by Beth Elliot
In the adjoining room, as large and airy as the bedchamber, there were low, padded benches around three walls. The fourth, inside wall had a fireplace in the middle, with wooden panelling each side. In the panelling were set rows of niches, all decorated with ornate carved woodwork.
Rose saw that Fatma was already waiting. The maid pulled open the concealed door by the fireplace. It led to a tiny room in which was a low marble basin and copper pots of steaming water.
‘Oh, yes!’ Rose gave a sigh of pleasure, Fatma laughed and handed her towels. The warm water did a lot to banish the lingering dream. Feeling fresh and clean again, Rose went to sit on a divan by the window. Fatma bore down on her waving a hairbrush. She was fascinated by the thick golden hair and brushed it carefully, smoothing away all the tangles and replaiting it.
Rose nodded her thanks. Fatma beckoned her over to the heap of garments in decidedly exotic styles and colours. Today Rose was more relaxed about wearing these harem clothes. In Cairo they had always worn their English clothes, using a long hooded robe when they went out. When she found herself obliged to don tunic and trousers yesterday Rose had felt alarmed. But she soon discovered how much more suitable these garments were in the heat and in rooms furnished with divans rather than chairs.
Fatma was holding up a soft turquoise silk robe and looking a question. Rose smiled and took it, choosing a pair of loose trousers in a darker shade and a gauzy undershirt of white. Fatma gave a grunt of approval and added a fringed pink sash, winding it round and round her waist.
‘Everything is so exquisite,’ remarked Helena, who had just appeared. She yawned and stretched. ‘I fell asleep on the balcony of all places.’ She picked up a sleeveless jacket and showed it to her sister. ‘Have you looked at the embroidery on these garments? Such delicate work. I mean to try and copy some of the motifs.’ She put her head on one side and grinned at Rose’s appearance. ‘Very fine,’ she said, her voice bubbling with laughter, ‘you are ready to be introduced to a prince at the least.’
Rose made a face at her. ‘Oh, and I think you will require a sultan, my dear. That almond green robe sets off your hair and eyes to perfection. As if you didn’t know.’
Helena glanced in the little mirror on the wall. ‘Well, I know how to make the most of any luxuries that come my way. And after being crowded in that tiny cabin on the ship, this is wonderful.’ She waved her arm to indicate their living area. Leaving Fatma to tidy up, they went back to their aunt. She looked thin and tired but her eyes were clear and when she saw them she gave her old smile.
There was a stir at the doorway. In came their hostess, Latife Hatun, followed by several girls, carrying laden trays.
‘We have brought chicken broth for the invalid,’ smiled Latife Hatun. She cast a critical glance at Lady Westacote. ‘Yes, the fever has gone for now. You must drink this,’ she urged as the invalid shook her head, ‘we need to strengthen you. Your nieces are anxious – and my brother has strictly charged me to restore you to good health. And to see that the young ladies are rested and well cared for. We must make you forget the nightmare you suffered in Cairo.’
At the word nightmare, Rose repressed a shudder. Her dream was still fresh in her mind. But she pushed the memory down and smiled politely at Latife. This lady was such a mixture of charm and imperious authority that it was impossible to resist her. She was of medium height and graceful, elegant in her dress and in all her movements. Like her brother, she spoke English with hardly a trace of accent. Rose wondered how they had learnt the language so fluently.
‘Come, let us sit outside while your aunt drinks her soup. She does not need all of us watching her.’
They followed her onto the balcony. Rose noticed for the first time the pleasant green garden below. A long way below, thought Rose. They were on the third floor of this enormous mansion. If Kerim Pasha called this his humble abode, what must his country estate be like?
With a graceful movement, Latife swung her legs up on the long, high bench so she was sitting cross-legged. She settled her back against the cushion, then with an elegant gesture, invited the girls to join her. Arranging herself in a similar style, Rose decided that the loose trousers were exactly right for sitting cross-legged on a divan. She had to stifle a smile at the thought of how her old governess would have been scandalised. But she could not quite hide the smile.
‘Something amuses you?’
Rose nodded and let the smile grow. ‘I am smiling with pleasure. Now we are able to relax, thanks to your kindness.’ She gestured towards the garden. ‘The view is delightful, particularly the way the water sparkles through the cypress trees. Is that the boundary to your garden?’
A girl had arrived with tiny cups of fragrant coffee. Latife sipped delicately. ‘It is,’ she said at last, ‘but I do not see why that makes you smile.’
‘My sister is an artist,’ put in Helena, ‘when she smiles like that, it is because she has found a view she wants to paint.’
‘Now I understand, Rose,’ said her hostess, ‘I may call you just Rose?’ As Rose nodded, she continued, ‘and Helena,’ she leaned forward to smile at Helena who was seated next to Rose. ‘We need not be formal amongst ourselves. Please, you must both call me Latife.’
They murmured polite thanks.
‘So, please do paint this scene and I will watch you if I may? Such an agreeable change from our usual routine.’
‘I fear our presence makes a great deal of work for you, Latife,’ Rose said, a little shyly: ‘We must thank you for rescuing us at such short notice.’
Latife beckoned the girl forward to collect the empty cups. ‘It is always a pleasure to have guests from abroad.’ She smiled warmly at them. ‘And you are very welcome here. It is not often that I can practise my English.’
Another servant appeared and whispered something to her mistress. Latife’s eyes turned to Rose as she listened. Her face was smiling but her brows rose in surprise. At last she nodded, said something and the little messenger departed. Latife stood up.
‘Now I must explain. Rose, my brother is asking if you would be good enough to go down to that kiosk you can see there in the garden. He cannot come up here, of course.’ Seeing the alarm in both girls’ faces, she quickly added: ‘No, no, do not worry. It is nothing to do with your menfolk.’
For the second time that day Rose followed Fatma down to the salon and this time out into the garden with its flowering shrubs. As she approached the kiosk, she saw a tall form rise to his feet. He was a fine figure of a man, lean and compact, yet his strength was obvious. Now she could see a similarity to his sister in the almond eyes and high cheekbones. His grey eyes sparkled as he watched her approach.
He bowed courteously, a hand against his heart in the Turkish fashion.
‘So good of you to answer my plea, Mrs Charteris. I will not take up too much of your time.’ He indicated that she should sit.
Rose looked about the little wooden structure with interest. The painted slats were arranged in a criss-cross pattern, light and pleasing. The roof was held up by four carved posts and all rails and bars had a scalloped edge. It was a very different type of summerhouse from an English one. She sat on the low cushioned bench. He sat opposite her. Fatma stood at a respectful distance, hands clasped in front of her.
Seated face to face, Rose felt the magnetism of this powerful man even more. He had such a controlled strength and was so good looking that it would be hard not to enjoy studying his features. Wide forehead, aquiline nose, full but firm lips, a long face with a clear-cut jawline under the trim little beard. As an artist, she longed to draw him. She blinked as she realised that he was studying her just as keenly, a broad smile on his face now.
‘It is as well I already know you are an artist and that artists study faces intently.’
Embarrassment brought the colour to her cheeks. Then she frowned. ‘But I only just told your sister….’
There was a flash of white teeth as he grinned. ‘What is it that you say –
ah yes! “A little bird told me”.’ His smile made an attractive crease down each cheek, she noted. He was bare-headed this evening, his hair shining blue-black in a gleam of sunshine. His blue tunic showed off the powerful muscles of his chest and arms and emphasised his trim waist, where the sash bound it tightly. She noted that he had shed his boots for soft leather slippers.
All in all, his presence was very masculine and very disturbing. After the emotional upset of meeting Tom again, with all the bitterness that had reawakened in her mind, Rose felt drained. This second encounter with a large and dominant male was very hard to endure.
‘What I have to say now is very secret, Mrs Charteris,’ She noticed that he did not seem to like giving her that title, ‘ and whether you agree or not to help me, I must trust you to keep the matter to yourself. In fact, I am putting you in danger just by telling you about it.’ He raised an eyebrow and looked a question.
Rose frowned at him. ‘Pray do go on, sir. I cannot judge until I know the whole.’
Kerim Pasha gave an approving nod. ‘Thank you. You are courageous. But first I will say that it is your countryman, Tom Hawkesleigh, who told me you are an artist.’ He raised his brows at the flash of anger in her blue eyes.
‘H-has he been discussing m-me…’ She half rose from her seat but Kerim Pasha’s face told her she was giving too much away. His eyes had narrowed and his face was more hawklike than ever.
Rose forced herself to sink back on the cushioned bench. How silly she was to show her feelings now, when she had kept up a calm façade for so many years! Meeting Tom again had shaken her more than she realised. She uncurled her fingers and took a deep breath. ‘It is a long time since I was acquainted with Mr Hawkesleigh.’ Her voice sounded rather more high-pitched than usual. She cleared her throat. ‘Perhaps he has exaggerated my talents.’
‘I doubt that,’ murmured Kerim Pasha, ‘he was full of praise for your ability.’ He leaned forward slightly, a twinkle in his eyes, ‘But how angry this has made you…’ He waited and watched but she did not reply. He could see altogether too much, this clever man.
Eventually he resumed: ‘Nevertheless, I would be deeply grateful if you could help us in this way. Mr Hawkesleigh would explain what is required.’ He sighed. ‘Sadly, he cannot draw very well at all.’ He shook his head, ‘and the pictures are vital to the huge plan we are undertaking.’
While he talked, Rose sat there, a tight little figure. She fumed, staring sightlessly out at the trees as the daylight faded. Mr Hawkesleigh would explain…Surely he could tell she did not want to undertake anything that involved Tom? This work would mean several meetings with him and she could not bear that. She decided to refuse. She blinked and turned her head to look at Kerim Pasha, whose keen gaze had not wavered from her face.
At once she felt his power, his strong will and authority. And she knew that there was no choice. He had asked her but that was simply a courtesy. This man was dealing with State policy at the highest level. That meant that Tom’s work, whatever it was, was a vital piece of diplomacy between Britain and the Ottoman Empire. So, if she refused, she would be doing her country a very bad turn.
‘Very well’ she said hoarsely, ‘I have my painting materials. I will do this job for you.’
He did not move a muscle. She sat and waited. Tears threatened but she swallowed them down. Eventually he put a hand to his heart and inclined his head. ‘You are very good. I would not ask it of you if I could not protect you. So long as you remain here you will be safe. The house is well guarded.’
She gave a little shiver, remembering again the nights in Cairo when unknown people had prowled around their house, banging on doors and shutters, sometimes snatching one of the servants and beating them cruelly. Then the screams would make the darkness even more threatening.
Kerim Pasha’s deep, velvety voice recalled her to the present. ‘When we deal in important policies, there is bound to be spying and opposition. Your countryman knows that someone is following him. But in this house there is no danger for you.’ He rose smoothly to his feet.
Rose followed suit and looked up to his lean face, her eyes still wide with the fear she had endured in Cairo.
Kerim Pasha dwelt on her blue, blue eyes. His face softened. ‘I assure you, my honoured guest, that nothing will be allowed to harm you or your companions while you are under my protection.’ He bowed and indicated that she was to go first. Rose moved mechanically towards the step. Her heart was fluttering. She had had to rely on her own strength for so long. Even Aunt Emily and Uncle Philip needed her to look after all the practical matters. So now when a man was actually offering to carry some of her burdens, it felt strange… and delightful.
Chapter Six
The following morning Rose set off for her meeting with Tom, feeling heavy headed and desperately miserable. It would be best to act as strangers, she decided. After this meeting she would only need to see him once or at most twice, when the pictures were finished.
Fatma led her through the salon and out into the garden. A tall figure stood with his back to them, fidgeting by the entrance to the kiosk. He turned at the sound of approaching steps. The sun shone full on him. Rose glanced at his unruly hair, already rioting around his bare head. It seemed blonder than she remembered. Perhaps that was because he was very tanned.
His face was stern and cold as he subjected her to a careful examination, starting at her hair, which was mostly hidden under a fine gauze scarf with a beaded border, down the turquoise tunic and the thin cotton trousers to the soft kid slippers on her feet. Rose felt his gaze as if it touched her skin. He should not stare at her garments like that! She stiffened with indignation, her hands clasped tightly. Beside her, Fatma muttered something under her breath.
Tom himself was dressed impeccably. His clothes fitted his tall frame like a second skin and, apart from his hair, which was falling over his face as usual, everything about him was impressively smart. He made a small bow.
‘The Ambassador sends his compliments. He sincerely trusts that your aunt’s health is improving.’ he said formally, moving aside and indicating that Rose should enter the kiosk.
‘How kind of him to enquire,’ she snapped, thinking that the Ambassador could have taken the time to call on them himself. ‘My aunt does indeed seem much improved. But this fever comes and goes, so we do not know what will happen next.’
‘Yes,’ said Tom, folding his long legs carefully so that he did not put his feet too close to hers. ‘It can be very nasty. But with the help you are getting here, she should soon be back to full health.’
‘I think she would need to know that Sir Philip and…and all our menfolk are safe before that will happen.’ Rose’s voice quavered. All three of them were frightened on that score but trying to encourage each other to hope for the best. She felt Tom’s eyes on her. There was still a chill in his gaze.
Rose lifted her chin. She reminded herself that coldness and distance were needed here. ‘What are these pictures you wish me to draw, sir?’ she asked frigidly.
Tom sighed. ‘I am sorry to involve you. Believe me, if I could do otherwise, I would not ask you to do this. It is very likely to be a dangerous job.’ He cast a glance around, staring at Fatma, who had perched on the entrance step.
‘She does not appear to have the least grasp of English.’ Rose assured him.
He shrugged. ‘If Kerim Pasha says all is secure here, it must be so. He is one of the most powerful men in the Ottoman Empire. And he is in a hurry for a certain document. The one thing lacking is the illustrations. They are needed to give the Sultan a clear –’ he stopped as Rose gasped and opened her eyes very wide. He nodded grimly. ‘You heard me correctly. This is for His Majesty. He wants clear pictures of possible new uniforms for the troops. Horse and foot.’
Rose shook her head in disbelief. ‘I arrived in this country three days ago. I know nothing of their uniforms. And you are asking me to provide expert sketches for the Sultan himself?’ her voice rose on
the word.
Tom glanced around uneasily. He grimaced. ‘We have no one else we can ask. All hell could break loose if news leaks out to the wrong people.’ He nodded at her, his dark eyes solemn. ‘I do not want to frighten you but there may well be counter plots – even riots, when these new ideas are made public. Now do you see why it has to be absolutely secret?’
What kind of business was she getting drawn into? For a moment she felt fear twist in her stomach. She pushed it aside. It was almost unheard of for such a task to be offered to a woman. And her artistic skills were considered to be superior. This was a challenge she would enjoy. But before she said yes she wanted Tom to beg a bit harder.
‘Did you not see any Turkish soldiers in Egypt?’ he was asking.
‘No! I do not think so…Well, how could I tell which were Turks and which Egyptians?’
‘But the differences are quite clear,’ he began then, seeing her frown, he stopped. He eyed her uneasily. ‘You know, this is a tremendously important piece of diplomacy for England. We cannot lose out to the French. The Ambassador is so relieved that you will do the sketches.’
Silence.
The silence lasted so long that Fatma got up and looked to see if Rose was still there. Rose was sitting with her fists clenched, her mouth set in a straight line and her gaze, as on the previous evening, fixed on the cypress tree that swayed gently in the breeze off the sea.
Tom cleared his throat and scraped his booted feet across the floor into a more comfortable position. There was a wary expression on his face. This time he was not sure of her decision.
At last Rose turned her head towards him. ‘I suppose,’ she snapped, ‘that this means I have no choice. It seems everyone is expecting me to do these sketches. Even the Sultan is waiting. And of course all the spies and felons who always get to know every secret.’