Penny stared in wonder at Aunt Cass’s previously unknown connection. He was everything her girlish heart had ever dreamed of. From his golden hair and eyes of brilliant azure . . . from his rich brown tailcoat and cream vest heavily embroidered in gold to his dark breeches, gold-clocked stockings and shiny black evening shoes, he was a young lady’s idea of perfection. His face—darkened by what was undoubtedly months in the Mediterranean clime—boasted a regal nose and full inviting lips, though they seemed, as now, all too ready to curl into derision. Oh, dear, what had she done? Why was he looking so . . . so arrogant and withdrawn? Had Aunt Cass presumed, once again? He was, after all, a viscount—
“You must forgive my manners, ma’am,” Viscount Lyndon drawled. “I was startled by Miss Blayne’s youth.”
“I am turned sixteen!” Stung, Penny interjected herself into the conversation.
And looked a veritable child. The viscount raised his quizzing glass, one enormously magnified, and exceedingly distorted, eye examining her from head to foot. “Are you quite, quite certain, Miss Blayne?” he inquired.
The sweet mockery of his tone was enough to send Penny into battle. There were those who said she had been much overindulged by a doting, though sometimes careless, aunt. It is possible they were correct.
“I saw you standing here, examining the guests,” Miss Blayne informed the viscount, “quite as if you were Zeus himself looking down from Olympus. And ‘tis plain Aunt Cass and I are also numbered among the mere mortals attending Lord Elgin’s reception. I am quite sorry for you, my lord, for I fear if you scorn the ambassador’s guests, you will miss much of the exotic flavor of Byzantium.”
Before responding, Viscount Lyndon broke his aristocratic stance long enough to offer Miss Pemberton an adult-to-adult look of condolence. “Byzantium is long gone, child,” he announced to Penelope, “its treasures ripped from its palaces and cathedrals and carted off to enrich the cities and manor houses of the greedy, thieving knights of the Fourth Crusade. Most particularly, Enrico Dandolo, Doge of Venice. Did you not know the very walls of St. Mark’s are coated in the spoils of Byzantium?”
Penny’s chin went up. “Of course I knew, my lord. My Aunt Cass’s instruction is never bound by the narrow confines of religious preference. I am well aware that Christians looted Byzantium long before the coming of the Ottomans.”
Jason Lisbourne glared, and then his lips, of their own accord, began to twitch. What English schoolgirl could even find Constantinople on a map, let alone have the slightest inkling of its history? Miss Penelope Blayne might look a scant thirteen—except for that figure, of course—but her mind and education might well be the equal of his own.
“Have you just arrived in Constantinople, Miss Blayne?”
“We have barely had time to settle into our villa,” she replied eagerly, the clouds clearing from her face as if by magic at this simple offer of a truce, for she was at that age where she could go from child to woman and back to child again in a matter of moments. “We have seen nothing of the city but the limited view from our carriage. I can scarcely wait to see more!”
A slow smile lit the viscount’s face. It was like the sun coming out from behind a great black cloud. Penny was dazzled, while Jason Lisbourne was as captivated by her innocent beauty and unfeigned enthusiasm as any other young man might be, particularly one so far from home.
“I believe,” he drawled, “that I am able to show you something you would truly enjoy. Miss Pemberton . . . if you and Miss Blayne would be willing to accompany me on a small climb up to the roof? I vow you will find the view most rewarding.”
Since Cassandra Pemberton’s agile brain could not have devised a better scheme for throwing the two young people together, even if she had sat up half the night attempting to do so, she swiftly accepted Viscount Lyndon’s invitation.
“The light is beginning to fade,” Jason said as he guided the ladies toward an outside staircase at one end of the loggia, “so we must be quick. I promise you the panorama will amaze you.”
“‘Tis not half so high as the tower at Pemberton Priory,” Penny scoffed as they shortly found themselves on a flat roof high above the courtyard. “O-oh!” Miss Blayne was silenced.
The soft sibilance of a hundred voluble guests drifted up on the seabreeze wafting from the great harbor below. And somehow, even the strains of the orchestra had become more mellifluous, magic notes for a night in a land so exotic it seemed almost to be part of a tale in a storybook and not real at all. Beyond the courtyard and the green of the Embassy’s park-like setting was a sight even Penny’s lively imagination could not have conjured. Not only were they on the roof above the British Embassy, but the entire embassy grounds were on a hill rising steeply above that magnificent harbor known as the Golden Horn at precisely the point where it joined the Straits of Bosphorus.
Enchanted, Penny could only stare in wonder. Everything, as far as the eye could see, was different. The shapes of the ships in the harbor, the cut of their sails, made even the familiar sea look strange. And the buildings . . . an undulating array of domes and towers of every size and description spread out before her, solidly covering both sides of the great harbor of the Golden Horn.
“This side of the harbor is the District of Pera,” the viscount told her. “Back in the thirteenth century Genoa helped the Byzantine emperors take back the city from invaders and were given this great hill on the far side of the river as a place to live.”
“No foreigners to contaminate the city,” Miss Pemberton interjected dryly.
“Precisely,” Jason agreed. “Thank you very much, we are granting you the right to control our trade, but please live on the other side of the Golden Horn. Soon the Genoese were joined by Jews, Greeks, Armenians, and eventually other Europeans.”
“If we are in the foreign quarter,” Penny pronounced thoughtfully, “then where is Constantinople?”
“Everything you see on the far side of the harbor is the city of Constantinople,” Jason told her. “The capital of Byzantium, the final resting place of what was once the Roman Empire, and now the capital of the Ottoman Empire.”
“Very good, Lyndon,” Miss Pemberton applauded. “Are you thinking of becoming an Oxford don?”
“Miss Blayne seemed interested,” Jason muttered, his youthful pride much stung.
“Oh, I am!” Penny cried. “But are you saying we must cross the harbor to see the city?”
“Vapurs—ferries—run constantly,” the viscount told her in the superior tone of one who had been in Constantinople for all of two weeks. “Look there”—Jason forgot himself long enough to point—“to the right is the Grand Bazaar. You will, no doubt, be fascinated by the sights there. Though on no account should you go without several footmen to bear you company,” he added, turning toward Miss Pemberton. “Constantinople is not the safest place for women, particularly those who go unveiled.”
“What are all those grand buildings with the tiny towers?” Penny asked. Not hesitating to follow the viscount’s bad example, she pointed toward an elaborate maze of buildings, set on a prominent point directly across the Golden Horn, domes and turrets shining in the red glow of the lowering sun.
“On the left is the Sultan’s palace, called Topkapi,” Jason told her. “The buildings on the right are the Blue Mosque and the Haghia Sophia, which was the cathedral of the Byzantine emperors before the Ottomans converted it to a mosque. And those ‘tiny towers,’ Miss Blayne, are minarets, where muezzins call the Muslim faithful to prayer.”
“Oh, Aunt Cass, when may we go?” Penny burbled. “It is like a fairy tale.” She clapped her hands. “We cross the water on a vapur”—Penny peeped up at the viscount to see if she had recalled the word correctly—“and, voilà, we are in a land of enchantment!”
As Jason looked down at Penelope, her fragile porcelain beauty haloed by the brilliant red of the setting sun, he experienced a moment of dizziness, something so foreign to his young but hard-headed nature that he dismissed i
t as the result of gazing too long at sunlight on the water. Almost, he offered to escort Miss Pemberton and her charge on their ventures into the teeming streets of Constantinople, but then he remembered the other young men with whom he had made plans. Interesting and intriguing plans.
And Penelope Blayne was so very young. There would be time, plenty of time, to stand back and wait for her to grow up. Perhaps when she made her come-out, he would take another look. Or possibly not. He would be only three and twenty then and still many years away from wishing to settle down and set up his nursery. A man must, after all, have delicious years of freedom to look back on before he could reconcile himself to being leg-shackled.
He should, of course, suggest that young Penelope cover up her glorious head of spun gilt and her delicate beauty as well. But Cassandra Pemberton would not appreciate his interference, and surely she was tigress enough to protect her innocent cub. With nothing more than a polite social smile, Viscount Lyndon escorted the ladies back down the staircase, where they promptly joined the Ambassador’s other guests and soon were separated by the inevitable ebb and flow of conversation.
It was a fateful moment, a failure in communication, a fault of youthful carelessness Jason Lisbourne would regret for years to come.
~ * ~
Chapter Five
Before leaving the British Embassy that night, Miss Cassandra Pemberton—who had been called many things but never a fool—asked Lord Elgin to recommend a guide. And so, on the second morning after the reception, Miss Pemberton and Miss Blayne began their exploration of the ancient city of Constantinople, accompanied by their guide, Faik, who spoke passable English, and a stalwart house servant named Abdul.
As their party approached the array of boats along the edge of the great harbor, Aunt Cass’s eyes were sharp, Penny’s shining with excitement. For some reason Constantinople seemed so much more foreign than India, perhaps because there were fewer European faces, even here in Pera. Perhaps, Penny thought . . . yes, perhaps it was because in India Britain’s influence was much greater. Here, it was almost nonexistent. This was the Ottoman Empire, the Sultan an absolute monarch. Today they were to drive by the Topkapi Palace, where it was said Selim the Third kept a harem of thousands. Very likely an exaggeration, of course; nonetheless, Penny felt a shiver course through her. Part horror at the mere thought of such a practice; part an almost shameful curiosity, a delicious wonder about what went on in the hidden recesses of that great palace situated at the confluence of the Golden Horn, the Bosphorus, and the Sea of Marmara.
Lately, Penny had begun to wonder with greater frequency about the secret relations between men and women. From what little she had gleaned—mostly from the violent mating of cats, dogs, and farm animals—Penny feared something rather strenuous might be involved. And the thought of the Sultan doing whatever it was with so many wives and concubines was perfectly amazing. She should be ashamed of herself for thinking such thoughts, of course. But the day was so lovely, life was so good, Constantinople so exciting. She was on the verge of womanhood . . .
And she had met Jason Lisbourne. Penny cast a quick glance toward her Aunt Cass to see she if had noticed her niece’s abstraction. Thankfully, she had not. Miss Blayne heaved a sigh of relief. Aunt Cass was so . . . so contained. She could not possibly understand the longings that had insinuated themselves into Penny’s life. Not that Aunt Cass had not been a wonder of kindness since her parents had died in a shipwreck on what was to have been a simple sea voyage to Edinburgh when Penny was nine. And she had enjoyed seeing the world—truly she had—but how would she ever find a young man, a suitor . . . a husband if Aunt Cass continued to drag her from pillar to post and back again year after year after year?
“You are wool-gathering, Penelope,” Aunt Cass snapped. “Faik has procured a caïque for us, and you sit there like a lump, as if rooted to the squabs. Come, come, child. If, that is,” she added ominously, “you wish to see the city while the sun still shines.”
Penny had no problem with distraction on the short trip across the Golden Horn. Surrounded by sails of saffron and blood red, some jutting out on both sides of a boat like great angular wings . . . with the waterfront echoing with shouts, laughter, and other unidentifiable sounds that cast even the great harbor of Bombay into the shade, Miss Penny Blayne was totally fascinated.
Their ferry cast off, the sails snapped up, caught the wind, and they were off, skimming across the harbor as easily as the birds flying high above. Oh, oh, o-oh! She was an addlepated nitwit to think she wished to give this up and settle down. Be ruled by some man, who would control both her fortune and her life. Aunt Cass was right, after all. Freedom was truly marvelous!
If Miss Cassandra Pemberton was surprised to discover, as they debarked, that their means of transportation was a light English-style carriage, she did not remark upon it. But Penny was, in fact, quite disappointed that nothing more exotic was offered. The vehicle, Faik told her, was the castoff of an undersecretary at the Embassy, the younger son of a duke who could well afford to have a spanking new carriage sent out from London. Their driver had been delighted to acquire the young man’s breakdown so he could please his many European customers. Ibrahim, the coachman, clad in a striped caftan and somewhat ragged turban, offered Penny a gap-toothed grin and gave his padded leather bench seat a loving pat. Miss Blayne grinned right back. She had long since discovered there were moments when language was completely unnecessary.
Obviously, they were not the only visitors to Constantinople who thought more than one strong male was necessary when exploring the city, for the platform at the rear of their carriage had been expanded to accommodate two. Faik and his near twin, Abdul—both sporting identical black mustaches, as well as modest caftans of cream cotton, slit high on the sides to reveal full shalwar, gathered tight to their ankles—climbed up behind, and they were off.
As they drove through the oldest part of the city, Penny hissed, “Look, Aunt Cass—miradors. Like Spain.” She nodded toward a series of enclosed balconies that hung out over the street. “Do you think there are ladies hiding behind the lattices peering down at us, even now?”
“Here balconies are called çikma, Miss,” Faik told her. “And the lattices have their own name—kafesler.”
Penny thanked him, and continued to peer, fascinated, at the lattices, wondering how many dark eyes were eagerly returning her gaze.
“It was Moorish influence that brought such a heathen custom to Spain,” Miss Pemberton declared with a sniff of disdain. “Imagine, enclosing a balcony to keep women from being seen!”
“Surely it is better than keeping them wholly shut inside,” Penny ventured.
“Humph-h!” Miss Cassandra Pemberton remained true to her fierce spirit of female independence.
Alas, the closer they came to the Topkapi Palace, the less they could see, for a great crenellated wall cut off their vision, leaving only a view of domes, towers, and an occasional treetop. “We shall have to be content with the mosques, I fear,” Aunt Cass pronounced.
At that moment the call of the muezzin echoed from one of the minarets on the Blue Mosque, just outside the palace walls. Their coachman, Faik, and Abdul leapt down from the carriage and bent low to the ground, nearly prostrate, their eyes turned toward distant Mecca. This was scarcely a surprise, as Penny and Aunt Cass had witnessed Muslim prayers many times before, but somehow the ritual took on greater significance as they waited directly in front of the Blue Mosque in Sultanahmet Square, with the once great church of Byzantium, the Haghia Sophia, directly across the park-like setting. To Muslims, Mecca might be the center of their religion, but Penny felt she would never be closer than this moment to understanding what this foreign religion meant to its people.
In the days that followed, Penny and Aunt Cass drove along the great double city wall, with deep moat, built by Theodosius in the fifth century. Four miles long, fourteen hundred years old, most of its walls, eleven gates and nearly two hundred towers still stood. To Pen
ny, it seemed quite impossible that Mehmet the Conqueror had managed to breach them, bringing a final end to the great Roman-Byzantine Empire. The city’s aqueducts, a product of Roman engineering, were nearly as fascinating. They had been bringing water into the city since the fourth century. But after viewing what was left of the Hippodrome, Constantinople’s re-creation of the Coliseum in Rome, Penny’s interest in antiquities began to wane. Each time they drove by the walls of the Grand Bazaar, Penny would lift her eyes to Aunt Cass in shining hope, and each time be dashed down.
“We will save the Grand Bazaar for last,” Cassandra Pemberton pronounced. “If we visit its marvels too soon, we might be tempted to forgo the remainder of Constantinople. And, I dare say, if we go to the Bazaar too frequently, we will need to hire an entire ship to take our purchases back to Pemberton Priory. We might even be as desperate for shipping space as Lord Elgin is for his marbles,” she added in a rare display of dry humor. “So we will restrain ourselves, Penelope, my child. We will exercise proper British equanimity and not be so vulgar as to rush to purchase everything in sight.”
“Yes, Aunt Cass.” Penny sighed and dutifully turned her attention to yet another grand tomb or mosque or garden or ancient ruin. They were never going to get to the Grand Bazaar. Or, if they did, Aunt Cass would rush her through it so fast, the treasures of modern Constantinople would be nothing but a blur.
“Aunt Cass?”
“Yes, my dear?” Miss Pemberton responded absently, intent upon the study of a Byzantine frieze that had suddenly come into sight on the side of ruined wall.
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