Edward had enjoyed every moment he had been in Constantinople – it was certainly different from anywhere else he had visited before. This ancient city was both exotic and mysterious, and it fascinated him. For the last two days, in the cool of early morning, Ismet had taken him to see some of the ancient places – the Blue Mosque, a very old church called the Haghia Sophia, and Topkapi Palace, now a museum. It was a city of mosques, minarets and churches, and many palaces as well. They had gone to the Spice Market, where Edward had been pleasantly assailed by the amazing and tantalizing scents and aromas of hundreds of spices. They were all redolent of Asia and Africa floating on the warm air: cumin, curry powder, chili pepper, saffron, paprika, coriander, turmeric, caraway, and cinnamon.
Later this week Ismet planned to escort him around the Grand Bazaar, an excursion he was looking forward to immensely. Everything was sold in this ancient market, from jewellery to carpets. He wanted to find presents for his daughters and sons, and he must seek out gifts for Elizabeth, his mother, Jane, Vicky and Fenella. He mustn’t forget them – they would be far too upset if he did.
On his way back to his suite of rooms Edward took the long way around to go back up to the yali. He walked through the many flower gardens ablaze with colourful blooms and fountains shooting water into the air. Ismet had told him that these gardens were at their best in the spring when the tulips bloomed; the tulip had been the favourite flower here for many centuries, and had been cultivated here long before it had been grown in Holland, something he had never known. In fact, the Dutch had discovered the tulip in Constantinople and taken it back home.
This morning it was extremely warm, very sunny, and yet there was a lovely, light breeze coming off the Bosphorus which was cooling, refreshing. Ismet had invited him to return in the spring, when, his host had said, the weather was truly superb, and he now decided to accept the invitation.
Yes, he would come back here, and perhaps bring the family; he knew they would enjoy it. Most especially Grace Rose who was so involved with history. There was much to interest her here. Certainly he had been more relaxed these past few weeks, and had acquired a feeling of genuine wellbeing; he also felt rejuvenated, as if years had fallen away. There was a youthfulness about him. His face was tanned, his hair golden, and there was a spring in his step.
Turkey was an interesting place, and it would become much more interesting soon, Edward believed. A new and more modern country was being born, according to Ahmet Hunam. Founded in the seventh century B. C., Constantinople had gone through all manner of changes in the past. For sixteen centuries it had been the imperial capital of the Byzantine empire and then of the Ottoman sultans. But now there was a new and important figure on the horizon, a man who would bring change, Ahmet had told him only last night at dinner. His name was Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, and he was a former general in the army who had led the Turks to victory and glory at Gallipoli, when the Allies had attacked the Dardanelle Straits in the Great War.
According to Ahmet, Ataturk was going to pull the country into the present. The young executive from Deravenels predicted that Ataturk would abolish the sultanate by next year, and introduce political and social reform. Ahmet seemed absolutely convinced that Ataturk would be elected president of what would be a republic, and Ismet tended to agree with the younger man.
The only thing that’s permanent is change, Edward thought, remembering an old saying of his mother’s, one she still uttered occasionally. And as he mounted the white marble steps and entered the cool entrance hall of the yali, it struck him that change was in the air now that things had settled down since the end of the war. New beginnings are obvious everywhere, he added under his breath, climbing the circular staircase to his suite.
There was no way he could know that there would be new beginnings in his own life. And changes … drastic changes which would affect them all, engulf them.
The room was quiet, serene, the only noise the faint whirring of the ceiling fan which created a welcome coolness on this hot day.
Edward was dozing on top of the bed, as usual enjoying a siesta after lunch in the garden with Ismet. He had grown accustomed to this afternoon break since arriving at the villa to stay with his Turkish partner and had decided it was a most civilized custom.
The white wooden shutters were closed against the heat and the sun, and only tiny slivers of daylight filtered in through the narrow spaces between the slats. They created golden strips of light in the air, and now he noticed dust motes rising up in them.
Sighing, bestirring himself, Edward came fully awake, and lay there staring at the ceiling, his eyes following the movement of the fan’s blades. Then he turned on his side and closed his eyes, trying to recapture the strands of a dream he had just had … a dream about a blonde woman … a blonde woman stroking his brow, kissing his mouth …
Elizabeth? Or Jane? Or the White Russian woman he had met with Ismet and Ahmet at the Pera Palace Hotel? He was not sure. Perhaps it was all three of them rolled into one, to become a composite of all three.
His mind focused on Elizabeth, true beauty that she was. His wife. Her looks were incomparable; she was indeed a great beauty … the whole world knew that. But, God knows, she could be so difficult at times. Not lately, though, and as he thought of the tranquillity of these last twelve months he mentally crossed his fingers, hoping nothing would change or go wrong. She had become docile and quiet during her pregnancy last year, and they had both been thrilled when she had given birth to a son. He was their third son, and they named him George, although of late Edward was beginning to wonder why.
It was a Deravenel family tradition, of course, to use the same family names for sons and daughters over the generations. Most other families of their ilk followed the same tradition, since it was typical of the English aristocracy.
But George, whom this latest child had been named for, was more than a nuisance these days; wherever he went he dragged disaster in his wake.
Edward sighed under his breath when he contemplated his troublesome brother, and pushed his image away. He focused once again on his wife. They were going to Kent for the month of August, which they had done for several years now. The children loved being on the marshes and they were looking forward to it; so was he. The month at Aldington was a huge treat for him because he got to spend a great deal of time with his offspring.
There were seven of them now. Bess, Mary, Cecily, Young Edward, Richard, Anne and George. And there was Grace Rose also, who had promised to come over every day when she was staying with Vicky and Stephen at Stonehurst Farm.
She danced around in his head all of a sudden … Grace Rose. A lovely young woman of twenty-one, who did everybody proud. She had reached her majority this year, and Vicky and Stephen had given her a supper dance at the Ritz Hotel in March. Elizabeth had been invited, since this was a formal family occasion, and Jane had simply slipped quietly away to Paris for a week, as always thoughtful and discreet. She never intruded.
Ah, Jane, his lovely Jane, so loyal, so constant, the perfect companion and friend. Sometimes he wondered how he would manage without her; she had become such an important part of his life. Elizabeth still captivated him sexually, though, as she had since the first day he met her. At forty-one years of age she was like a woman in her early thirties, not a line on her flawless face or an unsightly bulge on her body. She was svelte and youthful, careful about what she ate and drank.
He was now thirty-six, although he didn’t look his age either. Nonetheless, it constantly bothered his wife that she was older than he was by five years. But he didn’t care. To his way of thinking, age was merely a number and therefore meant nothing.
His thoughts turned to Natasha Troubetzkoy, the White Russian princess who worked as a hostess in the restaurant and bar of the Pera Palace Hotel. She was blonde, beautiful and aristocratic. But such a tragic figure.
She had fled St Petersburg in 1917, at the beginning of the Revolution, when the Romanov autocracy fell, and after the
Bolsheviks had murdered her brother, Prince Igor Troubetzkoy. She was a cousin of the Tsar, as were her sister-in-law Princess Natalie Troubetzkoy and her niece Irina. Natasha had still not managed to trace them, but hoped to be reunited with these missing members of her family. Her plan, she had eventually told him, was to save enough money to move to Paris, where there was a White Russian community similar to the one in Constantinople, but larger. The Russian network might be able to help her, she believed; she wanted to try at least, she had confided.
Ismet had introduced Edward, Will and Alfredo to Princess Natasha when they had first arrived in the city. He had taken them to the Pera Palace Hotel for dinner; after dinner they had gone to the bar where an orchestra played and hostesses were available to dance with the guests.
Will and Ned danced with the princess, and she had sat with them for a while sipping mint tea. And in the course of the evening she had told them about her missing family, her only relatives left alive, and her longing to find them. They were refugees, like she was, and she was absolutely convinced they were still alive, living somewhere. Finding them was the only thing she ever thought about, she had explained in perfect English.
Edward viewed her as a lovely but sorrowful woman who was enveloped in tragedy. Women like her tended to frighten him – he ran from them as fast as he could … catastrophe had forever haunted him from his youth. He wanted to keep it at bay; he must.
One evening, when they had visited the hotel again, just before Will and Alfredo had gone off to look at the marble quarries, Will had teased Ned about Natasha. But his words had fallen flat. Edward had shaken his head, explained that he wasn’t interested in her sexually, and had added that neither was she, his instinct told him this. And Will had let the matter drop, knowing his best friend was speaking the truth.
However, Natasha and her plight had continued to trouble Edward and now he swung his legs off the bed, went over to the desk, and took out his chequebook. He wrote a cheque made out to Princess Natasha Troubetzkoy, slipped it in an envelope and addressed it. He would give it to her this evening; Ismet had told him over lunch that they would be dining at the Pera Palace Hotel this evening.
Edward closed the desk drawer and walked over to one of the windows, opened the shutters. In the distance he could hear the plaintive voice of the muezzin summoning the faithful to prayer … it was a lonely, melancholy voice floating to him on the warm air, and it reminded him how different this world was and how far away he was from England.
The sun had gone down … it would soon be nightfall.
When Edward and Ismet walked into the bar of the Pera Palace later that evening, Edward spotted Princess Natasha at once. She was standing near the bar, sipping a mint tea, as she usually did, and she was talking to the manager, Abaz Gurcan.
When she saw them coming in she nodded in greeting, but remained standing with the bar manager, obviously not wishing to intrude.
‘I would like to ask the princess to join us,’ Edward murmured.
Ismet nodded his agreement. ‘But of course. She enjoys our company, you know that.’ He smiled, shook his head. ‘Such an intelligent and educated woman, a cultured woman … and reduced to this. It hurts me, it hurts my heart, Edward, to see this aristocrat working as a dance hostess.’
‘I know what you mean. On the other hand, she has managed to make a living,’ Edward pointed out, raising his hand, beckoning to a waiter, ordering Krug rosé champagne.
‘I think ekes out a living would be more accurate,’ Ismet suggested, his dark brown eyes soulful in his pleasant, humorous face. He was in his late fifties, unmarried, and therefore without any encumbrances, but he did like the ladies. Edward knew he had a mistress, who never came out in public with him, and he loved to come here to dance with the Western women, mostly Russian emigrés.
Rising, Edward said, ‘I shall go and ask her to sit with us, Ismet. Is that all right?’
‘It will make her happy … because once she sits down she will be earning money.’ He added, ‘I always ask her to join me so that she can make some money.’
Edward walked across the room; he cut a dashing and dazzling figure in his white suit, immaculate white shirt and a blue tie. As he came to a standstill at the bar he said, ‘Good evening, Princess Troubetzkoy … good evening, Mr Gurcan,’ and inclined his head to them courteously.
They both responded, and Edward continued swiftly, barely pausing, ‘Would you care to join us, Princess? I have ordered pink champagne, but you can have your mint tea, of course, if you wish.’
Her quick smile brought sudden animation to her sombre face, and was instantly gone. She said, without the trace of an accent in a cultured English voice, ‘Thank you so much, Mr Deravenel, I can think of nothing better than sharing a glass of champagne with you.’ Excusing herself to the manager, she turned to Edward and said, ‘Shall we join Mr Bozbeyli?’
‘I would like to take a turn around the dance floor with you first, if you don’t mind,’ he responded.
Putting his hand under her elbow, he led her to the small dance floor at one end of the bar. They moved together in perfect harmony, following the music, not speaking, until Edward said, ‘I have brought you a gift, and it is a gift, without any strings attached.’
She leaned back slightly and looked at him, her large smokey-grey eyes fastened on his face. She appeared puzzled, and said, after a moment, ‘I’m afraid I am not really following you. What do you mean when you say you have brought me a gift?’
‘I’ve written you a cheque. I want you to go to Paris, or wherever you think you should go, to find your family. I can’t bear it that they are lost to you, that you have no one. There is nothing more important than family. I have always believed that.’
‘A cheque?’ She frowned, looked bemused, as she still gazed up at him. ‘But I can’t possibly take money from you, Mr Deravenel. I can’t take anything from you. You see, I don’t know you.’
‘I know you don’t. I’m just an acquaintance, I realize that. Also, I’m aware of your upbringing, your royal background. But I am going to give you the cheque, and you will take it – to please me. As I said, it is a gift. I want nothing from you, nothing at all …’ He looked down at her and started to dance again, moving her around the floor. ‘That’s not true,’ he went on. ‘I do want to see a smile on your face, and I want a letter from you when you have found your sister-in-law and niece. When you have found them I shall come and meet them, wherever it is that you all are.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she began and abruptly stopped, filled with bewilderment and uncertainty, startled by the generosity of this man.
‘Come and sit here alone with me for a moment,’ Edward suggested, and promptly led her off the floor to a small table in a corner. Once they were seated, he took the envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to her without a word.
She stared down at the envelope in her hands for a long moment, and then reluctantly opened it, took out the cheque. She gasped quite audibly, and exclaimed in a low voice, ‘But I can’t take this, Mr Deravenel! It’s far too much money. Oh, my goodness –’ She put it back in the envelope and handed it to him.
He refused to take it, shook his head, glanced at her evening bag on the table. ‘Put it in there, in your bag. Cash it tomorrow and make your plans.’
‘But I can’t take it. Five thousand pounds, Mr Deravenel. It is far too much.’
‘Think of it like this … I haven’t properly celebrated my luck since striking oil … this is my way of celebrating … helping you to find your family. So please indulge me, celebrate with me, and for me. Now, let us go and join Ismet, toast each other with a glass of pink champagne.’
Natasha put the cheque away, but still with reluctance; they stood up together, and as she turned, she said softly, ‘Thank you. Thank you so very much, Mr Deravenel.’ And he saw the tears glistening in her smokey eyes. She placed her hand on his arm and continued, ‘Thank you is not enough… I’ll never forg
et this extraordinary gesture, this enormous kindness you have shown me. Never as long as I live, and I will never forget you for doing this for me. You have been so very generous.’
Later, it pleased Edward when he saw her obvious happiness as the evening progressed. He was not at all accustomed to seeing her smiling and laughing, nor had he ever heard the excitement and sudden energy in her mellifluous voice. There was a sparkle about her that was startling, and gratifying especially to him. He had given her hope.
He had done one small good deed, had perhaps helped to turn a woman’s life around, and just because he had given her the money to go and look for those she loved, who had been lost to her since 1917. Now she could go and seek her family whom she yearned for.
Her beauty was very evident tonight. She wore a bluish-grey chiffon dress that was fluid and floated around her gracefully as she danced with Ismet. With her blonde hair, smokey eyes, and refined features she was most arresting. Tall, slender and lissom, there was something special about her. Elegance, culture, breeding, those were the words that sprang to mind, yet there was much more to her than these things. Then it struck Ned most forcibly. She carried herself with an air of immense dignity, and she was regal in her bearing. And why wouldn’t she be? She was a Romanov, a former member of the Imperial Royal Family of Russia. Cousin of one of the world’s great autocrats, the late Tsar Nicholas, who had been murdered with his family in Ekaterinburg.
And here she was tonight, in Constantinople with them. A princess down on her luck, a victim of catastrophic events – the upheaval of her country and her life, the death of her brother and the mysterious disappearance of his wife and child. Her home gone, a way of life lost forever. And yet to his credit he had not run away from her in fright, because of her catastrophes. Instead he had done her a good turn.
The Heir Page 25
