by Beth Elliot
Tom chuckled. ‘That’s the spirit, Rose.’ Seeing her face he coughed and said, ‘apologies, I mean - ma’am.’ His eyes narrowed.
Rose became even more frigidly formal. ‘Please arrange for me to see what I am to describe. Type of jacket and trousers, colours, hats or helmets. I need some models to adapt from.’ She stood up. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I am anxious to be with my aunt.’
Tom jumped up. ‘Thank you,’ he said, his voice warm with appreciation. ‘You are doing your country a great service. And if you still feel reluctant, perhaps you could consider it also as a thank you to Kerim Pasha who is moving heaven and earth to get help to the members of your party in Egypt.’
He leaned back for her to leave the kiosk. Rose gave him a slight inclination of the head. As she stalked back towards the house, she looked up to the third floor balcony. Helena waved at her.
She had not refused although it had been a close-run thing! Tom stood by the kiosk and mopped his brow. Stuffing his handkerchief back into his pocket, he watched her walk gracefully away and disappear into the house. He let out his breath slowly. By her manner, she made it plain she wanted nothing to do with him. And yet he sensed that she still understood his thoughts and feelings as well as ever.
Perhaps she did not want her husband to suspect that she had ever entertained deep feelings for another man. Yes, he decided that this must be the reason for her embarrassment. What a fool her husband was to leave such a beautiful woman without adequate protection. Tom walked slowly through the house and out of the front door into the road without noticing anybody as he went. He sighed. If only his situation had been more secure when he first met Rose in London.
But that chance had gone forever. He had stored his feelings for her away in a dark corner of his mind. The years of soldiering and spying had kept him busy, always on the move, outwitting villains and snatching success, often by a whisker, out of seemingly huge odds. He had scarcely spent four months in England over the last four years.
It was a malign fate that had made their paths cross, especially when she was married. Tom kicked at a stone on the rough path. Was her husband happily digging up chunks of rock at some pyramid, more interested in antiquities than in his lovely wife? Now that he had seen her again, his feelings were alarming him. She was out of his reach, even more now than when she had been a young girl. He must control this stupid leap of the heart each time he saw her. Any pretty woman had that effect on him, he told himself. But he knew that was self-deception. No other woman had ever stirred his feelings in the way Rose did. Tom wished the Turks had prize fights. He wanted to knock someone down.
Chapter Seven
She hated him! Oh, how she hated him. Revealing details about her to Kerim Pasha without a by your leave! He had made it impossible for her to refuse to do the sketches. It was obvious that Tom had not suffered in the years since they had met. He had lived a life of adventure and he looked well on it! He was so full of energy and confidence. And now he was an adviser to kings! No wonder he was dragging her into his schemes, so that his ambitious plans could succeed.
Rose fumed all the way back up to her room. How she wished she could put Tom in a similar situation. Before going into her apartments, she stood on the wide landing and dragged in a couple of calming breaths. She had to mask her anger from her sister and aunt. They knew nothing of this matter.
Helena had still been away at school in Reading when Rose had been bundled home from London in such disgrace, with endless reproaches from Augusta and lamentations from George. Augusta had talked of nothing else for months. Mr Graham, totally convinced that Rose had ruined herself, forbade her to leave the grounds of the manor or to contact any of her old school friends.
‘The best that we can hope for is that you will be forgotten,’ he would repeat endlessly. ‘And when the matter does die down, if it ever does, then perhaps we can do something with you.’
That something was marriage to his godson. Hugh Charteris was well enough in his way, a good naval officer if rather colourless in character. But he was not Tom. Rose still shuddered at the memory of that time. For months she had been certain that Tom would contact her but hope gave way to despair when there was no news from him. Eventually she had given in to the combined arguments of all her family and consented to the match with Hugh. It had seemed like an escape.
At this point, she resolutely shut the memories off. She shook her head, pasted a smile on her lips and opened the door. The living room was empty so she went silently towards the inner room. The sight that met her eyes made her put her hands on her hips and shake her head in resignation. Her aunt was sitting up in bed against the pile of cushions. She had her hair brushed back under a lace cap and her spectacles were on her nose. Spread across the silk sheet was a row of books and pieces of paper.
‘Whatever are you doing?’ exclaimed Rose. ‘I thought you were going to sleep for hours yet.’
‘As you see,’ said Lady Westacote, looking at her over her spectacles, ‘I woke up feeling so much refreshed that I just had to get on with a bit of work. Do not shake your head at me, Rose, dear. If I get tired I can always stop. But we must make haste to decipher these hieroglyphics before the French can do so.’
Helena appeared from the balcony, a pencil in one hand and a dictionary in the other. ‘I wonder if this will help…’ she was saying, then she noticed Rose.
‘Oh, are you back already?’ She moved towards her aunt to show her the passage in the book.
Back already! It seemed to Rose as if she had been away for hours. But she knew that when the two of them started to work on any language question, they were lost to the world. And she felt so drained emotionally that she was glad they were wrapped up in their own work and did not look closely at her.
Silently thanking Latife’s medicine for improving her aunt’s health so quickly, she went out onto the balcony. She gazed down at the little kiosk. Such an innocent looking structure, meant for the family to enjoy the sweet scents of the flowers while sitting in the shade. But in fact it was the meeting place for planning schemes that would shake the empire – if they ever came to pass.
Looking carefully towards the end of the garden, Rose could see a number of men in blue robes, walking slowly up and down outside the wall. The house was indeed well guarded. Kerim Pasha was beyond question a man of the highest rank and he was trusting her to work on a matter of such vital importance! Rose felt a thrill at the idea of her task. She would do her very best. But she would keep the work a complete secret. So she must start by establishing her reputation as an artist.
She deliberated, gazing absently at the blue water beyond the cypress trees. Of course! She blinked, her gaze sharpening. Since Helena had already put the idea in Latife’s head, Rose would paint the view of the Golden Horn. In a very short time, she was at work. Her brushes and colours all set out, she was sitting at her easel with her sketchbook on it. And as she painted, her mind kept returning to Tom.
He had caused her so much grief, she would prefer not to have to see him ever again. Her first taste of love had been an awakening that thrilled her body and her soul. The many ideas they shared, their enthusiasm for all the challenges of life, had seemed to open a future of adventure and possibilities far beyond the usual restricted routine permitted to young ladies – especially by her father, grown much stricter since the death of their mother when she and Helena were barely ten and thirteen.
Well, she had come close to despair but she had fought and survived. She was determined that she was not going to fall in love ever again. That chapter in her life was closed by her own choice now! Rose’s chest swelled in a deep sigh as she wondered why she seemed to pick the wrong man to be her partner each time.
Now she just wanted to be independent. Thanks to dear Aunt Emily, that was becoming a reality. With the money she earned for her drawings of ancient artefacts and sketches of archaeological sites, Rose had enough to live on. It was a relief not to be dependent on anyone. Since her
marriage, her father had never offered her any financial support. And Augusta, with her own growing family, never stopped hinting at the expenses of running the estate.
If only… Rose delicately outlined the cypress trees in her picture. The sight of Tom that morning had upset her deeply. His thick, unruly hair, his strongly built frame, moulded into his blue jacket, all reminded her of the time she had been in his arms and thought she had reached paradise. She gave an exasperated sigh as she looked more closely at the branch she was painting. She hastily dipped her brush in the water pot and lifted off the too deep slash of green. She must stay calm and think only of her picture.
Rose was aware of the waft of jasmine perfume before she heard any sound. Turning her head, she saw Latife, smiling delightedly at the nearly completed painting.
‘How quickly you are turning a blank sheet of paper into something beautiful.’ Latife slid onto the divan, by Rose’s side. ‘Please, go on,’ she urged. ‘I shall enjoy watching.’
After a short silence, Rose remarked, ‘We are profoundly grateful to you for your care of our aunt. She is so much better today.’
Latife gave a husky laugh. ‘Do you call it better? She is working intently on her papers. She scarcely noticed me.’
Rose looked at her swiftly but Latife was obviously amused.
‘You are very understanding. My aunt – and my sister, get so wrapped up in their study of ancient languages that they would even forget meals if I did not remind them.’
‘So you are the practical one in your family. And yet you too are an artist. Tell me, Rose, can you draw portraits as well?’
‘Of course. Shall I draw you? A quick sketch so you can judge?’
Latife raised her chin in that ‘no’ gesture. ‘Not like this. I would need to dress in better clothes.’
Rose opened her eyes wide. Latife’s garments were all exquisite, made of sheer silk and stitched with fine embroidery. Her lustrous black hair was plaited and twisted into a complicated knot on top of her head. A little pink veil was pinned to it with a jewelled comb. The veil was long enough for her to pull over her hair and face if needed.
Rose smiled slowly. ‘I cannot imagine that you could improve on your current appearance.’
Latife waved a hand dismissively. ‘You will see.’
*
The next morning, as agreed, Latife came to be painted. Aunt Emily was strong enough to get up and walk about the room. But already, she and Helena were discussing the probable meaning of two signs and Latife quickly made her way through to the more congenial company of Rose.
‘Where is your picture of the sea?’ was her first question.
For answer, Rose picked up the board against which her picture was pinned. It was finished. Latife studied it for a long while, occasionally glancing up at the real view then looking down at the drawing again with interest.
‘Amazing.’ she murmured. ‘What skill you have.’ She turned the picture so that Fatma, lingering in the doorway, could see it.
Rose smiled her thanks. ‘I would be honoured if you would accept it.’
‘Oh, I will gladly do that. Now, how must I sit?’
Rose put her head on one side. ‘You are so beautifully dressed that we must display your clothes to best effect.’ She considered the rich pink silk trousers and the little sleeveless jacket of wine coloured velvet over a tunic of palest yellow muslin. Latife’s hair was pulled up high to the crown of her head then allowed to fall in a braid over her shoulder. Plaited into the braid was a string of pearls, milky against the gleaming blue-black.
Rose went inside and came back with an armful of cushions and a copper bowl.
‘Could you ask Fatma to find us a small table for the bowl?’
Fatma beamed and scurried away. She returned with another girl, carrying a carved wooden and mother-of pearl table between them. The other girl peeped at the picture and then at the view. Finally she stared at Rose in admiration. Meanwhile, Rose had arranged the setting for her model.
‘Please could you sit here,’ she showed Latife the place and position she wanted.
‘Why must I lean against all these cushions?’ Latife asked in her husky voice. There was an extra gleam in her eyes. Rose could see she was excited by the prospect of having her likeness taken.
‘It is for more colour and texture.’ Rose settled behind her easel and began her sketch.
‘You are a good model,’ she remarked, ‘you can hold the pose and not ask to move all the time.’
‘I have had plenty of practice in sitting still,’ said Latife. ‘We spend much of our time attending on our older relatives, often just waiting to help when they call on us. And my mother was very strict. She still is!’
‘Is your mother here?’ Rose hesitated, her brush poised over the darkest browns on her palette, as she tried to decide on the shade for her subject’s hair.
‘Oh, no, she is away managing our country estate near Bursa. The children are there with her. Kerim’s son and my own little son.’
‘You must miss them.’ Rose observed, hoping she was not prying but keen to know more. So Latife had a husband and Kerim Pasha had a son!
‘It is our custom. The boys must learn their duties as landowners.’
There was a short silence. Rose looked up and frowned. Latife had turned away. As Rose watched, her shoulders heaved. Then she turned back and Rose hastily bent her head over the palette and dabbed her brush into the dark blue, mixing and testing the resulting colour. She kept her head down, apparently absorbed in the task.
‘Yes,’ came Latife’s voice, ‘I wish my son could stay with me. He is only five years old. My brother’s son is seven and he has no mother.’
Rose looked up at that.
‘She died in childbirth – the second child,’ explained Latife. ‘So our mother is in charge of both boys.’ She stood up. ‘The day is growing hot. We should not stay out in the sun, we must protect our complexions.’
‘I suppose it has got very strong,’ said Rose, looking round in surprise.
Latife raised both hands. ‘You said your aunt and sister get absorbed in their work. Now I know that you do as well.’ She bent over the sketch. ‘Do I really look so young? You flatter me. But that is enough for today.’
It was certainly cooler inside. Rose put her picture and materials on a table in the corner. When she had finished, she found their hostess talking to Lady Westacote.
‘It is amazing,’ her aunt was saying. ‘I do feel so much more like myself already. You are all goodness to us. It would be a splendid opportunity for the girls.’
‘I will leave you to tell them about it, then,’ smiled Latife and she drifted gracefully out of the room.
‘What did she say?’ wondered Helena, who had been in the other room.
‘Why, my dear girls, our kind hostess plans to take you out for a visit tomorrow.’ She held up her hand as they both opened their mouths to protest. ‘I am quite well enough now to stay here with Fatma. I shall start to write a paper on the papyri and other artefacts we have brought with us. When we are all back in London we shall be expected to give any number of talks on our expedition.’ She said that without any tremor in her voice – a sure sign, thought Rose, that she was indeed stronger both in body and spirit.
Accordingly, the next day both girls came downstairs to meet their hostess in the salon. Latife surveyed them approvingly. ‘How gracious of you,’ she said, ‘you have dressed with such taste. My friends will consider you to be most polite – as well as extremely pretty.’
She looked at Helena, who had chosen a robe of her favourite almond green and trousers and little kid slippers of straw colour. Her shining dark hair was piled into a knot on the crown of her head and set off by a bright red scarf twisted into it. The red was echoed in the wide muslin sash she had bound round her waist.
Latife’s smile grew as she considered Rose, whose slender figure looked almost ethereal in a sky blue robe over palest pink trousers. She had added a mid
-blue velvet bolero, richly embroidered with silks and gold thread. A pretty little pink cap was perched on her fair hair, which she had allowed Fatma to arrange in a thick plait, decorated with blue ribbons.
‘We so much enjoy dressing in these beautiful clothes,’ said Helena, ‘everything is both comfortable to wear and feels delightful.’
‘You certainly make them look delightful, both of you.’ Latife was already wrapped in a shimmering silk cape with very long, wide sleeves. She pulled the hood up over her hair and arranged a gauzy veil over her face. When the girls had done the same, they all went out of the salon and crossed to the large front door.
A carriage was pulled up right outside the door. At once, a strapping guard stepped forward to pull open the coach door. Once the ladies were settled inside he closed it, nodding at Latife’s instructions. They set off with a jolt as the carriage wheels rumbled over cobblestones. The horses began to trot and the vehicle swayed alarmingly. Rose could see high walls hemming them in on either side. She peeped out through the latticed window and saw blue-clad men trotting along beside the coach. There had been a similar escort when Latife had come to the embassy to fetch them, she remembered. No doubt Kerim Pasha protected all his family with the utmost care.
They felt the coach turn a sharp corner and the horses strained as they pulled up a steep slope. Then there was another turn and the squeal of wood against wood as the coachman applied the brake. Now the slope was sharply downhill.
‘Not much further,’ said Latife. ‘It is a roundabout way but the hills are so steep we have to use a longer route in the coach, for the sake of our horses. The next part of our journey is much smoother – at least, it should be, unless the sea is rough.’
Before Rose could ask which part of the shore they had reached, the coach stopped and the gigantic guard was swinging the door open. Latife descended, looking out at the expanse of water. She glanced back at the sisters. ‘Ah, we are in luck, it is quite calm today.’