“What are you reading?” James asked, nodding to the letter Beatrice held.
“A note from Mrs. Spaulding, sent from Paris on her return journey,” Bea replied.
James sat in a rush rocking chair next to his wife and asked, “What does she say?”
“She apologizes again for ‘losing’ Amelia and begs me to let her know the girl’s fate,” Bea said wearily. She tucked the note inside her sleeve and added, “As if we knew it ourselves.”
Listak came through the doorway and handed James a brandy.
The servant looked at Beatrice and said, “Would you care for anything, Madam?”
Beatrice shook her head, hunting in her reticule for her bottle of cologne. She shook a few drops of the liquid onto a handkerchief and dabbed at her temples with the square of lace.
“You look tired, Bea,”James said, sipping his drink.
“I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“The heat?”
“I’ve been having nightmares.”
“About Amelia, I suppose.”
“In the dreams my brother comes to me and scolds me,” Bea said dully. “He asks me why I couldn’t do the only thing he ever asked of me, why I couldn’t take care of his child.”
“Amelia will soon be with us and you’ll sleep well again,” James said soothingly.
Listak appeared in the doorway once more and said, “Dinner will be ready shortly, madam.”
“Bring Mrs. Woolcott a sherry, Listak,” James said.
“I don’t want a drink,” Bea protested.
“Bring one anyway,” James said to the servant.
Listak bowed and left.
“My descent into alcoholism will hardly change the situation, James,” Bea said.
“A before dinner sherry is not a descent into alcoholism, Beatrice, and the liquor will relax you.”
“If only it weren’t so hot all the time,” Bea whispered, putting her head back against her chair.
“The rains will come soon.”
“And then everything is a sea of mud. Oh, how I do miss Boston,” Beatrice sighed.
Listak returned with the drink, and Bea downed it in two gulps. James signaled for Listak to bring another one.
It looked like it would be a long night.
* * *
When Malik and Amy arrived back at the rebel camp they went directly to Anwar’s tent. His sister Maya was tending the injured man, and when she saw Amy she ran forward and fell to her knees, lifting the hem of Amy’s gown and pressing it to her lips.
“Malik, what on earth is she doing?” Amy asked, pulling back, appalled.
Maya stood and took Amy’s hand, kissed it, and then held it to her forehead.
“She’s thanking you for helping Anwar,” Malik replied.
“Is he that much better?” Amy asked, kneeling next to Anwar.
She touched his forehead and found it cooler; his face, which had been contorted by pain, was smooth and relaxed.
“He is!” she exclaimed delightedly, and Malik smiled.
Maya said something in Turkish to Malik and he translated. “Maya says that the medicine you left made all the difference. His delirium has passed and he spent a comfortable night.”
“But the wound still looks nasty,” Amy said, peeling back the bandage. “I’d better make the poultice right away.”
“What do you need?” Malik asked.
“Boiling water, or water just as hot as possible, and a bottle of raki.”
Malik gave the order to Maya, who vanished. He squatted next to Amy on the dirt packed floor and said, “Anwar does look much better.”
“The wound is still infected, but the poultice should take care of that. The aspirin will keep his fever down in the meantime.”
Malik turned his head to look at her. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
“You can thank me when he’s up and around, I still have work to do.”
“Are you sure you aren’t too tired?”
“Just leave me to it. Send Maya in with the water when it’s ready,” Amy replied.
Malik slipped out of the tent as Amy removed the rest of Anwar’s sodden linen, planning how to redress the wound. When Maya brought the water she washed the torn flesh carefully, then disinfected it with the liquor. Then she soaked the herbs in the water, crushed them to release their sap, and made the poultice, applying it liberally and finally wrapping the wound with gauze liberally soaked in oil of wintergreen.
By the time she was done Anwar was stirring and Amy was almost asleep on her feet. Maya returned to administer another dose of laudanum. Amy nodded and smiled, taking the medicine back from Anwar’s sister and then curling up on the pallet Maya had used.
Anwar would sleep for a while and so would she, and if he woke she was certain to hear him.
Amy was so tired that she thought she would drop off immediately, but the previous night replayed itself in her mind endlessly, robbing her of rest.
Why had she cried when Malik turned away from her? Just a little while ago it had been her dearest wish to escape him, but she could not lie to herself.
Last night she had been disappointed to the point of pain when he didn’t kiss her.
What on earth was wrong with her? When had Malik gone from criminal to potential lover in her mind? When he wouldn’t sell her to the slave dealer, when he came after her in the woods, when he had trusted her to tend Anwar? Had it happened so subtly that she hadn’t noticed it until she was in love with him?
Amy turned restlessly and pillowed her head on her arm. Could she be in love with him, this thief, this kidnapper, this fugitive with a price on his head? True, she understood his cause now and why he had chosen the life he led, but was her feeling for him just proximity, the reaction of an untried woman to her first sustained, close contact with a young and virile man?
It would almost be a relief to think so, but Amy couldn’t quite believe it. She wasn’t that naive, she was pretty and an heiress, she had been pursued by men in Boston since she was thirteen. None of them had made her feel the way Malik did.
But maybe that urge was just base desire, the attraction of opposites, the yearning of a young body for its counterpart. She had thought of little else lately but getting Malik to make love to her, and her sense memories of him were so vivid that they disturbed her even now. She felt again Malik’s arms about her as they rode, as he embraced her after his fight with the thug, as he lifted her down from her horse. She saw his face as he looked at her in the moonlight, saw the longing in his eyes.
And that recollection presented another puzzle. She knew that Malik wanted her, his every glance and touch indicated his need. Then why wouldn’t he act on it? Was he sparing her for the shadowy American husband of her future? And if so, when had he acquired such a delicate conscience? For a man who’d been willing to sell her to slave traders a short time earlier, his reluctance to pursue her was strange behavior indeed.
Amy sat up, too confused to think any more. She couldn’t sleep, and she needed something to do, a task to keep her mind from wandering back to the subject she wished to avoid.
She didn’t want to think about Malik, or the fact that she would be leaving him soon. She pushed her way through the tent opening just as a horse galloped into the camp and all eyes turned toward the new arrival.
Malik appeared from the cave at the other end of the camp and greeted the newcomer; as he jumped down from his horse Amy saw that it was Selim. He had a brief conference with Malik, who then turned to the camp and said something in a loud voice, which brought immediate cheers. Amy watched the rebels slapping each other on the back and embracing. She wondered what was happening.
Malik walked over to her and asked, “How is Anwar?”
“About the same. It will be eight hours or so before we can tell if the poultice is working. Why is everyone so happy?”
“The Sultan has withdrawn his troops from the Armenian Mahalle.”
“Is that a victory for you?”
>
“It’s more than a victory. It’s a sign that his grip is weakening, he’s losing his annexed territory. It’s proof that our campaign is working.”
“Congratulations.”
He grinned. “Tonight there will be a bayrami, a celebration.”
“I’m sure your people could use one.”
He studied her face, taking in her sincere but wan smile. “You look worn out,” he said.
“I tried to sleep. I can’t.”
“Take some of that potion you gave to Anwar.”
“We may need it all for him.”
“You can spare half a dose, enough to make you drowsy. There was almost a full bottle in your bag, you didn’t use much of it.”
“I was afraid to become dependent on it.”
“Was it very bad when your parents died?” he asked quietly.
Amy looked away from him. “Maybe I was spoiled and just couldn’t handle adversity, but one minute I was part of a family, and the next I was... alone.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Malik replied quietly, and when she looked into his eyes she saw perfect understanding..
Risa ran up to Malik and said something excitedly in Turkish.
He held up his hand for Risa to wait and looked at Amy.
“Go back to my tent and rest,” he said.
“But Anwar...”
“I’ll make sure Maya tends him. You’ve done enough. Maya will bring you the medicine and then she’ll sit with her brother.”
Amy nodded.
He put his hand on her shoulder. “You can handle adversity,” he said, and smiled.
Amy watched him walk away with Risa and then went back to his tent.
* * *
Amy awoke in darkness, to the sound of music. She lay in a semi-slumber, the oil lamp in the tent a blur before her half closed eyes, listening to the tanburs, violins and flutes, watching the play of light and shadow on the canvas of the tent. She felt refreshed and relaxed, as if she had slept for a week instead of most of the day. When she stretched and finally sat up she saw that she was not alone; Maya was sitting about ten feet away, holding a bulky package in her lap.
“Maya?” Amy said.
The young woman rose and came forward, kneeling and touching her forehead to the dirt packed floor. When Amy moved to raise her up she pressed the bundle she held into Amy’s hands, and Amy unfolded it to look at it.
It was a dress, a gauzy handmade gown of finest Bursa silk in the traditional Turkish style. It had bell sleeves and a high cinched waist and was exquisitely embroidered with red and gold thread in a Seljuk pattern of vines, leaves and rosettes. Amy stared down at the painstaking needlework, ran the whisper weight cloth through her fingers, holding it up to the light to see it better. It was the loveliest garment she had ever seen.
“Maya, this is gorgeous. Thank you for showing it to me,” Amy said, handing the gown back to Maya.
Maya shook her head and gave it to Amy again.
“This is for me?” Amy said, shocked, pointing to herself.
Maya nodded vigorously.
“Oh, no, you must have worked on this for months. I can’t possibly take it,” Amy said.
Maya’s face crumpled at her tone and the Turkish girl looked like she was going to cry.
Amy was nonplused; she had no wish to offend Maya but the gift was far too extravagant. It had probably been intended as Maya’s wedding dress.
Maya suddenly grabbed her hand and began to tug Amy out of the tent. Amy followed, puzzled until she realized that Maya was bringing her to see Anwar. They passed a large bonfire in the center of the camp, around which the musicians were playing and many of the women danced. Amy did not see Malik, but didn’t have much time to look because Maya hustled her past the celebrants and into Anwar’s tent.
Once inside Amy realized why Maya had been so insistent about the gift. Anwar was sitting up, propped on a pile of embroidered pillows and sipping a cup of broth.
He put down the cup and held out his arms when he saw Amy.
She gave him her hands and he held them to his dry, cracked lips.
“Tessekur ederim,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” Amy replied to the familiar phrase, snatching her hands back shyly. All this excessive gratitude was making her feel quite embarrassed.
“Elinize saglik,” Maya added.
Amy looked at them smiling at her, two people who would have cheerfully throttled her a week earlier, and marveled at the complexities of life. She bent to check Anwar’s dressing and then left, going back to Malik’s tent where she found Maya’s dress crumpled on the floor.
Maya clearly thought Amy had saved her brother’s life, and Amy realized that in a culture she was just beginning to understand, it would be an insult for her to refuse Maya’s finest possession.
The music changed and Amy listened to a solitary voice, accompanied by a dulcimer, singing one of the plaintive Anatolian folk songs she often heard about the camp. The tunes were so sad they could bring tears to Amy’s eyes even though she didn’t understand the words. Amy smiled wistfully as she removed the cover from the claw foot tub and gathered soap and towels.
Even when the Turks were having a party their melancholy nature came through in their music.
She picked up the large black iron pot Matka used to bring water and went in search of a boiling kettle. But when Matka saw Amy approaching the small fire she always kept going, she took the pot from Amy and filled it herself, then recruited Risa to get more. Amy stood aside as they filled the tub, then Matka dismissed Risa and went to stand guard at the entrance of the tent while Amy bathed.
It was clear to Amy that Anwar’s recovery had changed her status from camp pariah to camp heroine in the blink of an eye. Even taciturn Matka was suddenly solicitous.
Amy shuddered to think what might have happened if Anwar had died; could even Malik have saved her?
She had a long, luxurious bath, even washing her hair with the pine soap and rinsing it with the clear water Risa brought. She dressed in the gown Maya had given her, which was a little too big, except in the bust where the fitted gold clasps pulled the panels of silk together tightly, molding the bodice as if she were wearing a corselet. The neckline was cut low, exposing the tops of her breasts to an almost immodest degree. Amy threw the feradge, or cape, she had been wearing when disguised as a bedouin over her shoulders before she left the tent.
It was a warm, clear night, fragrant with the wild heliotrope that grew in profusion around the camp. Matka glanced at Amy’s dress, her shining face, her damp and shining hair, and said, “Malik,” pointing through the trees.
I must be about as subtle as a halberdier’s truncheon, Amy thought as she watched Matka trudge back to the party. I didn’t even have to ask.
Amy followed the path to the clearing, her feet as light as the fiddle music which now filled the air. She felt wonderful after her long nap and sure of what she had to do.
For once in her pampered, careful, well tended life she was about to take a chance.
Malik was sitting alone on a tree stump, smoking one of the cigarettes he could rarely afford and looking up at the star filled night sky. He was wearing the tunic Amy liked best, dark blue and slashed almost to his waist, its color and style setting off his dark good looks and slim physique to perfection. His trousers were the same tan he always wore, tight and tucked into black boots. His hair had been recently brushed, taming its wild waves, and as she got closer she could see that he had shaved closely, revealing the slight cleft in his chin and the hairline scar on his upper lip.
He stood when he heard Amy approaching and tossed away the butt, watching her as she stopped a few feet away.
“Why aren’t you celebrating with the others?” she asked him, drawing the shawl closer about her.
“I’m celebrating alone,” he replied evenly. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better.”
“So is Anwar.”
“Yes, I know, I
saw him. Maya took me to visit him. She said,‘Elinize saglik’ and gave me this dress.” She held out the skirt for him to see. “What does that phrase mean?”
“It means that your hands should have a long life. It’s said to anyone who has done something wonderful: a cook who has prepared a delicious meal, an artist who has created a marvelous painting, or, as in your case, a doctor who has healed a patient.”
“I see. Do you like the dress?” she asked.
“Very pretty.”
“I think so too.”
“It’s a shame you won’t have much use for it when you leave here,” he said evenly, looking away from her.
It was the first reference he had made to her departure since the day he had cut her bonds.
“Don’t you think my Aunt Beatrice will appreciate native dress?” Amy asked lightly.
“I think you will soon be back in hoop skirts and those ridiculous sailing sleeves you were wearing when I met you,” he replied.
“Sailing sleeves?” Amy said.
“Yes, they look like billowing sails, you know what I mean,” he said, gesturing.
“Leg o’ mutton,” Amy said.
“Is that what they are called?” he asked, amazed, sitting again on the stump.
Amy nodded, smiling as she looked down at him.
“You must admit that Western women wear strange clothing,” he muttered.
“I think I prefer this style of clothing now,” Amy said to him, letting the shawl slip down her arms, exposing the low neckline of the dress.
His gaze lingered on her bare throat and swelling décolletage before returning to her face.
“So do I,” he said huskily.
Amy took a step forward, saying, “I’m so glad that Anwar has improved.”
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