beautiful, and, Mary was sure, would be worth the pain that she had endured in bringing him into this world. After three weeks, she could sit again. That was a blessing. And the laudanum that she had required to see her through the pain of the birth and its aftereffects was finally wearing off. Her head had cleared, for the most part.

  “He’s the finest fellow ever born,” Elgin had declared after the babe had been cleaned up, swaddled, and handed to him. Mary had not wanted Elgin to see her as she knew she appeared after the labor, which had lasted an excruciatingly long time. She had Masterman wipe her face and brush her sweat-soaked hair. The dazed expression on her face, combined with the dizzying effects of the laudanum, must have given her a beatific look.

  “You look positively angelic,” Elgin had said.

  That is because, one hour ago, I was praying to the angels to take me to heaven with them, she thought, but she did not reply.

  “Would you consider the pain I have just experienced normal?” she had asked Dr. MacLean. She wanted to know because, if it were, she would refuse to go through it again. The doctor’s hands shook as he poured himself a full four fingers of brandy.

  “No, Lady Elgin. I assure you that your experience was severe. I feared for you.”

  “But look, Mary,” Elgin had said, “it is all over, and our boy is beautiful and perfect! Was it not worth the discomfort?” He beamed at her, lifting her son to show her as if she’d not bothered to look at him yet. She merely smiled.

  Discomfort? She’d never known such suffering. She’d had a choking attack while she was in labor, which frightened poor, palsied Dr. MacLean. Mary, torn between the agony in her chest and the agonizing contractions, had prayed for her own expedient death. When she could breathe again, the contractions became more severe. She felt as if the baby were doing great battle with her internal organs. Was he wrapped around her insides and not safely tucked in the womb like other babies? This went on for half the day, with Mary begging for sedatives to ease the pain. Nothing helped. She clutched a blanket, terrified that the pain would bring on another choking attack. Soon thereafter, she began to push the baby out. Certain that her body was being torn in two, she said what she thought were her final prayers and hoped that Elgin would remain healthy enough to raise the child, should it survive, on his own. If not, she reasoned, her mother and father would give the tyke a good home.

  Elgin himself had been miserably ill in the last months. He suffered bouts of chills and fevers along with inexplicable cold and hot fits. He sweated constantly, and his joints hurt so much that he often cried out in the middle of the night. The treatment of mercury and bleedings administered by Dr. MacLean did not adequately alleviate his pains, so he medicated himself with copious amounts of alcohol. Mary did not enjoy his changeable moods at these times, but she could not blame Elgin for trying to find relief. When she had to watch the leeches pulsing on his face, she wished that she too had the will to get drunk.

  But the birth of his son improved Elgin’s health and his spirits. He hadn’t required leeching since the baby’s arrival, and he had not complained about his joints, or taken fever either. Mary overheard him dictating a letter to his mother, the Dowager Lady Elgin, exclaiming over the health of the baby.

  “Mary is lost in delight of her little brat. The pleasure she takes in caring for the young lad has obliterated any memory of the pain she’d suffered,” Elgin said, composing aloud to his secretary, his voice full of mirth.

  In fact, the opposite was true. Though she was enthralled with the little boy and gave prayers of thanks every day for his safe delivery and his health, she could not forget the suffering during and after the birth. Truly. Her breasts were not as swollen as they’d been, and she had regained an appetite. All bleeding had stopped. Still, she was afraid to resume sexual relations. She did not think her body could tolerate the violation and she also did not want to get pregnant again.

  “Darling, give me credit for having delivered a glorious and healthy male heir. Can we not curb our appetites for a while so that I might heal?” she asked him sweetly one night. She needed to put the pain of childbirth behind before she could indulge again in an act that might lead to procreation. Thoughts of repeating the experience filled her with terror, often interrupting her sleep. But Elgin merely smiled and assured her that healthy women healed very quickly.

  On Mary’s twenty-second
birthday, when the baby was but eighteen days old, the nurse had carried him into Mary’s room. In his tiny hand he’d held a little note, which the nurse asked Mary to take. She opened it, and a lovely emerald ring fell out and onto her lap. The note read:

  My Dear Mama,

  Pray accept this ring from your affectionate Bab. A green stone in a ring is an emblem that my hopes can have no end as long as your hand supports me.

  Love,

  Your little Bab

  Elgin popped his head into the room. “What do you think of your Young Turk now? Is he not the most gallant of little creatures?”

  “I think that he and his papa make me the happiest of creatures who ever existed,” she said, holding out her arms to her husband and kissing him. Elgin’s various diseases and their treatments had robbed him of some of his boyish good looks, but not of his manly charms.

  “He’s a fine young man, is he not?”

  “He is. And a fitting heir to your title and all that will come through our families. We have our heir, Elgin. The first baby is a strapping, healthy little boy!” Mary said. She had been trying to reintroduce the subject of using contraception, at least for a little while, but the time had never seemed right. If she didn’t work up her courage, it would be too late, and he would be on top of her and inside before she could stop him.

  “We are fortunate, indeed, Mary. Just think! You are young. You might give me five or ten before we’re done!”

  “Five or ten? I know that we have talked about having many children, but must we think of it so soon after the birth of our first? I would like to give Little Lord Bruce his due, after all.”

  “Oh, nonsense, Mary. He will always have a special place in our hearts because he is the first. But we mustn’t stop now.” Elgin’s tone turned very serious. “My oldest brother passed away so young, Mary. That is why I am the earl. We can never have enough children to ensure our line.”

  “But of course we can, my darling. We are not cattle! As you say, I am young. Why must we rush? I would like to recover from this experience before I find myself back in bed, choking, pushing, and bleeding!” She lowered her voice and raised her eyes to him. “It was frightening, Eggy. I thought I might die. So did Dr. MacLean.”