Ismet’s plan sounded vague and unlikely to succeed. It also sounded dangerous, but she could see their hearts were set on it. While Ismet had been talking, their faces had worn an almost ecstatic expression, though most had understood little of what he said. It was the sentiment that swayed them – they wanted this plan to succeed. Badly. But how on earth did it involve her?
Ismet, as always, had the answer. ‘You have met Paul Boucher?’
‘Yes.’ She was mystified. ‘I met him on the journey here, but I haven’t seen him since.’
‘Then perhaps it is time you reacquainted yourself with him.’
‘And perhaps it isn’t. I have been at the palace for two weeks and have not sought his company. Neither has he sought mine.’ And she had been grateful for it. Paul had been a pleasant enough man, but hardly the most interesting. ‘You are saying you wish me to march into his office, wherever it is, and announce that I have ignored him for weeks but now I want to know him better?’
‘You can explain to him. It is very simple. Since you arrived at the palace, you have been very busy – settling into the haremlik, meeting your two young pupils and beginning to work with them. It has all taken time, but now you would like to say hello again.’ There was a pause. ‘You did not like the man?’ For the first time, Ismet sounded unsure.
‘I liked him well enough. But I cannot see what that has to do with anything.’
‘He is his father’s son. Get close to him and you will get close to Valentin Boucher.’
She shuddered inwardly. When she’d first heard Boucher’s name mentioned on the train, she had been intrigued. He had been spoken of as a powerful man and she had wanted to know more. Now that she knew more, realised what his power amounted to, she had no wish to get closer. She heard Alice’s voice in her head warning her not to take risks, but Alice need not worry. This was one risk she would not take. She was settled at the palace, she loved the little girls she was teaching, and though life could be dull it was all the better for being so. She had told these men she was passionate for the freedom she believed democracy could bring, and so she was. A belief in equality was the very seal of her identity. But she could not involve herself in a mission likely to be so perilous.
The men were looking at her, studying her expression closely, their faces blazing with a hope that made her feel small. These were people wholly committed to their goal, dismissing any risk to themselves, refusing to weigh the value of freedom. But it was no wonder they felt so strongly, she argued with herself, it was their country. Their country and not hers. Had she not fought the fight in her own land? And look how that had turned out.
The silence that filled the room had become stifling. Ismet was looking concerned and his comrades had begun to fidget. It seemed the despised woman was needed after all. She would be the hero of the hour – if she agreed to their proposition. Did she really want that?
‘And if I meet Paul again?’ she asked, not knowing where exactly those words had come from.
‘You will meet him. In a few days there will be a big party at the palace. The Sultan and his mother are to invite the most important Europeans in the city. Paul Boucher will be there with his wife and his father. You will be invited, too. You can meet him quite naturally, speak to him, flatter him… and, well, you are a beautiful woman.’
Her shock must have registered on her face because Ismet was quick to say, ‘It only needs Monsieur Paul to feel happy and wish to be friends with you. Then you can visit him in his office, and maybe there will come a time when you call on him and he is not there. But the papers are. You understand?’
‘You want me to look for documents?’
‘Two or three at most. They may be in the form of a ledger or a small file. They will be dated for one month in particular, and they will incriminate his father without doubt.’
‘And what is in them that is so important?’
‘If you agree to do this, I will tell you. Are you willing, Lydia?’
Chapter Thirteen
The invitation Ismet had spoken of arrived two days later. It was written on gold embossed card – what else, she thought – and was a summons to meet her fellow Europeans at a gathering to be held in the Audience Chamber. The Sultan would be delighted to welcome her, the card said. She should have felt excitement. The very word ‘sultan’ evoked an exoticism that had thrilled her when she first knew she was to live at Topkapi, but since hearing the great man traduced by Ismet, she no longer felt the same way. Yet to meet him would be an experience – so far, she had caught not a whisper of his presence – and the splendour of the Audience Chamber was an enticement. She had been astounded at its magnificence that first day she’d met the children and together snatched a few forbidden minutes there.
The evening, too, meant she would at last see the woman who ruled the harem. The promised interview with the Valide Sultan had never materialised, and she was unsure why. There might be an innocent reason: the Sultan’s mother could be waiting to see how well the new addition to the harem performed her duties before deciding to meet her. But more worryingly, the woman who controlled so much, who knew the comings and goings of everyone in the palace, could have chosen deliberately to remain in the shadows. A giant spider manipulating a web in which Lydia could be caught.
Ismet’s expectations still weighed heavily on her, too, certainly enough to dim her excitement. She could meet Paul Boucher happily enough, even though she was sure he would bore her. She could exchange small talk with him, trivial pleasantries, with a smile on her lips and a glass in her hand, but to set out deliberately to dazzle, to play the flirt, no doubt in front of his wife, was something at which she baulked. Ismet had been swift to quash that notion, but in essence befriending Paul Boucher would mean behaving exactly like that, if she were ever to get close enough to discover those fabled papers.
She had little idea what the documents were about, and unless she gave Ismet the promise he sought, she would remain unknowing. It was annoying and tantalising at the same time. She had not refused outright to help, assuring him she would think it over, but she knew she must not be tempted. Would she even have considered the proposal, she asked herself sternly, if the man requesting her help had been less attractive? It was a wild exploit, for even if she gained access to Paul’s office when he was absent, how was she to find those few pieces of paper in what was probably a room crammed with files? On the train, she remembered, Paul had boasted of the hours he worked: writing letters, fielding requests, organising projects. How likely was it she would find the documents she needed sitting on the top of his desk, ripe for the plucking?
And if by some fluke she came across the file Ismet sought, how quickly would the trail lead back to her as the thief? If the documents were so incriminating, the Bouchers would keep silent on their disappearance, but they would be looking for them, she was sure. More to the point, they would be looking for the person who had taken them. From what she had learned so far of the older Boucher, he would show no mercy to anyone who had wronged him. Why would she walk into such a maelstrom? She was happy teaching the princesses, and if she felt hemmed in and restless, at times unbearably so, did that mean she should risk such obvious danger, even for a cause close to her heart?
Her mind was still circling aimlessly when Sevda knocked at her door. The girl’s face was bright with pleasure and draped across her arm were several outfits.
‘These are for you, Miss Lydia. They have given by the Sultan’s favourite concubine. You have your own pretty dresses, I know, but maybe tomorrow evening you would like to be Turkish?’ She spread two pairs of trousers and two long tunics across the bed. ‘They are made from the finest silk – see, they weigh almost nothing – and they are decorated by the most skilful embroiderer we have in the harem.’
‘What a clever idea, Sevda. In this weather Turkish clothes are far more suitable than my own. And much more beautiful! I would love to wear one of these outfits.’
She picked up a pair of ba
ggy trousers and held them against her figure. ‘These are a wonderful colour.’ Shades of sapphire glistened beneath the lamplight.
Sevda was nodding her head. ‘Yes, the blue is right. So lovely with your eyes and it matches your necklace, too. Here, let me dress you.’
‘Shouldn’t a slave be doing that?’ Lydia asked naughtily.
‘You joke me, Miss Lydia. But I will be your slave this evening.’
It took a minute only to don trousers and tunic, and to complete the effect Sevda fastened a pleated girdle around Lydia’s narrow waist and secured it with a brooch made from aquamarines, then hung an embroidered handkerchief from the girdle.
She looked at Lydia with satisfaction. ‘Beautiful… but wait, you must see.’ She slipped out of the door and reappeared carrying a full-length mirror. ‘See for yourself how well you look.’
She did look well, Lydia thought. She knew herself attractive to the eye, she had known that since childhood, but the person looking back at her now, dressed in whispering silk the colour of the deepest ocean, was almost ethereal.
‘As an English lady,’ Sevda said, ‘you do not need to wear a head covering. I will braid your hair for you – you have such lovely hair – and find flowers or maybe even some precious stones to decorate the braids.’
‘If I am to be Turkish for the evening, I must wear some kind of veil.’ For a moment, Lydia was swept away by this vision, but then a stray thought had her looking anxious. ‘I’m wondering… will not the Sultan and his mother find it peculiar that I am dressed in this fashion? I am concerned they may feel insulted.’
‘Insulted? Of course not. They will be honoured you have adopted our mode of dress.’
‘I have to admit I’m excited to be meeting them. Sultan Rahîme is a mystery and I’ve never seen even a whisker of the Sultan.’
‘The Sultan does not intrude upon the women in their quarters,’ Sevda said primly.
‘But surely he can. Or why be a sultan?’
‘Naturally he has the right to enter the apartments of his wives and concubines at all times – every Turkish husband has that right. But men rarely allow themselves to do so.’
Lydia’s raised eyebrows spoke scepticism and Sevda was roused to say, ‘The word “harem” means sacred or forbidden. It is a place of retreat. If a man wishes to enter, he will send a slave to announce his approach. There is respect for women, Miss Lydia. Maybe not the same respect as you know, but still…’
She wondered if she dared ask the question on the tip of her tongue. After the incident of the iron cage, she had kept clear of any mention of concubines. But the question would not be still and she blurted out, ‘If men do not go to the women’s quarters, then how…?’
Sevda flushed a bright pink. ‘There is always one room of a harem kept for the master, and a slave will summon the consort he desires. Here the Sultan must tell the chief eunuch, who tells the chief housekeeper to inform the lady that she is wanted. He must follow custom – he must visit his concubines in strict order.’
‘How very civilised.’
Sevda nodded, unaware of Lydia’s irony. ‘So, you have decided on the blue?’
‘I have. I will be absolutely delighted to wear it. But will you be happy with the other?’
The girl looked startled. ‘That is not for me. I will not be there. I do not leave the haremlik. The gathering is only for foreign guests.’
Lydia pulled a face. ‘How miserable. I shall miss you.’ And she gave the girl a big hug. ‘It won’t be half the fun if you’re not with me, telling me what to do and what not to do, or feeding me snippets about the people I meet.’
Sevda disentangled herself from the embrace. ‘The next day you will tell me all – we will speak over our sewing. Your embroidery is not going well, I think.’ She looked across at the purse Lydia had left abandoned on the chest top.
‘I’m sorry, Sevda. I have three thumbs and twenty fingers. I need your help.’
‘And you will have it, but now I must go.’
At the open door, she looked back, seeming to hesitate.
‘You are a lovely woman, Miss Lydia,’ she said. ‘Please to be careful.’
Then she was out of the room before Lydia had a chance to ask her what she meant.
* * *
The harem was always rigorously clean, not a speck of dirt or dust permitted. No one entered a room with the slippers they used outside and the floors were scrubbed every day or covered in carpets or pale straw matting that the slaves beat regularly. The women were as clean as their surroundings, with baths on every corridor and soft embroidered towels in which to wrap themselves. Lydia had a special favourite close to her bedroom and had become accustomed to a long leisurely soak every day, as all the women seemed to do. Tonight was no exception. She had finished classes early so that she could spend an hour or two enjoying her preparations for what would be the most intriguing evening of her time at Topkapi. By seven o’clock she was bathed, perfumed and wearing the stunning tunic and trousers Sevda had brought her. The girl had come earlier, wrapping and braiding her hair in gauze and jewels before disappearing back into the depths of the harem.
By now, Lydia knew that she must wait to be summoned and sure enough Naz appeared on her threshold within the hour. She had not caught the girl in any further wrongdoing and been of a mind to dismiss the earlier incident. But then she saw Naz’s eyes go to the pendant she wore and thought that perhaps she should not lower her guard. And there was that remark of Sevda’s which had never been explained. Why should the young woman have warned her to be careful? Did that mean someone knew of her meeting with Ismet? Naz was the one she suspected of spying. If the girl had learned of the meeting, who would she have reported to? The Valide Sultan? If so, Sevda and quite possibly the whole of the harem could have learned of her visit to the orange boarded building.
But she was getting ahead of herself. She would find some pleasure in this evening, she decided, and when Naz handed her over at the harem door to one of the palace’s black servants, she forgot her fears and made ready to enjoy this unusual party. The man escorted her across the courtyard, through the huge arch to the entrance of the Audience Chamber where he ceremonially handed her over to one of the white eunuchs who guarded the door. He welcomed her with such an elaborate bow that she had to stop herself from smiling. The bow would not have gone amiss in an English royal palace. It was part of that strange mix she had found at the Court, a mix of modernity and tradition. Everywhere hints of Western influence: in the manners, the furniture, the customs. Yet the traditional survived, did more than survive in fact, blazing brightly in every corner of the palace.
Tonight, though, the West had triumphed. The room was softly lit by hanging lamps, their brass glinting a golden fire across the tiled geometry of pinks and mauves and blues. Above, the enormous dome in the shape of a gigantic flower opened anew amid trellised leaves. But chairs had been placed around each of the walls and now sat stiffly to attention. Several of the older guests, she noticed, had already taken advantage of them. Divans were magical and cushions beautiful, but they required a flexibility that could be lost. And the musicians at one end of the room, a trio of violins, played what Lydia thought might be a Debussy composition. She felt disappointed that traditional Turkish music was absent. She enjoyed hearing the women play – the harem boasted a number of gifted musicians – and had come to love the beat of the küdum and the lyricism of the tanbur.
She gave a quick glance around the room, searching the gathering for Paul Boucher. Ismet had been so certain the man would be here, but that might not be the case. If he were not, she was absolved from any duty to find him. She was not even sure she would recognise him. In the end, she had not taken up Elise’s invitation on the train to join the Bouchers for dinner each evening. True, she had been eager to discover where power lay in the palace, but there had been something unsettling about the relationship of husband and wife and she had decided to eat alone, deliberately delaying her meal to
avoid meeting them again.
Another quick glance, but she could see no one who resembled the man on the train and before she realised, she was being handed on to a second official, this time a giant of a man wearing a long crimson robe densely patterned in gold thread. A very superior official, she thought, and made haste to follow when he gestured to her. She imagined he was about to introduce her to one or other of the small groups of well dressed guests, immaculate in the latest Paris fashions. Instead he strode past the chattering crowd, clearing a path as though he were Moses parting the waves, and allowing Lydia a solitary passage – to the throne? A figure rose slowly from a chair that winked rubies. No Sultan, though, but a woman who stared hard at her and then extended a hand.
‘Miss Lydia Verinder? I am glad to meet you at last.’
Chapter Fourteen
The woman who had stepped forward was older than she expected, which was stupid of her since the Sultan himself must be in his sixties. But the advancing years had dealt kindly with his mother. Dark hair framed a smooth complexion and the black eyes were hawkish. At her throat she wore a diamond pendant the size of a small fist and her dress was equally sumptuous: a long silk robe, olive green in colour and draped to perfection, with a figured lace ruff that acted as a collar and caressed cheeks that were only slightly lined. A headdress of gold filigree interwoven with emeralds added inches to the woman’s height, though she had little need of them. Lydia thought she had never seen such a majestic and frankly terrifying woman.
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