Panther's Prey

by Doreen Owens Malek

  Amy clutched him. “Don’t say it,” she whispered.

  “I have to say it. If something happens to me, I want you to know that after last night I could go through the rest of my life and never ask for more. The memory of what you gave me will sustain me through anything.”

  “Don’t talk that way,” Amy said, putting her hand over his mouth. “We’ll make other memories, we’ll have more time together.”

  She started to cry.

  “Shh, I don’t want to upset you.”

  “You are upsetting me,” she replied, sniffling childishly.

  “Amelia, we can’t be blind to our circumstances. I don’t want to leave here regretting that I didn’t tell you how I felt when I had the chance.”

  Amy was silent.

  “I love you and I want you to carry that knowledge in your heart always, no matter what happens,” he said.

  “I will,” she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss him. He kissed her back, but refused to be drawn into a further embrace when she clung to him. He held her off gently and said, “Let’s go. Your aunt can’t have that many correspondents, she won’t be writing forever.” He picked up the leftover food he had wrapped in a pillowcase and walked to the door.

  Amy followed him reluctantly, wiping her eyes. She opened the door and went into the hall, looking over the stairwell and down into the entry foyer. Through the glass panels on either side of the front door she could see carriage wheels and the forelegs of horses.

  She turned and waved Malik back. “James’ carriage is outside,” she whispered.

  Malik went back behind the door.

  Amy waited until she saw James walk out of the house, putting his fedora on his head, his cane in hand. Then she signaled for Malik to follow her.

  They went down the stairs and through the house as quickly as possible, Amy crooking her finger to indicate the narrow passage which led to the shed. She opened the flower room door and the odor of humus and fertilizer overwhelmed them. Amy picked her way through the piles of clay pots, rubber boots and racks of tools littering the cement floor to lead Malik to the outer door.

  “Here it is,” she said, her face mirroring her feelings at the prospect of his departure.

  He sank his hand into the mass of hair at the back of her neck and wrapped the golden strands around his fist.

  “Allaha ismarladik,” he said. “God protect you.”

  Amy touched his cheek. “And you.”

  He lifted her hand to his lips. “I’ll be back,” he said, and went through the door.

  Chapter 10

  In the days that followed Malik’s departure Amy became a model citizen, eager to do everything Bea requested and loath to call attention to herself. Aside from a few minor escapades, like a midnight excursion with a ladder to dispose of Malik’s rope and another nocturnal jaunt to wash her bloodstained sheet in the bathtub, Amy’s behavior was impeccable. She replaced the sheet and missing pillowcase with duplicate items from Bea’s favorite shop in Pera, and if Listak found Amy’s linen suddenly fresher than it had been, she made no mention of it.

  Beatrice, obviously relieved by Amy’s increased appetite and newly relaxed appearance, threw herself into the social whirl with renewed vigor. She attributed Amy’s resurgence to a finally complete, if delayed, recovery from her unfortunate experience with the rebels. She included Amy in her activities even more than before, seemingly proud of her niece’s youth and beauty and finishing school polish. And Amy tried hard to please, sincerely grateful for Beatrice’s innocent efforts on her behalf and feeling slightly guilty that she was deluding her aunt.

  But Amy knew that misleading her relatives was not a choice, it was a necessity. They could never understand the way she felt about Malik; they regarded him as a criminal who preyed on Western travelers, on their friends and acquaintances. While they had no respect for the Sultan, they felt that the tactics of his enemies placed them also beyond the pale of civilized behavior. Amy accepted this and worked around it. They didn’t know Malik, his background or experiences. They couldn’t possibly grasp the strength of his motivation or the extent of his desperation. Amy’s love for him was the most important thing in her life, and if she had to deceive her family in order to be with him, she would.

  One afternoon, about three weeks after she had last seen Malik, Amy was dressing for one of Bea’s charity teas and wondering how long it would be before she saw her lover again. She trusted Malik and believed that he planned to return. But when? She missed him almost beyond bearing. She got through the days, since she was busy, but the nights were endless. She kept waiting for his tap on her balcony doors, but it never came.

  Was he all right? Had he been hurt or killed in one of his frequent skirmishes, betrayed by a comrade or captured by the Sultan’s men? It was hell to be in love with a man who faced such an uncertain existence, but he had chosen it and she had chosen him, so she endured the situation.

  Amy dragged her thoughts away from Malik and examined herself in the pier glass in her room, studying the outfit she had purchased in Paris before boarding the train to Constantinople. It was an afternoon dress of navy watered silk, with a high collared bodice featuring a short, flared peplum and empire puff sleeves. Its fitted waist flowed into a plain, bias cut fin de siècle skirt. She had forgotten the dress until she unpacked one of the trunks Mrs. Spaulding had brought to the house in her absence. There she found it, still wrapped in Worth’s pink tissue paper and resting in the signature box. It was a little too big when she tried it on again; she had put darts in the waist and made a few other alterations before donning it today. She was happy to see that the sewing skills she had learned at Miss Pickard’s still served her well; she was the very picture of a fashion plate, sure to make Beatrice proud. She piled her hair on top of her head in the current upswept style and added her mother’s favorite earrings, triple pearl clusters with pink jade drops.

  She was ready.

  As Amy picked up her reticule and prepared to go downstairs and welcome Bea’s guests, she couldn’t help comparing the image in the mirror with the young woman who had left the rebel camp wearing Risa’s wedding dress. Were they the same people? Amy knew in her heart that they were, but she also knew that the rest of the world would have a difficult time reconciling the two contrasting aspects of her life.

  Beatrice’s guests were arriving as Amy descended the staircase, coming through the front door in their cone skirts and bishop sleeves, their carriages lined up in the circular drive leading to the house. Amy joined Bea and stood at her side, shaking the hands of the well-to-do matrons who filled the foyer, all of them nodding and smiling graciously as they were greeted. Amy had been trained to do this sort of thing in her sleep, and as she steered the women into the dining room for finger sandwiches and lemon cake and Earl Grey tea she wondered what these stalwart wives and mothers would think of her wild night with Malik Bey. Would they be shocked, alarmed, disappointed? Envious? Or did they all have hidden memories of a secret adventure tucked away somewhere in their graying, well coiffed heads?

  Amy had an idea that some of them must; they had all once been young.

  “I’m so tired of all this rain,” Mrs. Ballinger said to Amy as she selected a watercress sandwich with the crusts removed. “It rained in England, of course, but it was a different sort of rain, soft and misty, not like the awful downpours you get here. Thank God the sun is out today.”

  Amy nodded and handed her a napkin, looking after her as she moved down the refreshment table. Mrs. Ballinger was the wife of the Brigadier in charge of the British garrison in Constantinople, and she was the chairwoman of the charity fundraiser the women were meeting to discuss. The Victoria Mission Ball was held each autumn at the British Embassy to benefit the foundling home attached to Her Majesty’s Lying-In Hospital, the maternity facility which served the soldiers’ wives. The foundling home had been established to care for the half British by-blows the soldiers often left behind, and it had expanded to accept orphaned
or unwanted local children as well. It ran exclusively on contributions and its worthy cause appealed to the bored and underutilized wives of the British and American officers and businessmen stranded on foreign soil. The ball was the social event of the fall season and required a good deal of time to plan.

  Beatrice had chaired the event the previous year.

  Amy made small talk with the guests as they sampled the light fare before settling down to finalize their plans for the party. She was accepting a tray of iced ginger cookies from Listak when she heard Mrs. Ballinger say, “Did you see the news of the latest rebel raid in the paper this morning? That man Bey robbed a train full of tourists on their way to Hagia Sofia and absconded with all their valuables. One of the female passengers fainted and had to be taken to hospital.”

  Amy set the tray on the table and edged closer to the conversation as Mrs. Ballinger’s listeners shook their heads and clicked their tongues. Amy saved all the newspapers James brought into the house to scan them for reports of Malik’s exploits, but this morning James had folded the Monitor and stuck it into his briefcase to take to his office. She had intended to get another copy of it.

  “I mean to say, it’s not safe to travel anywhere with that man at large,” Mrs. Ballinger went on. “I have wanted for some time to leave the city and view some of the outlying sights, Byzantine churches and such, but my husband will not allow it. He says that Bey sends these hooligans everywhere and trains and coaches are their main targets. You’d think that with all the Sultan’s soldiers, as well as the foreign forces here, someone could put Bey behind bars.”

  “It’s a scandal,” Mrs. Lambert agreed. “My neighbor wanted to send for her daughter, who had finished school in Sussex and planned to join her parents here, but it would mean a coach trip and with all the kidnappings...” She stopped short and looked at Amy, her face flushing scarlet. She fell silent.

  “Oh, my dear, I am so terribly sorry,” Mrs. Ballinger said quickly to Amy, looking equally chagrined. “I never meant to bring up an unpleasant subject. It was quite thoughtless of me to forget your recent experience, I’m very sure you don’t want to be reminded about it.”

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Ballinger, I know you didn’t mean to upset me. But have you ever wondered why the rebels resort to such methods to obtain money? They have no other means of raising cash to oppose the Sultan, and I’m sure you would agree almost any other form of government established here would be superior to his.”

  Both women stared at her, speechless with shock.

  “Amelia, could you come here a moment?” Beatrice said from the doorway.

  “Excuse me, ladies,” Amy said smoothly, and joined her aunt in the hall.

  “Amelia, what on earth are you doing?” Bea demanded, sotto voce, her expression bewildered and more than a little annoyed. “It sounded to me like you were defending those awful people who abducted you!”

  “I wasn’t defending the rebels, merely explaining their situation. Those women know how poor the locals are, they must look out their carriage windows as they drive through the streets and see them. If they were as hopeless and as miserable as the average Turkish citizen maybe they too would resort to stealing in an attempt to change their lives.”

  “Mrs. Ballinger and Mrs. Lambert have both been here far longer than you have, they hardly need you to expound on Ottoman politics for their edification,” Bea said tartly. “Now perhaps you should go upstairs and lie down, you are obviously not feeling well. I’ll make your excuses.”

  Amy walked through the hall and ascended the staircase obediently, her campaign to please Beatrice in ruins. She stopped on the landing to look down at the first floor; Beatrice had gone back into the dining room and conversation had resumed. Satisfied that she hadn’t disrupted the proceedings, Amy moved on, cursing her own big mouth.

  What was wrong with her? She knew that nothing she said was going to change the fixed opinions of people like her aunt’s guests, and if she kept making speeches justifying the rebels’ conduct her cherished secret would not be a secret long.

  She went into her room and flung herself across the bed, wondering why she had come so close to revealing too much. She had been so careful, steeled herself to ignore thoughtless remarks and dinner table chatter, and yet when those well bred ladies had torn into Malik she simply couldn’t keep quiet.

  Why did she have such a lapse? Was it because sustaining the role of carefree debutante became more difficult every day that she didn’t see Malik? At first his visit had buoyed her spirits and made it easier to play the part expected of her, but as time dragged on and he didn’t come again the strain of missing him was obviously telling on her nerves.

  Amy sat up and unbuttoned her kid boots, dropping them on the floor. It would be several hours before the women left and she could sneak downstairs to check if James had brought the newspaper back. She wanted to see where the train robbery had taken place; in some strange way it helped her to know where Malik was, or at least where he had been.

  But it only helped a little.

  If he didn’t contact her soon, she wasn’t sure what she would do.

  * * *

  Kalid accepted the silver tray from the servant and removed the stack of envelopes, nodding in dismissal as he returned the salver. The girl retreated, bowing, and as she closed the door behind her Kalid called to his wife, “The mail has arrived.”

  Sarah hurried in from the next room. A new shipment of mail was always an event for her; it meant a great deal to hear from friends and family when she was now so far away from them.

  “Roxalena,” Kalid said, handing her an envelope with a Cypriot postmark.

  Sarah snatched it eagerly.

  “Your friend Sophie from Boston,” he said as he examined another missive, naming one of Sarah’s former colleagues who still taught in the school where Sarah had once worked.

  “You can see through paper?” Sarah asked archly.

  “Brookline,” Kalid said, tapping the canceled stamp as he gave her the letter.

  Sarah took it and put it into her pile.

  “Oh, and our invitation to the Victoria Mission Ball,” he added, grinning wickedly as he held aloft a cream vellum envelope addressed in flowing script with an Italianate hand.

  Sarah groaned and closed her eyes. “Is it time for that again already?”

  “I’m afraid so, my darling. Time for the superior Westerners to display to the natives that they have not abandoned civilization and culture out here in the wilds of the Ottoman Empire.” He widened his eyes dramatically.

  “And time for the Sultan to show up with an outrageous entourage and terrify all the tea sipping ladies.”

  “It is for a good cause,” Kalid said, taking a drink of his coffee.

  “I tell myself that every year,” Sarah said, sitting next to him on the divan and putting her head on his shoulder.

  “And every year you go and are the most beautiful woman there,” Kalid said, bending to kiss the tip of her nose.

  Sarah picked up the invitation, reading it. “Mrs. Ballinger is chairwoman this time,” she commented.

  “That old bat with the wart on her chin who talks like her mouth is full of marbles?” Kalid said.

  “Yes. You remember, her husband is commander of the British garrison,” Sarah replied, smiling at his description of the brigadier’s venerable wife.

  “I remember both of them. He always asks me how I enjoyed Oxford, as if I were there yesterday. I imagine he thinks it’s the only thing we have in common.”

  “It probably is,” Sarah said.

  “My mother was as British as London Bridge, which I’m tempted to remind all of them every time they start waving the flag and looking at me as if I just climbed down out of the trees.”

  “The women look at you like that because you are the most exotic, compelling, and sexual creature they have ever seen, and the men look at you like that because they know it.” Sarah sat up and kissed him on the lips.

>   He laughed, kissing her back. “I thought nice American ladies weren’t supposed to tell lies.”

  “I’m not lying, I’m speaking from experience.” She lay back in his arms comfortably.

  “So shall I say we’ll go?” Kalid asked, nodding at the invitation still in her hand. “It seems a little ridiculous to attend a social function with Abdul Hammid when I might be shooting at him soon, but until that happens I suppose all the appearances must be preserved.”

  “Yes, let’s go,” Sarah replied. “I see no reason to break our perfect attendance record, and it will give me a chance to talk to Amelia.”

  “And check on the progress of the forbidden liaison?” Kalid said teasingly.

  “Of course.”

  “You’re a hopeless romantic.”

  “I know.”

  “And I’m so glad you are. Only a hopeless romantic would have left her old life behind entirely to begin a new one half way around the world with the man she loved.”

  “I hope things work out as well for Amelia.”

  “You really like her, don’t you?”

  “She reminds me of me.”

  “Then she will be fine.” He stood up, taking her hand and pulling her with him. “If she has one quarter of your grit and determination she will stick with Bey through any trouble and come out all right in the end.”

  “Where are we going?” Sarah asked, her mind still on the young lovers.

  “Yasmin went to try on her new clothes for the Feast of the Flowers. I told her we would come and see her.”

  “I hope Memtaz can restrain herself, she tends to get carried away. When I think of some of the outfits she made me wear when I was in the harem...”

  “I promise no transparent yeleks on the child,” Kalid said dryly.

  “And no jewel in the navel,” Sarah added.

  “Why don’t we just put a corset and crinoline on her and one of those blouses that buttons up to the nose?” he said, as they left the salon and entered the hall.

  “It isn’t funny, Kalid. A shirtwaist might not be a bad idea. Between Memtaz and your grandmother Yasmin will look like an odalisque before she’s twelve.”