by Carla Kelly
She turned her face into his chest, stunned at the loss of the kitchen more than her possessions. “How on earth can we feed all those men?” she muttered into his uniform.
“Dear Lily, you have just lost all your possessions and what worries you is porridge for invalids?” he asked gently. Able-bodied men from the hospital were already pouring water on the flames. “Bless your heart.”
She looked at him, startled. “Of course it is. All we have now is that little diet kitchen off the main hall.” Lily looked at the nuns, who seemed to have dragged out their few possessions. “If someone can spare a habit, I’ll be Sister Lillian until I get my marching papers,” she told him.
To her further surprise—where was his courage coming from?—the major touched his forehead to hers. “I have another idea, Sister Lily.”
He did, to the consternation of the French nuns and Lily’s own amusement. Before midnight, they were comfortably settled in Sultan Abdul Ahmed Wasiri’s seraglio, with his harem and his wives. “Look at it this way, Mrs Nicholls,” the major said, as he escorted her to the harem’s elaborately curved doorway, where a eunuch stood watch. Wharton eyed the tall man, who was obviously not used to suffering fools gladly, especially infidel fools. “You’ll have a wonderful story to tell your grandchildren some day.”
The Sisters of Mercy had taken longer to bring themselves to enter the harem, requiring all of Major Wharton’s rudimentary West Point French. With considerable chatter, and even more flailing about of hands, they had finally succumbed with the air of potential martyrs.
Captain Penrose had been beside himself, turning an alarming shade of purple at this affront to British womanhood and French ecclesiastics. His acceptance of the idea came with great reluctance, and only after the major reminded his subordinate that he, Major Wharton, U.S. Army, had been put in charge of the barracks hospital a year ago by Lord Raglan himself. “The hospital is full and there isn’t anywhere else in this Godforsaken town that is safe,” he had said, speaking slowly, as though he addressed an idiot. “Could they be any safer than in a harem?”
“Just humor me, Captain Pot Roast,” the major had muttered under his breath as the other surgeon returned to his pony cart, looking less than dignified in a Paisley dressing gown and red nightcap with a tassel. “Mrs Nicholls, I am certain he will waste not a minute firing off a vitriolic protest to his own high command and perhaps to Captain McClellan, who thinks he is in charge of me in the Ottoman Empire.”
“Is he?” Lily asked, pleased that the hospital administrator could be so lighthearted about possible career disaster.
“Little Georgie? Mercy, no!” He leaned closer. “The rest of us outrank him, although you’d never know it to listen to him crow. My dear Mrs Nicholls, small men fight like terriers over small stakes.” He gave an undignified snort. “Lord help us if Georgie McClellan is ever put in charge of an entire army! I can’t see it.”
He told her good-night at the seraglio door, assuring her that carriages would be available in the morning to take them the short distance back to the barracks hospital. “I’m afraid your little diet kitchen will be taxed to the limit, Mrs Nicholls. Hopefully we can make rapid repairs on the other one.” He sighed. “Wouldn’t it be nice of the British High Command to move out the men now?”
He touched her shoulder, which made the eunuch move forward and brandish his curved sword. Major Wharton backed away, smiling his most charming gap-toothed smile, which made Lily turn away to hide her own mirth.
She stood beside the eunuch, who towered over her. “Major Wharton,” she said to his retreating figure, “I still want a Christmas tree.” She laughed. “My, but I sound petulant.”
Maybe there was something wistful in her voice, because the major turned back to look at her, his gaze soft. “It’s all a bit much, isn’t it?”
He moved toward her again, but the eunuch elaborately ran his thumb and forefinger down the flat of his scimitar. Major Wharton chose discretion over valor and quit the field.
“I mean it,” Lily said softly. A few minutes later, one of the sultan’s pretty wives took charge, chattering in melodious Turkish as she led Lily down the hall. In a few minutes more, Lily looked at the sumptuous chamber the wife had assigned her. After the door closed, she removed her clothes, stained with a day’s typical work and smelling of smoke now. She took off everything, standing naked and wondering what she would wear to bed. She always wore something to bed.
She yawned, wondering why the loss of all her possessions meant so little, then wondering how long she would stand there, bare. She laughed a little, imagining the shocked look she would have got from her late husband, who was the most proper man she had ever met. An imp seemed to take possession of her mind then, as she considered what Major Wharton would do, if he could see her now. Her cheeks reddened as she thought a most improper thought. And then she laughed to think how embarrassed he would be.
“All right, Lillian, what do you wear to bed?” she asked out loud. “You’re getting tiresome.”
Nothing, obviously. She got into bed, enjoying the unexpected heat of a cloth-covered warming pan, remembering how nice it used to be to put her cold feet on her husband’s legs. To her chagrin, that imp returned. She wondered whether Trey Wharton would object to her bare feet on his legs.
She lay on her back in strange surroundings, looking up at a gauzy canopy. The bed was amazingly soft. Her eyes closed, just as she was wondering what on earth she would wear tomorrow.
Chapter Four
When she woke the next morning, Lily wasn’t sure if she was glad or sad that her ugly gray uniform was gone. Clutching the sheet around her, she raised up on one elbow, looking for the pitiful thing, before deciding it must have crawled away in shame.
I am in a harem, she thought, and couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled inside her, despite the gravity of the situation that had caused it. She folded her hands properly across her stomach, aware that for the first time in ages, she hadn’t braided her long hair into tight pigtails before sleep claimed her. Her hair lay all curly and abundant on the pillow. All she wanted to do was lie there and enjoy the feeling of silk sheets on bare skin.
I could maybe like a seraglio, she thought. I wonder if someone would bring my meals, scrub my back in a scandalous bathing pool and brush my hair? A massage would be nice, too. So would shaved ice brought by runners from the Caucasus Mountains. She turned her head and giggled into the pillow, curious to know if the sultan—bless his elderly, overstuffed hide—liked to dally with his numerous bits of fluff in beds like this one, and probably in broad daylight. Goodness, what wicked thoughts for a straitlaced widow!
That thought was enough to make her draw the sheet tighter around her and look more seriously for her clothing, as pathetic as it was. All she saw was a robe as diaphanous as the canopy overhead, in a lovely shade of pale yellow that she knew would look perfect with her hair and coloring. Of course, every curve and outline of her body would be visible to all, but this was, after all, a harem.
“When in Rome,” Lily murmured as she reached for the robe. She sighed with the softness of it, thinking how much her Mexican mother would enjoy such luxury, living as she did now in Dumfries, home of oatmeal and woolies. She admired herself in the full-length mirror, thinking to herself, I will be queen this morning, or at least until someone returns my ugly dress, and I’m Cinder Ella among the ashes again.
Shy now, Queen Lillian opened the door to her chamber a crack and was immediately pounced upon by a trio of servants, all speaking at once. Seeing this as an adventure, rather than a trial, Lily let them lead her to another room. It turned out to house a marble-lined bathtub big enough for a discreet dog paddle.
There was no point in hanging back, especially since one woman, laughing, untied the sash to her robe and helped her out of it, while the other two led her to the tub and helped her in. The water was warm and divine and Lily surrendered without a protest. If they could see me in Dumfries, she thought, as she
offered no objection to the slathering of soft soap everywhere and a scrubbing of her back that made her close her eyes in bliss.
She sank into the water, a smile on her face, and only opened her eyes to watch an altercation outside the bathing room. Apparently, other servants were trying to tow the redoubtable Sister Marie Clotilde into the bath and she was resisting with all the force of her ecclesiastical stewardship over the Sisters of Mercy in the Ottoman Empire. Lily let her bath attendant dribble jasmine oil across her shoulders. Apparently the Sisters of Mercy had never heard of the concept of “when in Rome,” which seemed a bit ironic.
She had to smile when the bath attendants exclaimed over her red hair. One of the women combed it, while a bolder attendant draped the length of it over her own black hair, then giggled.
Lily could have groaned with dismay when she heard the distant sound of a gong, which was followed by her attendant taking her arm and coaxing her from the oversize tub. She knew it was pointless to insist that she was capable of drying herself, even though she did insist on toweling her own private parts, which made her attendants giggle again.
She knew the party was over when, wrapped in a towel, she returned to her room to find her ugly dress waiting for her, clean, starched and as glaringly out of place in a sultan’s pleasure dome as she was. Lily had to smile as she eyed her clothes. Someone had decided her shift was too worn to resuscitate and had substituted a silk one, instead. She could only hope that it wasn’t the sultan himself.
Not that she was inclined to ask, not even when she had left the harem and was turned over to a different eunuch on guard, who silently escorted her to the dining hall, inhabited by Abdul Wasiri and Major Wharton, looking too amused for his own good. Her hand went automatically to her hair, which yet another attendant had styled into charming ringlets, instead of her customary bun.
“Lovely as always,” the major murmured, which made Lily’s face turn even rosier than his.
“Major, you’ve been away from society far too long, if you think a gray dress has one iota of style,” she whispered back.
“I meant you, not that burlap sack of a dress,” he said surprisingly. Before she had time to be embarrassed at his unexpected plain speaking, the major performed an impressive salaam to their breakfast host. “Double dog dare you to do better than that,” he said, out of the corner of his mouth.
“You lose, Major Wharton,” Lily replied, as she sank into a deep and graceful curtsy. “Mama taught me this before I was introduced at court.”
The American put his hand to his chest in surrender. “Lily Nicholls, you never cease to amaze me.”
“You’re easily amazed,” she teased back, wondering where her polite upbringing had vanished to, and his, too, for that matter. Something about the major was different, but this was not the time to find out, especially since the sultan was watching her so intently.
Lily let the major take her arm and direct her to a low stool, where she sat as gracefully as possible. “Your Highness, it is the greatest pleasure to see you again and to thank you for your unparalleled hospitality,” she said.
“My dear Mrs Nicholls, it will continue as long as you wish,” he replied in his impeccable English. He tapped the little gong beside him. “And now, I will be pleased if you and the major will join me in a poor repast.”
It was anything but poor, beginning with figs, grapes and rose-scented yogurt, served in crystal bowls on gold chargers. The major put his hand over hers when she reached for a grape. “Let the taster do his unenviable work first,” he whispered in her ear.
She waited as the taster crawled toward his lord and master and dutifully sampled all the dishes first. When he didn’t die, the sultan began breakfast with a handful of grapes.
“I’ve often thought a taster would be a good idea in the average officers’ mess hall,” Major Wharton said to their host. “Your Highness, you would be astounded at the lengths to which some junior officers will go to advance in rank.”
The sultan laughed and gestured to the servant. “Then he is yours,” he said.
The major shook his head, with every indication of real regret. “Alas, your Highness, I am not at liberty to accept your generous gift.”
The sultan shrugged. “Perhaps you will win him in a card game.” Then the sultan looked at Lily. “I hear that you passed a pleasant night, Mrs Nicholls,” he said.
And how would you know? she thought, in suspicious alarm. “I did, your Highness. I thank you for your kindness to me and the Sisters of Mercy.”
“You are welcome as long as you need shelter here,” he replied, after a discreet belch.
“Your Highness, I am happy to report that work is already under way to repair the kitchen and the rooms beyond,” Major Wharton said. “A day or two should see most of the work completed.”
The sultan sighed. “Mrs Nicholls, I had hoped to keep you here much longer.” To her surprise, he took her hand. “I can do one thing for you, my dear lady. Tonight, when you return, allow my tailor to borrow your dress so he can make two or three new dresses to replace what was destroyed in the fire.”
Lily was touched, in spite of her skepticism. “That would be a great kindness.”
She should have known the sultan had more on his mind. “Of course, nowhere in my realm is there a color that ugly. Sad, but true, my dear. I can substitute blue and green, possibly, and perhaps silk.”
You’re a sly one, she thought, impressed despite her misgivings. Still, it would be nice to wear something besides Miss Nightingale’s version of sackcloth and ashes. She glanced at the major, who was trying not to smile. And you are enjoying this, Major.
“Nothing would please me more,” she said to them both.
The sultan gave her a gracious nod; he was just warming up. “If there is anything else I can do for you, lovely lady, anything at—”
“A Christmas tree,” she said, interrupting the sultan, which made the servants gasp.
I have erred, Lily thought in alarm. She looked at the sultan, who returned a suddenly frosty stare. “It’s just a small thing, your…your Excellency, your Worship. I wanted to have a Christmas tree for the wounded men. It would mean so much…” Her voice dwindled away. “I shouldn’t have interrupted you.”
“You should not,” he said severely.
When in doubt, cry, Lily thought, as her eyes welled with tears, almost—but not quite—of their own accord. She dabbed at her eyes delicately, not looking at the major, who was probably seeing right through her subterfuge. “Forgive me,” she said, head down, voice meek. “I was just thinking of the wounded and their longing for a symbol of the season, something to raise their spirits. That’s all.”
Silence. Then, “What kind of tree?” the sultan asked, his voice tender now.
She looked up into his face. Her late husband had once complained that she was the only woman he knew who could cry and still look lovely, which meant he was putty in her hands. Perhaps sultans in the Ottoman Empire were equally susceptible. Lily glanced at Major Wharton, who was regarding her with some skepticism.
“A pine tree. Our Queen’s consort is from Germany. He brought Christmas customs from his native land, when he married Victoria Regina,” she explained. “Just a tree. We would decorate it for the men who have done so much to defend your empire, and who now languish in the hospital, far from home and family. That’s all,” she concluded. “I know there are pine trees in your lovely land.”
“Hmm,” the sultan said. “Hmm.” He looked at her for a long moment and Lily watched a crafty look come into his eyes. “And what, my dear Mrs Nicholls, would you give me in exchange for such a favor?”
“My undying gratitude,” she said promptly.
“Hmm.” Again.
And then breakfast was over. With a bow and an offhand wave in her direction, the sultan left the enormous dining hall. Lily looked at Major Wharton. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” she admitted.
The major nodded and helped her up from t
he low stool. “Lily, I used to be a trusting soul, convinced, in a childish way, that no one would ever wish to mistreat a Wharton.” He laughed. “Especially not in Philadelphia!” He sobered immediately. “And then I came here to the Black Sea, with people’s labyrinthine, devious ways.” He leaned closer, his words for her ears only. She enjoyed the way his breath tickled her ear. “And met Captain McClellan.”
Lily burst into laughter, delighted at this side of a shy man. She attempted a severe look. “Major, you jest. I know enough about men to suspect that my injudicious comments to the sultan—who already thinks I am lovely, lonely and reluctant to become a fourth wife—render me vulnerable to his advances.”
“I agree,” he told her, as they walked down the long hall, preceded by yet another eunuch.
She retrieved her wrap from a servant at the door. Outside, two carriages waited, each filled with disapproving French nuns. Major Wharton handed her into the less crowded one and swung himself up beside the native driver.
I should never have said anything to the sultan, Lily thought. Is this going to come back to haunt me?
Chapter Five
Her misgivings grew as the day passed, especially when a servant from the sultan’s palace delivered a basket of fruit addressed to her, with a note reading: “Dear lady, I will find a tree. The price will be high. Wasiri.”
Worried, she distributed the fruit among her wounded soldiers and took the note to Major Wharton, busy at his desk. He looked up with a smile when she knocked and entered.
