The Lost Heiress of Hawkscliffe

by Joyce C. Ware

  “A splendid day’s work, my friend!” I said, as I made a note of the handsome commission to be included in Krikor’s next paycheck. “Two very profitable sales, and since I have a customer waiting for a silk prayer rug of the quality of that Hereke, there’s another one in the offing.”

  All in all, the events of the holiday weekend had provided me ample reason for giving thanks. On Sunday, confined to the house by a cold, freezing rain that varnished the sidewalks, I found that commercial success was not in itself sufficient to buoy my spirits.

  I roamed through the house restlessly, seeking a task that would engage my entire attention. It was no use. Lacking diversion, my mind returned like a homing pigeon to the puzzle of a cousin I never knew I had.

  Dear Uncle Vartan. How I missed the pungent smell of his tobacco and the stories he would tell as we sat together in front of the fire in his study on days like these. So many stories, wonderful stories, yet not a single hint ever about his daughter Araxie.

  How could this be? If it had been my father, I could understand. What was it Yervant had said? “Imagine denying hospitality to your wife’s only brother!”

  I shivered. Once again I thanked the kind fate that had delivered me to the United States and Uncle Vartan’s protection. But knowing Uncle Vartan as I did, having experienced firsthand his warmth and kindness and strong sense of paternal obligation, I was unable to comprehend how he, of all people, could have denied his own daughter.

  The hows and whys of it tugged unceasingly at my consciousness. The afternoon nap I had hoped would provide escape from my churning thoughts proved impossible. I retreated finally to Uncle Vartan’s study to look for the notes he had made years before about the very old Anatolian rugs Lance had sketched for me.

  I had postponed sorting through Uncle Vartan’s personal papers time and time again, perhaps because when I was still torn by grief, I had unconsciously avoided examining too closely anything Uncle Vartan might have wished to keep private. Just the sight of his dear, funny, curlicued script could bring tears to my eyes.

  I found the first set of rug notes I was seeking almost at once, but the second and third—I knew there were three because of the scribbled list of contents attached to the first book—eluded me. I finally discovered them lying side by side on top of a small, finely worked bag in a box that had been shoved to the rear of the cupboard under the desk top.

  I picked up the little bag and found it surprisingly heavy. Curious, I untied the fastenings and found inside a journal. Like the others, it was covered in black, pebbled leather—as were Roxelana’s at Hawkscliffe, I recalled— but it was much thicker. Knotted around it was a stout linen cord, and under the cord was an envelope addressed to me.

  I turned the heavy, creamy, oddly lumpy square over and around, looking, I guess, for something to give me some clue to its contents, something to prepare me for this unexpected message beyond the grave. There was nothing.

  I began to ease open the sealed flap, but trembling made my fingers awkward and clumsy. Fearing I would tear the contents, I reached for the dragon-shaped brass letter knife on the scarred green leather desk top and slit open the envelope with its long, pointed tail. The sound of the ripping parchment was startlingly loud.

  I upended the envelope. A single folded sheet and a small, silk-wrapped object slid into my hand. Dutifully I began to read, expecting the usual insulating stiltedness of written communications, but as my eyes sped over the closely penned lines, I could almost hear Uncle Vartan speaking to me, here in this room where he had so often regaled me with tales of his exciting, adventurous past. Happy tales, they had been. This was not one of them.

  Katherine, my dear daughter, it began. If you have somehow learned of Araxie, you must read this journal. Should the name mean nothing to you, then I beg you to destroy it, as it would only distress you.

  If, knowing of Araxie, you read my diary, it will answer many of the questions you are sure to have. One question it may not answer, but which I want to answer for you now, is the extent of my feeling for you, daughter of my heart.

  Knowing something of your relationship with your own father, it is possible that during these last few years you may have mistaken my love for you for mere appreciation—which is indeed great!—of your ability and intelligence. Nothing could be further from the truth, dear child. You have brought me more joy and happiness than you can possibly know. A reading of the pages of my journal may help you understand why that is so.

  I may not be here for you much longer. The dizzy spells that sent me to the doctor last week are more serious than I allowed you to believe, and the least effort—no more carrying of carpets for me!—brings pain. But you are well provided for: I saw to that five years ago for reasons you will soon learn.

  I hope it will not be necessary for you to read this, dear child, but if you do, please never forget that I love you very, very much.

  First I unwrapped the small parcel enclosed with the letter. I gasped as the layers of fine silk fell away to disclose an evil-eye amulet exquisitely crafted of crystal, jet and lapis lazuli. It was unlike any I had ever seen, and I examined it at length before returning it to its soft nest. I had no idea of its significance, if any. Could this be Araxie’s “old Ottoman bauble” that Yervant Keyishian had spoken of so scornfully? I could only hope I would learn the truth of it in the course of reading Uncle Vartan’s journal.

  I untied the linen cord slowly, apprehensively. Never had that old saw “ignorance is bliss” seemed more apt. Yet the first section of the diary, a lyrical account of Vartan and Vosky Avakian’s early married life, was anything but a tale of woe. The Arabic in which it was written lent a sensuous flavor to the flowery phrases.

  I hurried through those pages, unwilling to intrude any more than necessary upon this intensely personal description of what can only be termed a romantic idyll. They lived near Erzurum at that time, in a village west of Mount Ararat on the Silk Road, the busy trade route stretching from Europe into Asia. Uncle Vartan’s shrewd head for business and good eye for the carpets he acquired as he traveled around the countryside—including Van, where he met Yervant Keyishian—allowed him to prosper. Then, after an anxious wait, came the event for which the young couple, now in their late twenties, had been planning and industriously saving. A beautiful black-haired daughter was born.

  Araxie was their first and, despite their prayers, their only child. She was an ailing baby and toddler, and lacking a houseful of children upon whom to distribute their largesse of love, her parents lavished it all upon this huge-eyed, fretful mite. There were many references to new remedies tried, and the cosseting and little gifts intended to console the listless girl left their mark.

  By the time of her tenth birthday, Araxie had outgrown her frailty, but not her parents’ habit of indulgence. Uncle Vartan was acting as an agent for European rug buyers by then, and the family had moved west to Constantinople and taken a small house in the Stamboul district. Araxie’s birthday was made the occasion for a modest family gathering, including my parents, and to my surprise, me.

  We could afford only one of the silver bracelets Araxie set her heart on, he wrote. It was the prettier of the two, but she wouldn’t hear of it, and began to scream and pummel her heels. Such a fuss she made! Poor Vosky was mortified.

  My dear sister tried to overlook it, but not John Mackenzie. He gave little Araxie a withering look, saying her behavior set a bad example for his own daughter. A hard man, that Mackenzie. He has turned my gentle sister into a plodding donkey. There is not a spark of spirit left in her.

  I sighed, closed the journal, and went out to the kitchen to prepare myself a cup of tea. The seeds of estrangement between the two families had, it seemed, been sown long before the final break in our yali on the Bosphorus. It made Uncle Vartan’s rescue of me all the more remarkable, I reflected as I returned to the study with my tea.

  As I continued reading, it became clear that my uncle had more sense of the obligation due one�
�s family in his little finger than his daughter had in her whole body A body that as it voluptuously matured, presented her anxious parents with a whole new set of problems.

  Araxie has been seen near the Dolmabahce Palace again. How she manages to get there I do not know, nor am I sure I want to know. The wicked girl says she would like nothing better than to be an odalisque, the most beautiful and accomplished of all the concubines in the Imperial Harem. Vosky is sure she is teasing us, but there is a look in Araxie’s eye that frightens me. Even John Mackenzie has never looked so coldly determined to have his way.

  Imagine! Our daughter in an Ottoman harem! What a disgrace for a Christian family. Even the Turks are unhappy about the Sultan’s revival and expansion of the harem; in fact, it is rumored that the cost of supporting it and Abdul Aziz’s other luxuries is the principal reason we are so heavily taxed.

  My Araxie is beautiful enough to catch the Sultan’s eye and she sets her restless mind to only those studies that would fit her for his Europeanized court. Her French and English are better than mine now, and she sings and plays her zither like an angel. I must admit, too, that when it is to her advantage, her manners are faultless, although when crossed she is, God help me, like a spawn of the devil himself....

  Poor Uncle Vartan. His journal continued in this vein, anguish alternating with the anger of frustration, as his daughter pursued her willful way. In addition to unexplained absences, there were the notes and flowers and little gifts brazenly delivered to their door. Finally, there was the episode of the Ottoman talisman that had so shocked Yervant Keyishian.

  Even I was shocked to learn she had purchased it in the Grand Bazaar. True, I had prowled the bazaar myself in search of evil-eye charms, but no one paid any attention to children as long as they weren’t caught stealing. But for a proper young lady to venture unescorted into those rude, crowded passageways was unheard of.

  I recalled my father’s fury when he discovered that Halide, who was only a servant girl, had sought out the excitement to be found under the arches there. It was no wonder Uncle Vartan confided to his diary his fear that his daughter had exchanged more than her jewelry for the costly amulet she insisted had once belonged to Sultan Mehmet the Conqueror, given by him to honor his favorite among the palace women.

  From that day on, he wrote, although she dared not flaunt it openly under my roof, she kept it with her always, tucked in a pocket or suspended on a ribbon around her neck.

  Like my uncle, I doubted the truth of the story. What mattered, however, was not that Araxie believed it, but that she had no qualms about trading the tokens of her parents’ loving generosity to gain a symbol of imperial debauchery.

  Had she, too, become debauched, as her father feared? Debauched in fancy, I suspected, if not in fact. I closed my eyes and leaned back in Uncle Vartan’s huge, worn leather chair, too disheartened to read any more that evening.

  As I put away the journal, I was reminded again of Roxelana’s journal at Hawkscliffe. I felt a warm, tingling flush as I recalled the explicit little sketches that accompanied her notes and descriptions.

  Is every woman an odalisque at heart?

  The memory of myself swaying in a shimmer of silk came unbidden to my mind. Deliberately swaying in front of a pier mirror that reflected, approaching from behind me, Thorn’s unruly dark hair and glittering green eyes.

  That was different, I told myself. That was very different.

  But if so, why did I lie awake until well after the clock struck twelve, wondering at my need to assure myself of such an obvious certainty?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The next morning dawned cold and clear, the streets and sidewalks aglitter from Sunday’s freezing rain. I was taking the train to Hendryk the next day, so I delayed leaving for the shop long enough to assemble the few garments I would take on my trip to Hawkscliffe, for which a tidy appearance was more appropriate than a fashionable one. But on impulse, I included the cashmere and silk dress Yervant Keyishian had admired.

  What with one thing and another, I did not leave the house until eleven. By then the ice had melted from underfoot, and although the air was still cold enough to puff the exhalations of pedestrians and horses into frosty clouds, I was able to set a smart enough pace to bring me breathless to the door of the shop by quarter past the hour. Even so, I arrived later than our first customer of the day.

  “Miss Avakian! I could not resist popping in to see the prize you have offered me.”

  A small, dapper man sprang up from his seat on the carpet-covered divan provided for clients. As he crowded in upon me, the fleshy droop of his eyelids and the confidential whisper of his cultured tenor voice made our meeting seem conspiratorial. For a moment I was at a loss. I blinked, glided half a step back, and focused on the unnatural glossiness of the golden-haired head inclining toward mine. Duncan Meriwether? No wonder I was confused. That head had been largely bald the last time I had seen it.

  “Mr. Meriwether,” I returned gravely, offering my hand. “How very nice to see you. I regret to say, however, that the Hereke is unavailable for inspection.”

  Experience had taught us never to show a customer a damaged rug—in this case, the Wentworths’ spaniel-chewed silk rug—if it could be avoided. The memory of the damage, no matter how expertly repaired, invariably diluted the new owner’s pleasure.

  “I have entrusted it,” I continued, “to the most accomplished craftsman in our employ, and he has taken it home so he may ply his magic undisturbed.”

  Although my glib excuse was, in fact, true, I found myself falling into the arch mode that men like Duncan Meriwether seem to expect of womenfolk. An artist more competent than gifted, he had been introduced to Oriental rugs by Charles Quintus Ramsay, much his senior in age as well as talent. They used to drop in together for chats and occasional purchases at Avakian’s, which at that time was a short stroll from the Studio Building on West Tenth Street.

  Rumor had it that in the old days he allowed his studio to be used for C.Q.’s extracurricular activities;

  in return, clients of C.Q.’s seeking an oil suitable for hanging over the sideboard were referred to Duncan Meriwether. I used to think the story scurrilous; knowing what I did now about the late artist, it seemed highly probable.

  “Drat! I had been so looking forward to savoring my new acquisition. It’s been a long time since I’ve been tempted; as it is, I shall have to sacrifice another treasure to make room for it, and I do love all my rugs.” He moved ever closer, his hushed voice more appropriate to a church than a business establishment. “Do you think I could have it by Christmas? As a special present to myself?” I had to strain to hear his whispered importuning. “Do say I may, Miss Avakian!”

  After Charles Quintus Ramsay’s death, Duncan Meriwether rarely came to the shop, but I knew my uncle had enjoyed Duncan Meriwether’s youthful enthusiasm, and his long-standing desire for a reasonably priced Hereke had stayed in my mind. I thought him a rather silly man— his blatantly artificial hairpiece was proof of that—but there was no-harm in him, and since he was independently wealthy, his notion of a reasonable price did not have to be taken too seriously.

  “It all depends on the matching of the silk, Mr. Meriwether. It must be exactly right. The quality, the color—”

  He raised his hands. “Say no more, my dear. I will curb my impatience. But you see, I have this enduring memory of the Hereke I saw at Hawkscliffe—”

  “At Hawkscliffe?” My suppressed laughter was routed by surprise, which, I realized immediately, was unwarranted. He was an old friend of C.Q. Ramsay’s, and having abetted his abetted his escapades, nothing was more likely than his having been a visitor at Hawkscliffe.

  “You know the Hawkscliffe collection, Miss Avakian? Ah, of course you do! Your estimable uncle assembled it, and I seem to recall someone telling me you had been chosen to do the cataloguing. I never much cared for the place. Magnificent site, of course but the house itself….” He rolled his eyes. “And things do
have a way of happening there, don’t they? That woman of C.Q.’s runs off never to be heard of again; C.Q. suffers a fatal stroke; and just last month Louise Ramsay falls to her death—”

  “The only Hereke I remember,” I said, cutting short his morbid recital, “was in Roxelana’s suite. Could that—”

  “Yes, yes, that’s the one! An exquisite piece! She appropriated it for herself. It hung in the stairwell for all to enjoy until it was displaced by C.Q.’s portrait of her.” He frowned. “She was much younger than C.Q., you know, but somehow she never seemed young.” The hushed voice drifted away like an echo. “There was something ageless and ... nasty about her. My poor niece!”

  His blurted phrase seemed at first a non sequitur; then it clicked into place like a piece in a jigsaw puzzle. Meriwether... of course! Eloise Meriwether was the name of Thorn’s fiancée. His former fiancée.

  “Your niece was engaged to be married to Thornton Ramsay, I believe. Didn’t something happen at Hawkscliffe? Wasn’t there—” I stopped abruptly and clapped my hand to my mouth. “Forgive me, Mr. Meriwether, I do not mean to pry; it is certainly no concern of mine. ”

  No concern of yours, Miss Mackenzie.

  I would never forget the dark sound of Thorn Ramsay’s deep, rough voice. I closed my eyes.

  Duncan Meriwether had other ideas. He pressed me to accompany him back to the divan. Evidently, this opportunity to confide a story long unshared was too tempting to pass up.

  “They had been living at Hawkscliffe for about two years,” he began. “The landscaping had been largely completed by then, and that lovely pink marble fountain had finally arrived from Turkey for the courtyard herb garden. No house is ever entirely finished, of course, but C.Q decided it was time for a party. Not just any party— the conventional housewarming had been held long before—but a costume party designed to show off Roxelana as much as the estate he had created for her.