‘Only a little, I’m afraid, Miss Verinder.’ Everyone, it seemed, knew Lydia only a little – the women in the harem, Harry, now Elise. Only Ismet admitted to knowing her well and he had vanished.
‘There was a party, wasn’t there?’ Alice pursued. She would not let this woman go without a fight. ‘I seem to remember Lydia writing of a party.’
Elise threw her hands in the air in a theatrical gesture. ‘Yes, of course. How stupid I am! I met Miss Lydia at the Sultan’s party a few weeks after we arrived back from Paris. But there were so many people – always, this is so – that we spoke only a few words together.’
She looked into the woman’s eyes and was certain she saw falsehood there. Sadness, too; a strange combination. Elise Boucher had met Lydia on more than two occasions, Alice would stake her life on it. The woman had known her sister a great deal better than she admitted, so why was she refusing to speak of her? It was the same refusal Alice had encountered in the haremlik. Everyone, this woman included, knew more than they would say.
An awkward silence developed and it was Harry Frome who stepped into the breach. ‘We were about to set off for the mosque, Elise. So far Miss Verinder has not had the opportunity to see much of Constantinople. Would you care to join us?’
‘Oh no!’ She turned her head slightly, glancing at the man who stood silently at her shoulder. ‘I must go home. Monsieur Boucher is waiting and I have to find my husband.’
Something worries her, Alice thought, and worries her badly.
‘We can walk there,’ Harry said. ‘The mosque isn’t far. But if you would rather, I can find a carriage.’
‘No, let’s walk. I need the exercise and it’s a beautiful day.’
It was still winter, but today the sky was an extraordinary blue and the sun, though low, shone bravely. The buildings, the alleys, the stalls selling food and clothes and household goods, had acquired a new brightness. Alice felt her spirits lift as she began a walk through the city streets with Harry by her side. For some reason she had donned the blue-grey dress this morning and was glad she had. It was her most flattering outfit and she wanted to look her best – she felt quite shocked at how much she wanted it. Her search for Lydia was going nowhere, yet she felt happier at this moment than at any time since arriving. She was glad of Harry’s company, that was it. Very glad.
He was her countryman, but it was more than that. She felt drawn to him as a friend, someone on whom she thought she might depend. That was a comfort. From the beginning she had not been at ease in the harem and with each day that passed felt increasingly insecure. It was an enclosed and secret world of which she had no part, a world where lips were closed and eyes watched. It had not needed Harry to tell her that her every movement would be noted and reported on. She had felt it in the curious glances of the women, in the lowered eyes of the servants, in the way Naz was everywhere she was not expected.
‘You find the city interesting?’ he asked.
She had been looking around her while they walked, drinking in the sights and sounds that earlier had fascinated her on the short drive from Sirkeci station.
‘More than interesting. It’s like nowhere I could have imagined.’
‘Very true. And no matter how long you live here, it never fails to interest. There is always something to intrigue you. Let’s cross the road. There’s a shop I think you might like.’
He led the way across the street to a narrow window. ‘They sell illuminations – in sheet form or as book covers. It’s an old Ottoman art. Past Sultans would commission manuscripts or painted miniatures from illumination artists. Always non-figurative, of course. See here.’ He took her by the hand and pointed to one side of the window. ‘Those are sheets for albums.’
‘The colours are astonishing. And the calligraphy, too.’
‘It’s hugely skilful.’ Then, realising he still held her hand, he quickly let it drop.
‘Are they religious texts?’ she asked, to cover their moment of embarrassment.
‘Some are, but there are also verses from poems or proverbs. Sometimes the drawings can be purely decorative. The sheets are gathered into albums which in themselves are works of art. We have some prize examples in the library.’
‘I must see them when I visit you next.’ When I’m not so preoccupied, she thought, if that time ever comes.
‘I sent my father an album for his last birthday. Nothing as grand as these – they are far too expensive – but I knew he would love it, and he did.’
The mention of his father emboldened her to ask, ‘Is he a librarian, too?’
His smile did not quite reach his eyes. ‘He is a very well-read man, but not a librarian. His father owned a bookshop, though.’
There was a slight edge to his voice, but he said nothing more until they had recrossed the street. ‘My father should have taken over the business when my grandfather died, but it turned out the shop was mired in debt and had to be sold. My father thought it his duty to pay the money owed and has spent his life doing so.’
She was genuinely upset. She had thought her own story an unhappy one: the Verinders had seen their income decimated when Theo’s practice began to fail, and she had been forced into all kinds of unpleasant household economies to allow the family to continue in the Pimlico house. But this was far worse.
She wasn’t sure if she should say more, aware that his voice had taken on the prickliness she’d heard on the train. ‘He has managed to meet those debts, I hope?’ she said eventually.
‘Just about. Since he became bailiff, things have been a little easier, but for years he was forced to work as a labourer. It was all that was open to him. My family is from the country – Wiltshire – and there’s little employment other than farm work.’
When she said nothing, he added, ‘The pay is low and the conditions very harsh. Over the years my father’s health has been badly affected, my mother’s, too, but there has been no money to pay for the medical treatment she needs.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I am sorry, too. Year after year, my parents went without, to pay off the debt and to scrimp and save to send me to Oxford.’
She felt the anger in the words, the deep hurt they contained, and walked on in silence until he said rousingly, ‘Still, we must forget the past. This is far too lovely a day to be gloomy. How would you like a sunshade?’
They were passing a stall crammed with line after line of gaily patterned sunshades. She laughed but refused his offer. ‘The sun is gentle enough and my complexion shouldn’t suffer. I imagine, though, it’s different in summer. It must get very hot.’
‘Stifling,’ he agreed. ‘This is by far the most pleasant season for a visit. Was it your family who suggested you come now?’
She said nothing and felt him looking hard at her. Her face coloured a guilty pink. ‘They don’t know you are here, do they?’ he said quietly.
She shook her head. ‘How did you guess?’
‘I had my suspicions when we first met. You told me this was your first trip abroad – do you remember? I thought it an odd choice. And even odder that you were travelling alone.’
‘You didn’t say anything.’
‘It would have been discourteous if I had. We had only just met and I couldn’t pry. But I know you a little better now, and I think your family would be horrified to learn their daughter was alone in a country as far distant as Turkey.’ His tone was mild, but she nevertheless felt his reproach and looked away, studying the rough earth pavement intently.
‘They would, I’m afraid. It’s why I must leave very soon – before they send out a search party.’
‘Are they likely to? Where do they think you are?’
‘They believe I am on holiday. In Venice.’
It sounded ridiculous to her ears, and evidently to Harry’s, too. He suddenly laughed out loud, causing some of the stall holders to turn their heads. ‘At least both cities have art in common. San Marco was inspired by Hagia Sophia, in fact, so not a
million miles from each other. Before you get home, you will have to read up on Venice, then you can talk vaguely about its wonders. Hopefully, neither of your parents know it well.’
‘They don’t. I never thought it before, but it’s a blessing that Southwold is as far as they’ve ever travelled.’
She felt Harry’s hand beneath her elbow as they reached the end of the street. He steered her around the corner and into another long, narrow thoroughfare. ‘Down here and then to the right. We’re almost there.’
There were few stalls lining this new street and with no temptation to dawdle, they picked up their pace. ‘You know, you’re a brave woman,’ he said suddenly.
She looked up at him, perplexed. ‘I’ve never been brave.’ She found the idea laughable. It was her sister who was brave, Lydia who challenged the world to live as she wanted.
‘You are brave, Alice.’ He was insistent. ‘I think it must have cost you much to board that train and travel thousands of miles alone. Let alone coping with life at Topkapi once you arrived.’
‘I haven’t found it easy,’ she confessed. ‘But whenever my spirits flag, I think of Lydia. She would be bold and I have to be bold for her.’
He kept a silence and she knew he was thinking her efforts misplaced. But it made no difference. She would keep on digging until the moment she was forced to board the Orient Express for home.
A man with a heavy tray looped around his shoulders came out of nowhere and barred their passage. She had been thinking of Lydia and was startled, but Harry calmly waved him away. ‘He is a souvenir seller, that’s all. We are close to the mosque, so beware. From now on they will multiply.’
She took a firm hold of her handbag and he noticed her gesture. ‘Don’t worry. Your bag will be safe. Thieving hardly exists here. I meant only that the sellers will bother you to buy until you are driven near to madness.’
‘Then I had better buy something.’
‘It’s best not. If you do, you will be besieged even further.’
At the crossroads, they took the left turn Harry had mentioned, and there was the mosque spread out before them. They stood for a moment taking in its fabulous size and beauty. Four tall minarets, one at each corner of the building, reached heavenwards, nurturing and protecting what seemed an exuberance of domes. An enormous central dome sat above everything, its magnificent sphere made of pure gold.
Alice was transfixed. ‘The Ottomans must be astonishingly rich – all that gold.’
‘They should be. They’ve been at the centre of trade between East and West for six centuries. The empire controlled the spice route that Marco Polo used and it’s given them unbelievable wealth.’
Chapter Eleven
Together they walked into the echoing silence of the mosque. She turned in a slow circle, craning her neck to see the two floors of marbled columns supporting tiers of gloriously tiled arches, and above them, rows of arched windows higher still. The stupendous central dome towered above all. Myriad pendants hung low from the ceiling, a thousand candles bringing splashes of light to the dark interior.
‘I’ve read there are mosaics here. Byzantine, I think Murray said.’
‘There are, but most of them have been whitewashed, I’m afraid. A restoration was done last century and only a few were left uncovered.’
‘Whitewashed because they are Christian images?’
‘Just that. This was Emperor Justinian’s first Christian cathedral, but after the Ottomans conquered Constantinople, it became a mosque. The bells, the altar – many other relics – were destroyed. There’s little of the original church left.’
‘How sad. But this is truly beautiful.’
She had walked towards a point where two of the mosque walls met and was standing in front of a series of figured gold arches, one within another. The semicircular niche was guarded by two colossal candlesticks and radiated gold.
‘This is the mihrab,’ Harry said, catching her up. ‘It stands where the altar used to be, and points towards Mecca, the direction Muslims must face when praying.’
‘With you as my guide, I have no need of Murray. I should have left him in my room!’
He took her teasing in good part. ‘Then let me bore you even more. The mosaics you mentioned are in the upper gallery. As I said, most have been cleaned and re-covered, but it might be interesting for you to see what’s still exposed.’
They climbed the stairs together and were halfway to the next floor before she realised she was holding his hand. Somehow, she hadn’t noticed. It had seemed a perfectly natural thing to do. She gazed across at him and he gazed back, his grey eyes warm. His lips curved into a smile and she found herself tracing their shape in her mind, wondering what they must feel like to touch. She pulled herself back with a jerk. What on earth was she thinking? And what would her mother, her aunt, even her sister, think?
No, not her sister. Lydia had chided her so often for her lack of spontaneity, for the drab dutifulness she wore along with the spinster garb. Any day something magical could happen, she had said. You must be ready to grab it when it comes. And dress for it, too. That horrible grey skirt you keep wearing – give it to Dora. No, don’t give it to Dora. She deserves to be happy. Just put in the dustbin and buy something new. Something red and velvet. That would be perfect. Lydia had been the one to give her the fine lace petticoat she still wore. At least the grey skirt won’t have it all its own way, she’d said.
They stood together now in front of a wall of white.
‘Beneath the whitewash there’s an image of Christ and John the Baptist.’ Harry let go of her hand and moved towards the painting. ‘If you look closely, you can just make out the deep blue of Christ’s cloak beneath the wash. There.’ His finger traced the shape of a cloak. ‘And on His right, John’s wild hair, though that’s very difficult to see.’
She moved to stand beside him, peering closely. ‘I can see enough to know the mosaic is beautiful. How sad it should be covered. Are there no Christians left in Turkey?’
‘There’s still a small population, mostly Greek or Armenian, but a good many fewer than for many centuries.’
‘I imagine they have been persecuted?’
He shook his head. ‘Not so. Migration is mainly to blame. But numbers have also dwindled because countries who were once part of the empire have managed to secede and taken their citizens back. But persecution, no. Christians have been treated as second class citizens, it’s true – they pay more tax for instance – but they have always had the freedom to practise their religion and set up their own schools. They’re subjects, but not subject to the Muslim faith or Muslim law. Other faiths are tolerated, too. The Jews, for instance, have been allowed to worship as they wish. Interestingly, the worst treated are members of Muslim sects like the Druze and the Alawites.’
She had lost the last part of his speech in her elation at what she had found.
‘Look, Harry. This one has been left exposed,’ she said excitedly.
She had stopped in front of a mosaic of the Virgin Mary. A good deal of the mosaic had been lost but the lovely Byzantine image of the Virgin was intact. Half a gold halo hovered above the calm face, its long straight nose and shadowed eyes reaching out to Alice and tugging at her heart.
She stood looking at the image for a long time. Something in the expression bothered her. She had seen that look elsewhere and very recently.
‘She was sad,’ she said suddenly. ‘Elise Boucher. She was sad, but worried, too. Worried at meeting me.’
‘You must be mistaken.’ He sounded uncomfortable.
‘I don’t think so. It had to do with her father-in-law, I’m sure – or her husband.’
‘Not her husband,’ Harry said quickly. ‘Paul Boucher is the mildest of men.’
‘And his father isn’t?’
‘Valentin Boucher has… definite ideas.’
‘Such as?
‘I think it was Monsieur Boucher who arranged the marriage. Paul married his cousin. I have t
he impression it was required of him.’
‘You are saying it was not a love match?’ It was a revelation that she could speak so directly to a man about marriage and love.
‘I think the marriage is happy enough,’ he was swift to say, ‘but there have been no children and Monsieur Valentin clearly expected them.’
‘He wants to be a grandfather?’ This did not accord with her image of him, but it might explain Elise Boucher’s unhappy eyes.
‘I think it more that he wants an heir.’
‘I see,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I can understand that. He has built a wonderful legacy and of course he will want his family to inherit.’
‘Hmm.’ Harry’s lack of enthusiasm surprised her.
When they were making their way back down the stairs to the floor of the mosque, she asked, ‘How do you find working for the older Monsieur Boucher?’
‘I see very little of him. He has allowed me to get on with my job and I have never personally experienced any trouble.’ Again, Harry’s response was cool and it troubled her. What kind of man was this Valentin Boucher?
‘There’s a “but” in there somewhere,’ she prompted.
He stopped walking and stood looking down at her. His grey eyes had lost some of their warmth. ‘Let’s just say, there have been rumours.’
‘Can you tell me what?’
‘There have been stories, but nothing has been proved against the man.’
‘Is that because the stories are false, or because he’s made sure there’s no evidence of his wrongdoing?’
‘I have no idea if they are false or true. A lot may emanate from Ismet and his friends. They have an interest in blackening every important member of the Court.’ He judged his former colleague harshly, she thought.
‘Truth to tell,’ he continued, ‘I don’t get involved in situations I’ve no power to change. My focus is my work – that’s what I’m paid for.’
She felt reprimanded, but when he spoke again his tone was conciliatory. ‘I hope I didn’t bore you back there.’
They had walked out into the street and stood blinking in the bright sunshine. ‘No, Harry, you didn’t. It’s been a wonderful visit. And a perfect distraction, just as you said.’
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