Panther's Prey

by Doreen Owens Malek

  Amy moved to Kalid’s horse, but Malik put a restraining hand on her arm. When she turned to look at him his dark eyes were full of feeling. It was as if now that he knew it was over he could reveal what he had been holding back before; a muscle twitched spasmodically along his jaw.

  “It is written on my forehead that I will not forget you,” he said softly, quoting a Turkish proverb.

  Amy swallowed hard but couldn’t speak.

  Kalid vaulted into his saddle and then held his hand down to Amy, who mounted behind him. When Amy looked back at Malik he was mounted also, watching them.

  Kalid kicked his horse and they rode away.

  Amy turned back once to look at Malik, seeing him through a screen of tears.

  He was still in the same position, but when he saw her turn her head he pulled on Mehmet’s reins to bring the horse around, then took off at a gallop, sending up a cloud of dust.

  Kalid rode briskly across the open plain as Amy hung on to him, the wind whipping her hair as tears streamed down her cheeks. When Kalid slowed the horse she didn’t even look up until he jumped to the ground and extended his hand upward.

  Amy took Kalid’s hand and descended from the horse, noticing that they were in a green oasis. An elaborate coach drawn by two geldings stood a few feet away, the liveried driver perched atop the high seat looking straight ahead.

  “There’s your transportation,” Kalid said gently. “My wife is waiting for you.”

  Amy walked over to the coach and Kalid opened the door and handed her inside. A beautiful blonde woman with hair a few shades darker than Amy’s was ensconced on one of the facing seats. She was wearing a navy traveling suit of tissue wool and a pert navy straw boater with an orchid ribbon tied around its brim. “Hello, my dear,” she said warmly. “I am your cousin Sarah. I understand you’ve been through a very difficult experience and I would like to help you.”

  Amy tried to answer, then shook her head, wiping her eyes with her fingers.

  Sarah took a linen handkerchief from her sleeve and handed it to Amy.

  “Are you all right?” Sarah asked.

  Amy nodded, unconvincingly, dabbing at her nose with the lace trimmed square.

  “Should I go ahead?” Kalid asked Sarah.

  Sarah waved him away; he shut the door. Once he had mounted his horse the coach lurched into motion and he followed behind it at a trot.

  Sarah leaned forward and patted Amy’s knee. “I’ve arranged with Beatrice and James for you to stay with me for a few days at Orchid Palace. The respite will give you a chance to recover a little from this ordeal and enable us to get to know one another. Is that agreeable to you?”

  “Yes,” Amy said in a small voice.

  “I think you’ll find that we have a few things in common,” Sarah added quietly.

  Amy put her head back against the plush upholstery of the pasha’s coach and closed her eyes.

  “Would you like a lap robe?” Sarah asked. “You could take a nap on the way to Bursa.”

  “I know I shouldn’t be tired, but somehow I am,” Amy replied wearily.

  “Emotional turmoil takes its own toll,” Sarah replied, opening a compartment beneath her neatly booted feet and taking out a cashmere throw. She leaned forward to spread it over Amy’s legs and added, “There. Just go to sleep. When we arrive you can have a bath and a change of clothes, a nice meal and a comfortable bed.”

  “Thank you,” Amy whispered, her eyes flooding once more. She squeezed them shut tightly to contain the tears.

  Why couldn’t she do anything but cry?

  Sarah looked across the leather seats at the pretty, miserable, exhausted girl, and realized that she could have been gazing at her herself ten years earlier, during her battles with Kalid.

  Could this story possibly end as happily?

  Chapter 8

  When Amy woke the next morning beneath a satin coverlet on a brocade sleeping couch at Orchid Palace, she could hardly remember the previous evening. It was all a blur: her arrival at the pink sandstone palace, her walk through corridors floored with marble and lit by flaring gas lamps, the forbidding halberdiers and scurrying servants, the dinner she could not eat served on a silver tray in a room draped with tapestries and carpeted with tasseled rugs. As she sat up and looked around, she realized that she was now occupying the inner chamber of a suite: the salon where she had dined was directly in front of her. The bedroom was just as ornate, with a wool rug worked with a green and silver trellis pattern underfoot and Afghan kilims on the walls. A small bedside table held a golden bell ornamented with blue enamel. Amy picked it up and rang it experimentally.

  The outer door of the suite opened immediately and a tiny woman with waist length black hair, wearing shalwar and an embroidered surcoat, came in from the hall. She walked gracefully through the anteroom and stopped at Amy’s bedside, bowing deeply from the waist.

  “Good morning, miss,” she said in slightly accented English. “I am called Memtaz, and I have been assigned by the pashana to wait upon you during your stay at Orchid Palace. May I bring you some breakfast?”

  “Just coffee, I think. Where is the pashana, please?”

  “She is in the schoolroom, miss. She has instructed me to tell you that she can take lunch with you here in your suite if you would like that. But if you are too tired and would prefer to rest, she will see you at dinner.”

  “No, no, please tell her to come and see me at lunch. I’m afraid I wasn’t very sociable yesterday and I would like to thank her for her hospitality.”

  Memtaz bowed again. “As you wish, miss. I will return with your coffee.”

  The servant slipped from the room and Amy rose from the bed, examining the elaborate furnishings and the stack of books in English which had been left on a shelf near the door. Everything had obviously been prepared with her comfort in mind, and she felt a surge of gratitude to her uncle’s cousin, who had taken so much trouble to welcome a kinswoman she had never met.

  Amy spent the morning bathing and dressing in the outfit Sarah sent in with Memtaz, then reading while stretched out across the bed, trying to occupy her mind so she would not think about Malik. And at twelve-fifteen Sarah arrived, carrying a tea tray and wearing a peach and white silk bengaline dress.

  “How are you feeling?” Sarah asked, placing the tray on a low table. “From what Memtaz told me I gathered you were doing somewhat better this morning.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Amy said, studying the woman and her clothing carefully. Sarah’s ensemble with its fitted bodice and striped, paneled skirt flattered her tall, slim figure. Her hair, the color of ripe wheat, was twisted into a chignon and she wore an exquisite cameo in the lace fichu at her throat. Her stylish Western dress struck an odd note in the atmosphere of Oriental excess which surrounded them, but Sarah seemed to carry off the effect with serene good humor. Amy wondered if clinging to the habits and dress of her past helped Sarah to maintain her sense of identity in the palace, where her husband’s power and personality must dominate the inhabitants.

  Sarah bent to kiss Amy’s cheek. “I wasn’t sure you would be up to seeing me so soon.”

  “I’m glad of the company. It was kind of you to send...Memtaz, is that her name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you teach her to speak English?”

  “No, she learned English from my husband’s mother, who was British. Memtaz was given to me when I came here because she was one of the few servants in the palace who would be able to converse with me.” Sarah sat in a silk covered chair across from Amy and arranged her skirt across her knees, then poured the tea into two china cups. “I’ve ordered lunch for about one o’clock, but we can have this tea first and talk.”

  “Thank you for the clothes,” Amy said, gesturing to the dress she wore.

  “You’re welcome. I had ordered that one for myself, but it was a little too small in the waist.” She smiled. “I see it fits you very well.”

  “How do you keep up with the
Western fashions?” Amy asked. “It must be a chore to have them sent here.”

  “I’m afraid that I take advantage of my husband’s position,” Sarah said wryly. “I get Harper’s Weekly and Godey’s Lady’s Book in the mail from the boat train and then order what I want through a shop in Constantinople which caters to Western tourists. They’re very happy to accommodate the Pashana of Bursa.”

  “Do you ever wear Turkish dress?”

  “Sometimes, usually on holidays. I did all the time when I was in the harem.”

  Amy stared at her, amazed. “So it’s true that the pasha bought you?”

  “Oh, yes. He bought me from the Sultan. I tried to tell them I wasn’t for sale, but they weren’t listening.”

  “No, Ottoman men don’t listen very well, do they?” Amy said sadly. “I’ve discovered that for myself.”

  There was a long silence, then Sarah said gently, “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Yes, I guess so. Yesterday, I didn’t think I ever could but now I see...” She stopped.

  “What?” Sarah said, handing her a cup and indicating the tray, which held cream and sugar and a small fluted dish containing moist slices of lemon.

  “That it might help me to talk with someone who knows this country and its people,” Amy replied simply, adding cream to her cup and stirring her drink.

  “People like Malik Bey?” Sarah asked.

  “Yes.” Amy took a sip of the tea, which was strong and hot and scented with cinnamon.

  “Are you in love with him?” Sarah asked bluntly, watching the girl’s face.

  Amy looked away in consternation. “Is it that obvious?” she asked unhappily.

  “Well, let’s just say that I noticed you weren’t overcome with joy to be escaping from the man who had kidnapped you,” Sarah observed with an understanding smile.

  “I’m sorry I was in such a state,” Amy said.

  “You haven’t answered the question.”

  “I must be in love with him,” Amy said. “I only know that the thought of never seeing him again is breaking my heart.”

  “Is he in love with you?” Sarah asked.

  “How could he be?” Amy lamented. “He let me go without a word!” Her mouth turned down and she looked like she was about to cry again.

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Sarah said. She sighed, getting up and moving next to Amy, putting her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “He could be dying of love for you and still stay silent. They are all proud and willful and independent, these Turks. Panthers, every one of them.”

  “Panthers?” Amy said.

  “Yes. The panther is the symbol of my husband’s family but its traits apply to all of his countrymen. They are all fierce, silent stalkers. To show emotion is considered a sign of weakness.” She sighed again. “They are difficult men to love, it’s a pity they’re so damned attractive.” She picked up her cup and sipped.

  “Your husband is difficult?” Amy said in surprise. “He seems so nice!”

  Sarah choked on her tea and put down her cup. “Oh, my dear, you are seeing him after a decade of marriage and fatherhood have mellowed him. When I first met him he was just as arrogant and overbearing as your Malik.”

  “Really? I never knew how much to believe of the stories I heard in the family. Gossip distorts everything so much.”

  “What you heard was probably a heavily filtered version of the truth. I never told James a lot of it. I was afraid he’d get a wild notion to challenge Kalid to a duel or something.” Sarah rolled her eyes and Amy giggled.

  “Kalid kept you here against your will?” Amy asked.

  “Indeed he did. He gave an heirloom sword and quite a bit of money to the Sultan in exchange for me and then drugged me and carried me here from Topkapi. I woke to discover that I was his prisoner.”

  “Did you try to escape?”

  “Of course. But the harem was heavily guarded and I was the ikbal, the favorite, so I was watched constantly. I ran away through the bazaar when we were on an outing once and I was back here the same day, betrayed by someone loyal to Kalid.”

  “Did he punish you?”

  “Oh, no, not directly. He was very clever about getting me to do what he wanted. He once threatened to whip little Memtaz if I didn’t obey him in some trifling matter. He knew that it would pain me much more to see an innocent person suffer for my obstinacy than to endure the whipping myself.”

  “Did he ever...force you?” Amy asked hesitantly, coloring slightly.

  “Never. He was very experienced with women and could see that despite my resistance, I wanted him. When I first saw him at Topkapi I was dazzled and fascinated, powerfully attracted to him, and he knew it. That always gave him hope, but it took him quite a while to overcome my outrage at the way I had been taken from the Sultan’s palace. By the time we got together I was more than ready for him and, God help me, despite everything he had done, deeply in love.”

  Amy was silent.

  “You are thinking about the similarities in our histories?” Sarah asked.

  Amy nodded.

  “That’s why I wanted to discuss this with you. I, more than most people, can understand how you feel, how the conflict of falling in love with a man you should actually hate can tear you apart.”

  “I’ll always remember how Malik made love to me,” Amy said softly. “I know I’ll never feel like that again.”

  “Never say never,” Sarah observed mysteriously.

  “What do you mean?”

  The door to the hall opened and Memtaz entered.

  “Ah, here is our lunch,” Sarah said. “I think you will enjoy it. I ordered those dishes most acceptable to a Western palate. And afterward, you can meet the children and Kalid’s mother. I’m sure she would be delighted to see you. Would you like that?”

  “Very much,” Amy replied, wondering about Sarah’s previous remark.

  Was there really any hope that she would see Malik once more?

  * * *

  Amy stayed three days at Orchid Palace, visiting with Kalid’s grandmother, who fascinated her with stories of the heyday of harem life, and playing with Sarah’s children. It was a brief and pleasant interlude before she had to deal with the next phase of her Ottoman odyssey: the arrival of Beatrice and James Woolcott.

  Beatrice cried for the first ten minutes of the meeting, despite the fact that she probably would not have recognized Amy if she saw her on the street. Once she was assured, repeatedly, that Amy was fine, and yes, she felt well enough to go back to Constantinople, and no, she didn’t want to talk about any of it just yet, Beatrice began to calm down. She and her husband stayed the night at Orchid Palace, and Bea did her best not to gape over dinner at a vastly entertained Kalid, who cast amused looks at his wife behind Bea’s back while Sarah kicked him under the table. When the Woolcotts and Amy departed the following morning, Amy did not know that Sarah stood on the balcony outside her bedroom, watching the coach leave the courtyard and silently wishing her the best.

  Amy passed the time during the trip back to the city looking out the isinglass window of the coach and thinking about Malik. Trying to put him out of her mind didn’t seem to be working; when she had kept busy during waking hours at Orchid Palace she just dreamed about him at night. She knew she could never locate him on her own, even if she tried; the rebels moved their camp at odd intervals and he had made it clear that he didn’t want to hear from her again. What was she going to do, traipse all over the hostile hill country by herself in search of a man the Sultan’s troops couldn’t even find, on the slim hope that he might have changed his mind about her?

  It was hopeless.

  By the time they reached the Woolcott house, a stately colonial on a wide, tree lined street in Pera, the wealthy European suburb of Constantinople, Amy had resigned herself to going along with whatever arrangements Beatrice and James had made for her. She had nothing else planned, and they’d disrupted their settled lives to make room for her, worrying al
l through the weeks of her absence that she might be injured or dead.

  The least she could do was cooperate.

  After James had retired to his study, Beatrice and Listak showed Amy to an airy second floor bedroom with French doors leading out to the wide porch which faced the treed grounds. As the servant unpacked her bag Amy examined the capacious cherry armoire, the washstand with its porcelain bowl and pitcher, the brass bed with its frilly canopy and hangings, the Victorian wallpaper printed with cabbage roses and glossy leaves. There were gas jets set into the wall on either side of the bed; Pera was one of the few areas in the Empire where gas was available to homes, as most of the Turks still made do with oil lamps, tapers or even candles. Fresh flowers stood in tall vases on the highboy and on a side table covered with an intricate lace doily.

  “This is lovely, Aunt Bea. Thank you so much,” Amy observed.

  “I’m glad you like it, dear,” Beatrice said from the doorway. “It’s been ready and waiting since the morning you arrived in Turkey, and Listak has changed the flowers every few days.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable here,” Amy replied quietly.

  Bea patted her sagging chignon and said, “I’m a little tired from the trip, I think I’d like to lie down for a while. Will you be all right until dinner?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “James and I will see you at six, then,” Bea said, and disappeared, her footsteps hushed by the carpet as she walked down the hall to her room.

  “Do you require anything else, miss?” Listak asked in her slightly sibilant English. She was standing next to the armoire, her hands folded.

  “Oh, no thank you, Listak. You may go.”

  “Will you need me to help you unpack your trunks later? They’re in the closet, Mrs. Spaulding brought them with her from the coach.”

  “Don’t worry, I can do that. It will help me settle in to put some of my own things around, don’t you think?”

  The servant bowed her head and left the room.

  Amy looked out window, thinking of the contrast between this well appointed home and the rebel camp where she had recently spent so much time. She should be grateful to be back in the lap of luxury, but of course she wasn’t.