April and May

by Beth Elliot

  ‘Oh Lord!’ he exclaimed ruefully, looking at the number of balls of paper scattered around the room. Nothing he could draw would impress the Sultan. Tom’s eyes narrowed as he thought of Kerim Pasha. He was one of the most powerful men at the Court. Why could he not find a Turkish artist and instruct the man as to what was wanted? Tom made a wry grimace. Because he was just too intelligent. Everything had to come from the foreign advisers, so that if the Sultan and his chief officers did not like it, no blame would attach to Kerim Pasha.

  From the tales Tom had heard, life at the Ottoman Court was a perilous affair. Exile or even execution were not infrequent for ministers whose policies did not find favour with the more powerful vizirs. And even he could be at risk if his plan for modernisation became known to the more conservative generals. Those pashas had their own interests to protect. Which was why all this was top secret… and at the same time the English were in competition with the French. There was so much prestige and money involved.

  For Tom, it was the danger that added spice to his job. He much preferred these secret missions to life as an officer in the British army. After the Egyptian campaign, Tom had resigned his commission to fight for a while alongside the soldiers of the Ottoman Empire or to travel in the Levant. To all appearances, he was just another young gentleman fascinated by an exotic way of life. But in reality his journeys were dictated by the Foreign Office, depending on where secret diplomatic missions were needed. They were mostly schemes to thwart Napoleon’s attempts to extend French influence around the eastern Mediterranean.

  In this current assignment, Tom felt privileged to work with Kerim Pasha. Although he had a ruthless streak, the man was truly devoted to serving his country. He had admitted in their discussions that the Ottoman Empire was crumbling due to the outdated military methods and weapons they were using. And this brought Tom back to his present predicament. His ‘soldiers’ drawn as a combination of circles and cylinders just did not look like inspiring new soldiers in new uniforms. The Sultan would laugh himself silly at these drawings. He leaned his forehead on his hand as he considered.

  Suddenly he was aware that the door had opened. Looking up with a frown he saw that it was only Mehmet, bringing him a glass of hoshaf, the sharp tasting fruit juice so popular in Constantinople in the growing warmth of early summer.

  ‘Can you draw?’ Tom asked, holding out his glass for a refill.

  Mehmet raised his chin to signal no.

  Tom set his glass down with a snap. ‘Well then, do not disturb me,’ he growled, setting to work on another attempt. He frowned in concentration as he scratched out his little shapes on the page. From time to time he dashed a hand through his thick hair with its sun-bleached golden streaks. Soon he looked as if he had been out in a high wind but he was not aware of the havoc he had wrought and in his current state of frustration, would not have cared anyway.

  He became conscious that the door was open. ‘Mehmet!’ he thundered without looking up, ‘pray close that door.’

  There was the sound of someone clearing their throat. A soft, feminine sound. Tom jerked his head up and his dark eyes opened wide. Before him stood three shrouded figures.

  Chapter Two

  Tom gulped and frowned at the empty glass. Just what had Mehmet put in the hoshaf? To his annoyance, a large blot was spreading over his sketch. With a sigh he set his pen down and looked up again reluctantly. Apparently it was not an illusion. The three dark shapes were still there.

  Not for the first time he found himself wishing that he knew just what he was looking at. Some ladies wore only the lightest of silken veils and you could more or less look them in the eye. These three were completely hidden. He scowled. How dare they invade his office at such a time.

  Behind them he spotted Sebastian Welland, making frantic gestures to him to stand. With a sigh, Tom rose to his full six foot three. There was a rustle as three heads shifted upwards beneath their wraps. From behind one of the veils came a sudden sharp intake of breath. Then silence. Tom’s thick brows drew down as he glared from one to the other, waiting. Normally women did not appear in public offices, especially Turkish women. Was it some kind of plot to disrupt these delicate negotiations?

  Sebastian now reappeared, together with Mehmet, carrying chairs. As he placed the seats for the visitors the young man stammered: ‘Ladies, this is our special envoy, Mr Hawkesleigh.’ Turning to Tom he quailed at the glare he received but persevered in his explanation. ‘I know you said you were not to be disturbed… but…but the Ambassador’s guest is still here…’

  ‘Yes,’ Tom glared again at his unwelcome visitors. ‘He is waiting for me to finish this task. Which means I cannot spare any time at present -’

  At this, the smallest one put back her veil with an impatient gesture. Tom saw that she was fair skinned and haired. She looked to be in her late forties and had a keen, scholarly air.

  ‘Lady Emily Westacote,’ she said briskly, ‘and these are my two nieces.’

  ‘Westacote?’ echoed Tom. ‘Sir Philip Westacote, the antiquarian…?’

  Lady Westacote nodded. ‘Just so. I am his wife. And we are in need of help.’

  ‘In what way ma’am?’ Tom knew his tone was less than cordial. She probably wanted permits to excavate some godforsaken ruin in a remote and bandit-infested area of the Levant. Surely it could wait half an hour. His frustrated gaze turned to the other two females. They had not removed their veils.

  Lady Westacote followed his gaze. ‘Girls!’ she said reprovingly. At this the figure on her left raised her arms and put back the heavy veil to reveal a lovely face with huge pansy brown eyes and shining dark hair. Tom’s eyebrows lifted a little and Sebastian gaped in frank admiration. Then their heads all turned expectantly towards the last veiled figure. There was a pause then very slowly she raised her arms. Tom could sense the reluctance with which she folded back her veil. Then he drew in his breath sharply. His brows met across his formidable nose in a deep frown.

  The young lady met Tom’s eyes. Her oval face was pale and mask-like. Her hair was the colour of ripe wheat, just as he remembered. Tom felt a kind of pressure on his heart. Of all the impossible coincidences. What could bring Rose Graham here?

  ‘Allow me to present Mrs Rosalind Charteris,’ Lady Westacote indicated the fair haired girl, ‘and her sister, Miss Helena Graham.’

  Charteris! So she was married now. Tom could feel the blood draining from his cheeks. He kept his face impassive as he sketched a bow in the general direction of the young ladies. The surge of emotion and anger swamped him. For a moment he could not speak. Then he recovered enough to snap his fingers at Sebastian, who was still gazing from one beauty to the other. The young man gulped, nodded and disappeared, to return a few minutes later with Mehmet and the tray of glasses and fruit juice.

  While Mehmet poured drinks for the ladies, Tom stole a look at Rose Charteris. She was every bit as lovely as his memory of her. That glorious hair, so silky and thick, her creamy skin and that provocative pink mouth. He clenched his jaw against the memory of their last meeting. In spite of the years abroad, he had not forgotten the feel of her in his arms. He instinctively knew how ill at ease she was. She had not expected to find him here. She was gazing around the room, not looking in his direction. His mouth twisted. So what! She had married another man. And why was he surprised at that? She had never answered a single one of the many letters he had sent her. His bitter thoughts were interrupted by Lady Westacote’s voice.

  ‘That was most welcome,’ she was telling Mehmet, ‘yes, indeed I will have another glassful. I have such a raging thirst.’

  Tom’s eyes narrowed as he watched her hand tremble when she took the glass and drank again. She dabbed at her forehead with a damp-looking handkerchief but she was still in a fighting mood. She gave him a stern glare.

  ‘Now, Mr Hawkesleigh, we are sorry to interrupt your important work…’ Tom noted the emphasis she put on the word, ‘- but we are in a most uncomfortable situation a
nd must needs throw ourselves on your mercy.’

  Trouble! thought Tom with a sinking heart. He merely nodded, however, and Lady Westacote, needing no further invitation, hurried on. ‘We have been in Egypt for some months as part of the latest antiquarian expedition. While the gentlemen went on an exploratory trip up the Nile, my nieces and I were working on hieroglyphs in Cairo. But once the men had left, we were harassed and intimidated until we were forced to leave.’ She pressed the handkerchief to her lips and tried twice to speak but ended up shaking her head and covering her eyes.

  Mrs Charteris squeezed her aunt’s hand. ‘Do not distress yourself, Aunt,’ she said in the soft, melodious voice he remembered so well. ‘I will explain.’ She glanced up at Tom from very blue eyes and then looked away again. ‘We had to leave our home in Cairo very suddenly. We managed to embark on a British frigate that was coming here. But the captain cannot take us any further. And we do not know what has happened to the rest of our party. My uncle and… and all our companions…’ She faltered to a stop and caught her bottom lip in her teeth. Her face was even paler than before. Her hands twisted in her lap.

  Tom had sunk back into his chair but at this, he leaned forward, fists clenched. He stared at Mrs Charteris, his dark eyes burning. ‘Are you saying that you have suffered violence at the hands of these scoundrels in Cairo?’

  This time she met his gaze squarely. ‘Oh, no, not physical violence, not us. Our servants did get beaten until most of them ran away. We knew then that we dare not stay any longer.’

  ‘By heaven, ma’am,’ rumbled Tom, thumping his big fist on the table, ‘surely your menfolk knew better than to leave you with only a few local servants to care for you.’

  Again she turned her blue gaze on him. ‘The British Consul was supposed to oversee our safety – but he was called away urgently to Alexandria, so that left us without any protection. And the French are very much opposed to our work. We had collected a large number of artefacts and they were no doubt angry about that.’

  Lady Westacote raised a shaking hand to her forehead and closed her eyes.

  ‘My aunt has a fever,’ added Mrs Charteris.

  Her sister put an arm around her aunt and looked at Tom with those huge brown eyes. ‘Please…We need to find a lodging – at once.’

  Tom clutched at his hair as he grasped the extent of their problems. He looked at the three of them, huddled together for comfort and regretted his surliness when they first arrived.

  ‘Lady Westacote appears to have Nile Fever. From what I saw of that when I was in Egypt, the best treatment is rest. But I will find a physician, there are medicines that help.’ He stood up, his drawings forgotten. ‘Where is your luggage? Have you come straight from the ship?’

  The two girls looked up at him hopefully but before either of them could answer there was a tap at the door and Kerim Pasha advanced into the room. All heads turned towards this magnificent figure, exuding power and authority.

  Kerim Pasha reached Tom’s desk and he stopped there. ‘Pray pardon this intrusion, Mr Hawkesleigh,’ he said in his cultured English accent, his voice as deep as Tom’s but with a more velvety tone. ‘I am aware there is an emergency and I wished to assure you that my business can wait a few days longer.’ He touched the sheet of paper with Tom’s sketch on it and raised an eyebrow. There was an infinitesimal pause before he turned towards the newcomers, placed a hand on his heart and bowed courteously. ‘I could not leave, however, until I discovered whether or not I could be of help.’

  His hawklike face with its neatly trimmed beard betrayed nothing but polite interest. He turned an expectant gaze on Tom, who felt a rush of hostility. He did not like this man seeing the ladies when they were so vulnerable. He clenched his fists behind his back. ‘Your Excellency, may I make known to you Lady Westacote and her nieces, Mrs Charteris and Miss Graham. They have just arrived from Cairo.’

  Kerim Pasha inclined his head. Tom noticed the slight flare of his nostrils. ‘Ladies. You were part of the British expedition in Egypt.’

  It was a statement, not a question. Tom’s jaw clenched. The cunning devil, he knew everything. How had he discovered these ladies were here in his office? Of course, Mehmet must have told him. And what did he want from them? Tom’s lips compressed as he studied the man’s face for a clue. It had to be information. It had better be for information, he told himself grimly, darting a look at those two lovely faces.

  All three ladies were dumbstruck at this vision of oriental magnificence. Kerim Pasha was tall and broad shouldered, his splendid physique revealed by the blue tunic with the sash emphasising his trim waist. His long legs were encased in loose-fitting pantaloons tucked into well-polished knee high boots.

  Typical! thought Tom sourly. They had forgotten all their woes, sensing the power of this newcomer. And how long would it take Kerim Pasha to find out what he wanted to know from them? Tom groaned inside. If he was to find them a home for that night, he needed to set to work quickly. Such things had to be negotiated and Turkish homeowners liked to spend hours bargaining.

  These ladies were weary and travel stained and one at least was seriously ill. Tom knew from his own time in Cairo that this fever could be deadly if neglected. But for the moment Lady Emily had recovered her composure. The two girls were looking anxiously at her as she explained to Kerim Pasha how they had been chased out of their home.

  ‘I am horrified at such events as well as by the distress this has caused you, madam,’ that gentleman was saying. ‘I fear we have endless trouble with that part of our empire. But I will see what I can do to help the other members of your expedition.’

  Helena drew a deep breath and clasped her hands at her bosom. ‘Oh, sir, is it possible – from this distance.’

  Kerim Pasha gave a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘There are ways.’ He turned to Tom. ‘I am deeply concerned by the plight of these unfortunate ladies. For the honour of my people I must make amends.’

  Tom’s hopes rose. Would the Pasha send his own men to find a lodging? But the Turk’s next words took everyone by surprise.

  ‘It would greatly honour myself and my family if you would agree to stay in my humble home while you are in Constantinople.’ He looked from Tom to Lady Westacote. Rose darted a questioning look at Tom but he saw Kerim Pasha’s eyes on him, challenging him to object.

  ‘Then that is settled,’ the Turk smiled. ‘My servants will convey your luggage. I will arrange for a carriage and my sister, Latife, will come to escort you. It is not very far.’

  Rose again looked at Tom with a question in her eyes but then her aunt slipped sideways onto the floor in a faint.

  Chapter Three

  The day was going to be warm. Rose stirred from her chair to check on her aunt once again. Lady Westacote was sleeping quietly at last. She had been very restless and feverish but the bitter drink that their hostess, Latife Hatun, had prepared, now seemed to be having an effect. Rose tiptoed over to glance at Helena. Her sister was sunk in the sleep of exhaustion. She had insisted on sharing the job of nursing the invalid but as their aunt gradually quietened, Rose, quite unable to sleep herself, persuaded her sister to get some rest.

  Now that her aunt no longer needed all her attention, Rose kept returning to that moment in the embassy office when she saw the man who had once meant all the world to her. She had seen the same shock and anger she felt mirrored in his eyes. What cause had he to be angry? Had he not walked away and disappeared without trace? He had never even sent a single letter to explain his absence.

  At first she had been certain he would appear or at least write to her. But as the weeks lengthened into months, Rose sank into despair. It was made harder by her father’s constant laments over the bad influence of London society. He forbade her to communicate with Jane any more. Isolated at home, watched over by her narrow-minded sister-in-law, Rose had been lonely and heart-sore.

  Eventually the black misery had dulled into a deep ache that she learnt to live with. Pride meant t
hat during all that miserable time she had shown a calm face to the world. Had she been nothing but an agreeable way of passing the time for a young soldier on leave? The idea still hurt. Rose wiped her eyes angrily. Finally she had consented to the marriage her father had planned for her, with his godson.

  Hugh Charteris had gained the rank of naval captain early in 1800 and the wedding followed before the end of the year. He was a quiet, correct man, more at ease on his man o’ war than in society drawing rooms. Rose had barely endured three months of married life when Captain Charteris was recalled to duty. Six months later came the news that he had died in action. His parents had shown no interest in offering Rose a home on their estate, which was encumbered with debt, due to their older son’s reckless gambling.

  Thankfully, by this time, Sir Philip and Lady Westacote and Helena had returned from a lengthy expedition to India. Aunt Emily insisted that Rose must stay with her in their lovely Tudor mansion by the banks of the river Thames near the market town of Reading. During their schooldays in Reading, the girls had sometimes stayed at Rivercourt with their kindly, if eccentric aunt.

  That was where Helena had first become fascinated by the ancient languages her aunt studied. Rose, meanwhile, was happy in the peaceful atmosphere of the quaint old house and especially in the gardens that swept down to the wide river. Here she could sit and paint to her heart’s content. It was exactly the kind of ancient building to appeal to romantically inclined schoolgirls. The dark corners, the inner courtyard, the gallery, all encouraged Rose to imagine touching scenes in times gone by.

  When Rose joined them on their return from India, they were all very glad of her artistic skills. She sketched many of the items they had brought back with them. Her drawings were used to illustrate the papers they wrote for learned journals and for the lectures they frequently gave.