Tears of Pearl

Chapter 7

I’d refused to get out of bed that morning, insisting Meg bring my mail upstairs, where I burst out laughing more than once while reading Margaret’s letter. My American friend, daughter of a fantastically wealthy railroad baron, was a kindred spirit whose love of the study of classics had brought us together while I was in mourning for my first husband. Although she was a Latinist (formally trained at Bryn Mawr) and I preferred Greek, our interests overlapped enough to provide for an intellectually stimulating friendship unlike any I’d known before. She’d become, in the span of a few years, as close to me as Ivy, though the two of them couldn’t be more different. Margaret challenged me while Ivy offered comfort, and I couldn’t imagine doing without either of them.

Margaret’s modern thinking and passionate belief in the rights of women inspired me, and the way she managed to convince her parents to support her studies was impressive. She was an expert at negotiating trade-offs with them. A mere year ago, she’d agreed to a Season in London (with the theoretical goal of catching a titled husband) in exchange for a term at Oxford. In the process, she convinced everyone a duke (my dear friend Jeremy Sheffield) had mercilessly broken her heart and so completely won her parents’ sympathies that they hardly balked when a few months later she’d accepted the proposal of a don at Oxford. She had admitted to being rather astonished at having agreed to marry anyone but said that some charms could not be resisted, and Mr. Michaels had them in abundance. It had all turned out brilliantly.

“I don’t like it at all,” Colin said, turning over and rubbing a gentle hand over the now blooming purple marks on my arm when I’d finished reading the letter. “How on earth did this happen?”

“It was entirely inadvertent,” I said, not wanting to confess that I’d angered the sultan. “A guard was leading me out of the palace, and you know how steep the paths are at Yıldız. His grip was firm and I bruise easily.”

“No one’s grip is that fierce by accident.”

“I’d never before considered the possibility of deliberately violent eunuchs.” I folded the letter and tossed it aside, then scrunched the ends of my pillow and dropped my elbows in the center of it, resting my chin on my hands. “But perhaps that’s precisely what he is.”

“If only I’d been there to defend you.”

“Rest assured I have no need of rescuing.”

“I’m well aware of that.” He pulled the pillow out from under me, rolled onto my back, and kissed my neck, the feeling of his legs against the backs of mine bliss itself. “But I do think, my dear, that you underestimate the value of being saved from dire circumstances. You might find it more than a little titillating.”

“I promised you no unnecessary danger, and you must promise me no rescues.”

“I wish you’d rescue me,” he said, biting my ear.

“Stop. I’m being serious,” I said.

“I’m all too aware of it. It’s not so glamorous and invigorating as you think, necessary danger.”

“When have you known me to yearn for glamour?”

“Every morning when you dress.”

“Please, Colin, don’t tease me,” I said. “I need to know that you support what I’m doing.”

“I do. But I can’t say I’m without concern.”

“I’m still waiting for my Derringer.”

“It shall be our first order of business upon returning to England.” He laughed, shook his head. “This is a conversation I never would have thought I’d have with my spouse.”

“Would you prefer an ordinary wife?”

“Never,” he said, kissing me until he could have had no doubt that all serious thoughts had taken flight from my brain. I was so carried away that I hardly noticed the door had creaked open, then slammed shut, then creaked again.

“Madam?” Meg’s voice was low. “There’s a Mr. Sutcliffe here to see Mr. Hargreaves. Says it’s urgent.”

“Tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Colin said, heaving a sigh. As soon as she’d closed the door, he kissed me again. “We shall continue this later.”

“I’m not sure I can wait.”

“Which, first, makes me adore you all the more, and second, will make it that much better when we reconvene.”

He pulled away, leaving me aching while he dressed, and I did not call for Meg to assist me with my own ablutions until after he’d gone downstairs. I submitted to her ministrations with little pleasure, wanting nothing but my husband. It did not help that she was severe with my hair—my scalp screamed in protest—and fought a valiant battle with my corset, pulling harder than usual to force my waist into submission. The end result pleased her but left me feeling a keen discomfort as I joined the gentlemen on the terrace.

“Good morning, Mr. Sutcliffe,” I said. They were sitting at a table next to the water, a chessboard stretched between them. Colin had opened with the Queen’s Gambit, two pawns moving to take control of the center of the board.

“A true pleasure to see you again, Lady Emily.” Mr. Sutcliffe bent a silver gray head over my hand.

“I’m sorry to have interrupted your game.” I studied the board. “I’d suggest you accept his gambit. It’s not without risk. You’ll lose control of the center, but if you play it right, you’ll open yourself up to a greater freedom as the game goes on.”

“Just who are you supporting in this match, my dear?” Colin asked.

“We had only just begun to pass the time until you arrived and would not dream of continuing now that you’ve joined us,” Mr. Sutcliffe said. “I told your husband that, with his permission, I would like to speak to both of you, as it appears you’re equally embroiled in this dreadful business at the palace. I’m concerned in the extreme about Sir Richard.”

“We all are,” I said.

“The loss of his daughter is a blow from which he may not recover. I’ve seen it too often—not just from my own experience, but in the charity work I do to support families whose children have succumbed to illness. Often poverty is a mitigating factor—bettering their situations may serve to prevent more loss. At least that’s what I tell myself.”

“An admirable position,” Colin said.

“I cannot stand to see anyone suffer what I have. But when I think of Richard... Do you really think it wise to fuel his belief that the Ottomans have arrested the wrong man?”

“I’ve seen nothing that suggests he’s guilty,” Colin said. “And if he’s not—”

Mr. Sutcliffe shook his head and held up a hand. “I want my friend to have peace, and I’m full of fear that this investigation will give him nothing but the opposite.”

“How can he know peace until he finds out what happened to his daughter?” I asked.

“You think it’s possible to determine that?”

“It’s impossible to say at the moment,” Colin said. “Best case would be finding some physical evidence that links a suspect to the crime.”

“Wouldn’t that already have been apparent? Surely the guards would have seen it that night?”

“Oversights are made with horrifying frequency,” my husband said.

“So it’s not too late?” Mr. Sutcliffe asked.

“Not necessarily,” Colin replied, his voice all breezy confidence. “We’re taking every possible measure.”

“I can’t see the old boy hurt further. This is the sort of pain that can ruin a man.”

“I don’t think he’s verging on that territory,” I said.

“No? He’s coming completely unhinged and making more mistakes at his work than the ambassador will be able to tolerate for long. I assure you, Lady Emily, my concerns are well-founded. I’m doing all I can to help, but there are limits.”

“You’re a good friend,” I said.

“I’m far too familiar with his pain,” Mr. Sutcliffe said, “and hope that prolonging this investigation won’t make it harder for him. He’s been through quite enough.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “And in an attempt to speed the process along, I’m afraid I must excuse myself. I’m expected at Yıldız.”

“I wish you all luck,” Mr. Sutcliffe said. “Physical evidence, Lady Emily. I’ll be crossing fingers that you find some.”

I thanked him, gave Colin a quick kiss, and stepped off the patio onto a waiting boat. Once again, the ride was interminable to my churning stomach, set in motion this time not only by the rough water, but by anxiety. I’d sent a note to Perestu, who had arranged for me to go to the hamam, agreeing that it might persuade the concubines I was someone they could trust. She’d promised to send English-speaking girls who knew Ceyden to talk to me. The prospect of bathing with untold numbers of total strangers was horrific, but I hoped to uncover some information of use.

Inside the harem, I followed a guard to the concubines’ hamam, where I was handed off to a bath attendant, an elderly woman who spoke no English but managed to communicate to me that her name was Melek. She ushered me into a tiny dressing room, pantomiming actions that could only suggest I was to remove my clothing. In a matter of moments, she had whisked my dress over my head and turned her attentions to my corset. I was two shades from mortification, a condition not helped in the least when I realized that the towel—tiny and made from the thinnest-possible cotton—she was handing me would provide all the cover I was to get. She slipped wooden-soled clogs onto my feet and motioned for me to follow her.

Hobbling behind her, I focused on keeping my feet from sliding on the slick marble floor while at the same time gripping my toes lest the slippers fly off. She opened a wooden door and led me into a large, domed room made entirely of gray marble. The temperature was warmer than in the outer chamber, but not so hot as to be uncomfortable. Evenly spaced washbasins lined the perimeter, their faucets fashioned in elaborately patterned bronze. Marble benches ran continuously between the sinks, and on them sat more than a dozen women of the harem, all of them completely unclothed.

So shocked was I by this sight that I did not notice my attendant pulling my less than adequate towel away from me, leaving me in the same vulnerable state. I leapt for the nearest bench, falling onto it in a manner lacking any and all grace. Melek picked up a silver bowl, filled it in the basin, and dumped steaming water over my head. She repeated this several times before handing it to me and motioning for me to continue myself.

With a smile so weak as to be all but nonexistent, I dipped the bowl into the sink, sending water spilling over the sides. There were no drains. The water ran into a trough in the floor and disappeared beneath a wall, the sound of its travels dancing through echoes of the bouncing hum of the faucets. The warm stone felt good against my back, but there was no part of me finding even slim comfort in the situation. Other than the sound of water, the room appeared silent until I began to listen with focused attention. All around me, the women were whispering to one another, leaning forward to circumvent the basins, heads bent together as they spoke, coming apart when they lifted their bowls above them.

I looked at my arms, astonished to find that even my limbs had blushed crimson, and dropped my head back against the wall, ashamed of myself. Much though I wanted to throw myself into the local culture and behave nothing like the typical Englishwoman, I was failing miserably at the hamam. Still holding my now full bowl, I clenched my teeth and poured the water over my head. Bound and determined to enjoy myself, I dunked the bowl back into the sink and sloshed the contents onto my hair, which, thanks to Melek, was hanging loose down my back.

Meg would be beyond horrified when she saw me.

A petite blonde sat at the basin next to mine and began dousing herself. “I understand we are to be kind to you,” she said. “An unusual directive.”

“Is it?” I planted my elbows on my knees and rested my chin on them, trying to hide my body.

“You should relax.” She tipped her head back and poured more water. I looked away, focusing on the floor. The marble, a superior grade, better than any I’d seen in England, shimmered in the soft light but was not enough to keep my attention. I tried the ceiling instead, counting the small circular windows cut into it and then analyzing the color of the sky, not quite cerulean. My neighbor’s laughter floated into my false reverie. “Is it so taxing?”

“Taxing?” I asked, forcing myself to meet her clear eyes.

“I have heard stories of the West, of the European courts. Didn’t believe them, but perhaps I should have. Is everyone in England so tense?”

This made me smile. “Yes, actually.”

“Tedious.” She pushed her hands against the bench, straightening her arms and arching her back.

“Different,” I said. “But I don’t know that tedious... yes, you’re right. Tedious.” We both laughed, and although I felt somewhat less exposed, my degree of anxiety dropped little more than the weight of a hummingbird.

“I would never go there,” she said. “You know that Perestu sent only those whose English is good to speak to you today.”

“I appreciate it. How long have you lived in the harem?”

“Since I was a girl. I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”

“You don’t feel... restricted?”

“Of course not. Our options for amusement are endless.”

“But you can’t leave?”

“We take excursions whenever we want. I was shopping in Pera yesterday. Not everyone’s as discontent as Roxelana.”

“You know her?”

“Her room is near mine.”

“Are you friends?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she said. “Roxelana is very careful about her choice of confidantes. There’s an air of superiority about her—she won’t even pray with any of us. Furthermore, she prefers the friendship of men.”

“In the harem?”

“The guards. Jemal is a favorite of hers.”

“I’m surprised to learn that,” I said.

“Who else are we to flirt with? Each other? Jemal is useful. Bezime may have no power anymore, but she can sometimes help us—and he arranges it.”

“Help you how?” I asked, cataloging away in my head the fact that Roxelana and Jemal were friends.

“She practices the dark arts. Can tell our fortunes, read our charts. And she’s something of a physician as well. There’s no one I’d rather have prescribe a treatment for me when I fall ill.”

“And Jemal tells you what she suggests?”

“He brings us her medicines.”

“I understand he knew Ceyden well.”

“Everyone knew her,” she said. “She was impossible to escape.”

“What can you tell me of their relationship?”

“It wasn’t so unusual. As I said, we’ve no one to flirt with but the guards. Most of us have a favorite.”

“Was she as close to him as Roxelana is?”

“Not at all. But Ceyden was less discreet and drew too much attention to them.”

“Did he do anything to help her get the sultan’s notice?” I asked.

“He let her believe he did, but I never saw anything that suggested he’d succeeded. Jemal’s a pleasant enough distraction,” she said. “But I wouldn’t consider him reliable.”

Melek had returned and motioned for me to follow her, putting a stop to our conversation with a sharp shake of her head. I stood, unsteady on the ill-fitting wooden clogs, and shuffled behind her to a large, octagonal marble platform in the middle of the room. Following the lead of the women who were already there, I lay down, resting my head on a small pillow, my heart racing.

Melek pulled a mohair mitt onto her hand and began scrubbing my skin with an earnest vigor, so hard that it almost hurt, leaving no inch unpolished, fingertips to toes, until I was tingling. I flipped onto my stomach and she continued with my back, pausing to show me the horrific amount of residue that had collected on the mitt. When she’d finished, she had me stand and soaked me with water before helping me to lie back down. Next came a gentle massage, another rinse, and another scrub. This time, instead of the mitt, she used a long, tail-like brush, which she rubbed with soap. As she moved it over my body, it left behind inches of fine lather. More rinsing followed, and now when I stood up, my self-consciousness had started to fade, but I kept my eyes closed, wanting neither to see the other women nor to notice them watching me.

I had to look, though, when she took my hand to lead me across the room to a small wooden door, through which she ushered me. The room beyond it was small, verging on claustrophobic, and radiated a heat that reminded me of the searing burn that accosted a person standing on the Acropolis in Athens on the hottest of summer days. I sat on the marble bench that lined the circumference of the space and leapt up almost at once, my delicate skin unable to stand the temperature. Laughter bounced off the walls.

“You are unused to the warmth?” Roxelana was stretched out on the other end of the bench.

“Warmth is not a strong enough word,” I said, gingerly sitting back down and cringing at the result.

“It’s marvelous when you’re used to it. If you lie down, your weight will be more evenly distributed and you’ll adjust with greater ease.”

The thought of pressing the entire length of my body onto this instrument of torture did not appeal to me in the least, but Roxelana’s suggestion made a certain amount of academic sense, so, with more than a dash of trepidation, I lowered myself.

She was correct; within minutes, the unbearable temperature had become a pleasant friend, and the marble cradled my limbs, lulling me into a trancelike state from which I had no desire to wake.

“I knew you would like it,” she said.

I struggled to raise my head to look at her as I replied, “It’s like nothing I’ve ever known.”

“And you’ve relaxed enough that you’ve forgot you’re naked.”

At once I shot up, covering myself, and then laughed before dropping back onto the bench. “I suppose it makes no difference.”

“Have the others poisoned you against me?”

“Far from it.”

“They don’t like me because of my religion.”

“Are they aware of your beliefs?” I asked.

“No, but they can see I’m not a devout Muslim. It keeps me separate from the rest.”

“Are they all faithful?”

“To a degree. Faithful enough to make me fear should I be caught with my rosary,” she said. “I do hope you have the sense not to believe the things people here tell you.”

“Including the things you tell me?”

“You can believe some of them. Dare I hope you’ve invented a plan to secure my freedom?”

“I don’t know that it’s even possible for me to do such a thing. I’ve discussed your situation with the sultan. He resisted, but I shall do all I can to convince him to release you,” I said. “I am, in theory, opposed to arranged marriages, but it seems the only way to gain your release.”

“I will not marry a man outside my faith,” she said.

“You’ve no idea how I sympathize, and I wish there were another way. Marriage would at least serve to release you from this prison.”

“Into another.” Tears flashed in her liquid black eyes. “I thought I might find an ally in you—a woman who understood the need to fight for a life of her own, someone who was not bound by a prison of unfair and unjust rules. I see I was wrong.”

The reappearance of Melek put an end to the conversation, but while I sat in front of her as she shampooed me, I couldn’t stop the sting of Roxelana’s words. She knew not how close they cut me. I’d risked much to pursue my own interests and wondered if I could embody the goals to which I aspired if I did nothing to free her from her cage. I felt sharp tears in my own eyes as Melek rinsed my hair and then left me, thoroughly clean, to relax on the warm marble until I was ready to dress. As the heat seduced me, wild scenarios for freeing Roxelana marched through my head, reminding me of the dangers of reading too much sensational fiction. I was beginning to approach a perilous place and already contemplating ways to avoid the British government being implicated should she escape. Uneasy, I was more than eager to seek out my clothes but thought I should lie down for another moment, long enough only to not appear rude. The inanity of this—relaxing by rule—made me smile, and the girl next to me rolled onto her stomach and propped her chin on a hand.

“It is much easier to talk in here, don’t you think?”

“Is it?”

“No one’s listening,” she said. “Do you know yet about Ceyden and Jemal?”

“I’ve heard stories. What can you tell me?”

“There’s more to it than a throwaway flirtation—” She stopped speaking, and her eyes left mine. I followed her gaze, turning my head to look behind me, where I saw Perestu, standing above us, fully clothed, not a drop of sweat on her face despite the heat.

“Have you enjoyed the hamam, Lady Emily?”

“More than I expected,” I said, feeling once again wholly self-conscious and covering myself with my arms.

“Go dress. When you are ready, you will be brought to me.”

As she left, I turned back to my neighbor, still sprawled on the warm marble. “There’s not much to tell,” she said, coming close to whisper to me. “It’s just that sometimes there are ways to get to the sultan without earning Perestu’s approval.”

When I was dressed—expertly put back together by one of the harem maids—Perestu took me to Ceyden’s room, a chamber with stone walls and almost no decoration that brought to mind a monk’s cell. Her small bed was covered with heaping mounds of clothing—bright silks, embroidered fabrics, everything cut in current Western fashion. An armoire stood in the corner, doors open, nothing hanging inside, another pile of crumpled dresses lying on its floor.

I crossed to the only other piece of furniture in the room, a desk. On top of it were two books—a collection of Persian poetry translated into English and a copy of the Koran. The margins in the volume of poetry were full of scrawled notes, written in Greek. The Koran, though its spine was broken and the pages dog-eared, contained no annotations.

I pulled open each drawer in the desk. All were empty save one that contained a sewing kit wrapped in a beautifully embroidered cloth. “Who has had access to this room since the murder?” I asked.

“Anyone who wants to come in. You can see that her clothes have been pillaged. For all her faults, Ceyden did have a flair for fashion. If, that is, you like Western styles.”

I shuddered at the thought of people digging through the dead girl’s gowns, looking for something to wear. “You prefer another sort of fashion,” I said. I’d never seen Perestu in anything other than traditional dresses and wide Turkish trousers. It set her apart from the other women and complemented her elegant bearing and petite figure.

“Yes, I do.”

I began picking up gowns from the bed, shaking out each one before draping it over the desk. Aside from the occasional ripped hem, I noticed nothing out of the ordinary and moved to the armoire, where, beneath scarves and shawls and more dresses, I found something that could have been out of Perestu’s wardrobe—a stunning Turkish-style gown fashioned from a rich blue-and-silver brocade. More fascinating than the beauty of the dress, however, was the fact that it was far too heavy for its yardage, its skirt bulky where it should have been smooth. The beginnings of excitement stirring in me, I spread out the garment on the floor and ran my hand over the cloth.

“There’s something not right here,” I said, flipping the dress inside out to reveal a cotton lining with neat seams stitched in it to form small, quilted squares of varying sizes. Anticipating me as she watched, Perestu took the sewing kit from the desk and handed me a slim, golden scissors. I cut the stitches and realized that it wasn’t quilted—the squares were separate pieces of material. Once I’d removed two sides, I reached into what turned out to be a pocket and pulled out an emerald.

With a gasp, Perestu abandoned her regal bearing and dropped to her knees next to me. I opened another square and found three gold bracelets encrusted with rubies, and then another to reveal a pair of heavy diamond earrings.

“Are these her personal jewels?” I asked.

“No. She did not have the status to own such things.”

I kept at my work, and in short order we had before us a glittering pile of gemstones and a slim gold dagger. I reached behind the last square and touched a stunning sapphire ring set in a diamond-encrusted bezel. I held it up to Perestu, who took it from my hand.

“This is mine,” she said. “And I believe we’ve found quite enough, Lady Emily. I see Ceyden for who she was. My instincts about her were perfectly accurate, and we don’t need to know anything else. I can no longer doubt that the guard was the one who killed her, most likely in an attempt to stop her from stealing anything else.”

“That may not be the case, Your Highness,” I said. “We should—”

“It’s quite enough. The sultan will thank you for your services.”