A Tale of Two Sisters

by Merryn Allingham

  ‘She is a slave for nine years only, then she is freed. Her colour is white, so she works for guests and important ladies. And while she is a slave, she has good food, good clothes, and she learns the Koran and to read and write. Also to sew and embroider and, if she has talent, to play a musical instrument or to sing or dance. These are very good skills. When she is freed, she will be found a husband if she wishes. And maybe he will be an important man in the Court. But if she does not marry, she has a pension and will be looked after.’

  It was a novel idea: slavery as a means of social advancement rather than a badge of disdain. But it did not mean she liked Naz any more and she certainly didn’t trust her. Still, Sevda’s words had hit home and she understood she must tolerate the girl. She could not be responsible for destroying another woman’s future.

  ‘And what of you, Sevda? Did your parents send you here?’

  ‘I come to the Valide Sultan to train when I am very young. My father was a most brave soldier. He won many medals, so then he became part of the askeri. They are the rulers. Now my father is an important man – he is deputy to the Grand Vizier.’

  ‘So, you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth?’

  She looked puzzled, but said simply, ‘I am most fortunate.’

  Every morning, Sevda called at her room, bringing dishes of scented sherbet that she had prepared herself or a small gift of fruit. Lydia was waiting for her now, since today she would be meeting her pupils for the first time and Sevda was to escort her to the schoolroom. She had been there once already under the girl’s guidance and taken time to set out her desk in what she hoped looked a professional manner. It hadn’t made her feel any less anxious. She was no teacher and she feared that Esma and Rabia would soon discover the fact.

  But time was getting on this morning, and she worried she would be late for this very important meeting. Sevda must have been delayed and, unwilling to wait any longer, she set off on her own. She was still confused by the warren of narrow corridors that often led nowhere, but the journey to the schoolroom had seemed a relatively simple one and she was sure she could reach it without guidance.

  In this she was wrong. It needed only one false turn and she was in a passageway she did not recognise. Another turning and the narrow corridor was even less recognisable. There was a flight of stairs in front of her. Had Sevda and she walked up a staircase to the schoolroom? She could not recall doing so, but now she wondered if she was mistaken. At the top of the stairs, she found herself in yet another passage. There was some kind of construction halfway along, hanging from the ceiling. She walked up to it to take a look. A cage, it seemed, an iron cage. What on earth was it for? Something told her it was for nothing good.

  ‘Miss Lydia, what are you doing here?’ Sevda hurried up to her, slightly out of breath, an anxious expression just discernible beneath the thin silk veil.

  Lydia pointed to the cage. ‘Whatever is that?’

  ‘Nothing that need worry you.’

  ‘But I want to know.’

  ‘You should not be here, Miss Lydia. These are the concubines’ quarters. Allow me to escort you to the schoolroom. I am sorry I arrive late, but the Valide Sultan called me to her. She wishes to see you. But later.’

  She took a firm grip of Lydia’s arm. ‘Come, please.’

  ‘I’ll come when you tell me what I am looking at.’ All Lydia’s stubbornness came into play.

  Sevda gave a long sigh, as though she were beginning to recognise the determination of the young woman she must guide.

  ‘It is a punishment cage.’

  ‘For what? For whom?’

  ‘For concubines who do not behave,’ Sevda said curtly. ‘Now you come with me.’

  Lydia stood, her mouth slightly open, unable to move. She was aghast. But Sevda tugged at her arm and eventually she allowed herself to be pulled back along the passage, down the staircase, and along a winding route that led to the schoolroom.

  A cage for women who did not behave. It was an image she feared she would never banish from her mind. But as she entered the schoolroom, two bright young faces beamed at her from identical desks and she began to feel a little more cheerful.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Lydia,’ they chanted together.

  ‘Good morning, girls.’ She was delighted by their welcome and determined to blank from her vision the dreadful sight she had just encountered.

  ‘I will leave you now,’ Sevda said, and slipped quietly out of the room.

  Lydia had not prepared formal lessons for this first day, unaware of how much English the young girls understood. Her own attempt at mastering even a little Turkish had not been a great success and she feared that communication would be their biggest problem. She had brought with her several children’s games which both girls, even the younger, understood surprisingly quickly. All the time the games were in play, she encouraged them to speak whatever English they could and was relieved to find that if she kept her vocabulary simple, she was able to make herself understood. But when she asked them to find a book they could all read together, the one Esma produced was far too difficult, and when the child said she hated the book and did not want to study it, Lydia could only agree.

  ‘Have you no other?’ She was cross with herself for not having thought to bring at least a few reading books along with the games.

  ‘Not here,’ Rabia said. ‘But we go to library.’

  She doubted the library would hold any children’s books, but at the same time she was curious to view the place Paul Boucher had praised so highly. She had seen nothing of him since she arrived, had not even discovered the whereabouts of his office.

  ‘Our brother had English books,’ Esma put in. ‘He was in palace school – for boys.’

  Somewhere, then, there might be books that were suitable. ‘Why don’t we take a look?’ she suggested. It would at least be a way of introducing the girls to using a library. ‘You must show me the way because I have no idea where I am going, and I may end up in the Bosphorus.’

  The girls stared at her for a moment. Then when they understood, they fell into a fit of giggles. A joke would go a long way, Lydia could see.

  Rabia tucked her hand into Lydia’s and Esma led the way. Left, right, along, until they arrived at the doorway to the haremlik. Then into the immense courtyard Lydia was beginning to know, but this time continuing a straight path past several of the pavilions to the colonnade that lay directly ahead. Another ornamental gateway to pass through and then they were walking into a large domed room.

  ‘This is Audience Hall,’ Esma turned to say.

  The room blazed colour, tiled from ceiling to floor in beautifully vivid patterns. Blues, gold, pinks, a rainbow of colour. Lydia almost stopped breathing for a moment. It was as though she had strayed into a tale from the Arabian Nights. At one end and raised onto a dais was a velvet upholstered divan.

  ‘Imperial throne,’ Esma said, bobbing her head.

  For a moment, Lydia wondered if she should be here, if the children should be here, but then shrugged her shoulders and allowed herself to be led out of a doorway and into a third courtyard. How many were there, she wondered, dazed by the splendour of the room they had just left. Another building, a good deal smaller, stood in their path.

  ‘Is this the library, Esma?’

  ‘This is old library, Miss Lydia. New one is behind.’

  And so it was. It had been clearly designed to complement the older structure, the buildings being of a similar size and faced with the same pink marble. The new library blended into the existing landscape without in any way challenging it. Clever, Lydia thought. The older Monsieur Boucher was no doubt a man skilled at dealing with imperial pride.

  The building was set on a raised base in order, she imagined, to protect its contents from moisture and a flight of steps led to a columned portico. Esma ran ahead and into the library. She followed more slowly with Rabia by her side, but the instant they walked through the door, a young man came forward. D
espite the heat, he was formally dressed in a dark three-piece suit with a tight-fitting jacket and waistcoat.

  He inclined his head to the two princesses and held his hand out to Lydia. ‘You must be Miss Verinder.’

  She smiled warmly at him and in response he allowed himself the merest glimmer of a smile. He was not going to be susceptible to her charms, she decided.

  ‘I am Harry Frome, the librarian. I hope you will allow me to show you around.’

  ‘How nice to meet you, Mr Frome,’ she said in her most gracious voice. She had not entirely relinquished the idea of beguiling him. ‘I would love to take up your offer, though I already know a little about your library. I met Monsieur Boucher on the journey here and he was full of praise. He told me the library was wonderful – and it is.’

  She looked around her. The room was built in a series of arches, the walls tiled in blue and green, the colours of the ocean in all its moods. Above the beautifully patterned walls, a three-foot frieze displayed flowers of every type and colour, and on the tiled floor rugs and large cushions gave warmth to the space.

  ‘Monsieur Boucher?’ The name appeared to concern him.

  ‘Monsieur Paul Boucher. He has an office in the palace, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ His shoulders lost their tension. ‘You will find our collection of books on the two walls opposite. The bookshelves are built from Anatolian wood – the very best. The third wall contains precious manuscripts. As you see, they are leather-bound to protect them, but for safety we keep them behind wire mesh.’

  ‘Very impressive,’ she murmured.

  Gratified, he waved a hand towards a niche at the far end of the building. ‘Over there you will see the private reading corner of the Sultan.’

  Lydia followed his gesture and saw through an arch of pink and grey marble an alcove, each of its sides lined by a velvet covered low divan. It did not look that well used, and she wondered how often the Sultan visited the library. If she were ever to meet him here, would she dare speak? She thought she probably would. She would be keen to talk of the wire cage she had seen in the concubines’ quarter this morning.

  ‘If you are looking for anything in particular, I should be able to help you.’ Mr Frome had begun to look anxious again.

  ‘We come for books,’ the younger child chirped up.

  ‘Well, there are plenty here.’ He made an attempt at a smile.

  ‘But not quite what we are seeking,’ Lydia was quick to say. ‘The girls believe there are children’s books that may have found a home here.’

  ‘Not here, surely.’ He looked almost scandalised.

  ‘There is a large box at the bottom of your cupboard.’ Another voice had joined them.

  Harry looked surprised. ‘The cupboard?’

  ‘The one in your office.’

  It was a young man who strode forward. His smooth brown skin and shining brown eyes presented an attractive picture and Lydia instinctively smiled at him.

  Harry seemed flustered, but remembering his role as host, made haste to introduce the stranger. ‘Miss Verinder, this is Ismet Kaya. Ismet helps from time to time in the library.’

  ‘I am a demon translator, Miss Verinder. I tackle the manuscripts that my friend, Harry, cannot decode, despite his Oxford education.’

  She could see that Ismet was completely at ease, but that he made Harry Frome irritable. ‘Ismet also attended Oxford, which is something he is prone to forget. But perhaps you could unearth the box you mentioned, Ismet?’

  ‘In two seconds. Come with me, Miss Verinder, children.’

  And he led the way through a small door that she had not noticed before and into a tiny cubicle barely large enough to take a desk and the famous cupboard. Like everything in the palace, the cupboard was not just an assemblage of wood, but a work of art, intricately carved and inlaid with tortoiseshell and mother-of-pearl.

  Ismet bent down and pulled from the depths of the bottom shelf a large and extremely dusty wooden box. ‘Here. Be careful as you open it. It is roughly made and you may catch a splinter.’

  The girls seemed not to hear his warning but threw back the lid and were into the contents in a flash. One book after another was hooked out and thrown onto the small rug on which they knelt.

  ‘Wait, wait.’ Lydia was laughing at their enthusiasm and Ismet joined in. ‘You must choose carefully.’

  Harry appeared in the doorway. ‘Why not take the box to the schoolroom?’ It was a sensible suggestion. ‘You can take time then to make your choices. Ismet will carry it to the haremlik and Miss Verinder can summon a slave to carry the box from there.’

  ‘An excellent idea,’ Lydia said. She was not averse to the chance of speaking to Ismet alone.

  Once they were outside, the girls skipped across the courtyard towards the harem and Lydia was able to ask one of the many questions bubbling in her mind. ‘Mr Frome said you help in the library. Do you actually work there?’

  He looked surprised and she wondered if he was unused to women speaking so directly.

  ‘I receive no money, if that is your meaning.’

  ‘You are doing skilled work. Perhaps you should.’ When his eyebrows rose further, she said, ‘A labourer is worthy of his hire, is he not?’

  ‘It is possible I receive my reward in other ways.’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘That sounds intriguing. Tell me.’ She was enjoying this encounter.

  ‘I think I had better not. You would not approve.’ His smiling eyes destroyed any severity in the words.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I don’t. Not for sure.’ He looked at her for what seemed a long time, trying, she thought, to measure her in some way.

  ‘Miss Verinder. Come quick.’ It was Rabia, waving to her in the distance.

  She turned to follow her pupils and the action seemed to make up his mind. ‘I think perhaps I will tell you,’ he said impetuously. ‘But only if you are interested in Turkey’s future – in democracy. I have a feeling you might be.’

  ‘I am a great advocate for democracy – wherever in the world.’ There was an edge of passion to her voice.

  ‘Then you must come to a meeting and learn why I work for nothing.’ He put the box down on the gravelled earth and took from his pocket a small notebook and pen. ‘Here. This is the address and the date when my comrades and I next meet. Come and discover what my reward might be.’

  She wanted very much to go – Ismet’s meeting was bound to be interesting – but she felt uncharacteristically wary. Life in the palace, she had already learned, was so hedged with restrictions she was unsure she could escape its clutches. And she lacked any knowledge of the city. To go alone would be difficult.

  ‘If I did come… how might I get there?’

  ‘It will not be a problem for you. You must go through the main gates, then walk to where the carriages wait for hire. As a European visitor, you will not be stopped by the guards. But say nothing to anyone in the palace of where you are going or why.’

  She stared at him.

  ‘As a group of friends, we may meet, but if it is known we have a political agenda… it is very important you keep silent, you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ she stammered. It appeared she had fallen into an intrigue. It was a little alarming but very exciting. Of late, her rebelliousness had been tamed, battered by law and family loyalty, but now she need worry about neither. It was sufficient to make up her mind.

  ‘I will come, Ismet,’ she said. ‘You can depend on me.’

  Once back in the schoolroom, she helped the children go through the box, book by book, another hour passing before she realised how late it was. By then, the girls had decided on half a dozen volumes they thought they might want to read. It would be a start at least, and depending on how they progressed, she might persuade them to look at others. When their nursemaid came to collect them for lunch, she felt tired enough to decline an escort to the communal meeting room where the women took their meals.
Sevda would be there and she had begun to look forward to their talks over the dolmas, börek and pilaf, but today she was too fatigued to eat and preferred to return to her room.

  This time she made the journey between schoolroom and bedroom without mishap. The moment she opened the door, she knew something was wrong. The curtains had been drawn against the sun and the room was dim, but she sensed a movement in the shadows. She clutched at the door handle, wondering whether to yell for the harem guards or to flee. She did neither. Instead, she allowed her eyes to grow accustomed to the muted light and could just discern a female figure standing beside her dressing chest. The woman had her head bent and something bright was in her hand.

  ‘Naz?’

  The girl spun round and dropped the necklace she had been holding on to the chest top. It landed with a thump that sounded unnaturally loud in the silence.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Clean, mistress.’

  ‘Cleaning?’

  Naz nodded, her eyes never meeting Lydia’s.

  ‘I see.’ She made a swift decision to accept the puny excuse. ‘Thank you for looking after me, Naz, but you have done enough today and you may go now.’

  The girl nodded again and Lydia stood back, waiting for her to shuffle out of the door. Cleaning! As though she would believe that from a woman with her hands in a jewellery box that was not hers. But in that instant, she had decided to pretend belief, judging that in this strange world, it was probably best to pick her quarrels. Particularly now, when if she went to the meeting Ismet had spoken of, she might well be walking into trouble.

  She crossed to the dressing chest and picked up the pendant Naz had dropped. The girl was definitely a thief as well as untrustworthy. What was the penalty for theft, she wondered, and remembering the iron cage, shuddered. She lay the necklace face up on her palm and stroked the beautiful sapphire, tears pricking at her eyes. It would break her heart to lose her one remembrance of Charlie. Perhaps now that Naz had been discovered in wrongdoing, she would be prudent, but Lydia could not be sure. The pendant obviously had an attraction for the girl. So, what was the answer? She could keep it on her person at all times, but it would be difficult. When she bathed, or even when she slept, where could she leave it for safety? She looked around the room. She must find a place where Naz would not think to look. But where?