Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

I did not respond, but waited for him to continue.

“He is not a man to forgive these things. He will work to destroy us.”

I could not imagine what it meant to be destroyed. I thought of the fish hung by a rope. I began to cry.

His eyes swept the room as if an object there might rescue him, but saw only the delicate, fragile weavings of a girl’s life, nothing to hold on to. When he turned back to me, I thought the corners of his eyes were moist.

“It’s not your fault, my daughter. I shouldn’t have forced this marriage on you. I had no idea of this man’s low character. He was highly recommended by all who knew him professionally. Hüsnü Hanoum made inquiries into his character among the women. She assured me they all said he was a kind and generous man.”

He paused as if something had just occurred to him.

Frowning, he continued, “I think it best if you went to your mother’s side. You can rest there, while we decide how to proceed.”

He patted my hand without looking at my face, then got up and strode quickly out of the room.

Dearest sister,

If it is not too much of an imposition on the bond between you and your husband, I would ask that this letter remain between us. I am in need of advice from you. There is no one here I can ask or trust. How I miss Mother. I’m sure she would have been able to guide me. No, there is nothing seriously amiss, although I am feeling quite dislocated these past few days. I find myself spending altogether too much time thinking about Kamil Pasha, the magistrate I mentioned before. After all, despite his civilized demeanor, he is an infidel and I have no right to imagine a life that would cast any aspersions on Father’s career. Kamil Pasha has not stated his case for me in so many words-he is not given to rambling protestations-but his meaning is clear. What shall I do, dearest Maitlin? It is impossible to say I will not see him again-he comes here on official business regarding the murder of Mary Dixon. I have never before felt such attraction. It is quite as if I were astride an uncontrollable horse where my only choice is to follow his lead or to fall off at great pain to myself. Is this what happened between you and Richard?

But my real fear is that I might shame Father. I am filled with self-loathing that such thoughts should even enter my mind. I am speaking of marriage, of course, Maitlin. I would not countenance anything else, regardless of the attraction. We all have seen what happens to young women who are too eager to give up their only asset and find themselves devalued before society. I am less concerned with society for my sake, but much more for Father’s sake. He could not do his work here if there were any taint of scandal. And there is the question of religion-the scandal of his daughter marrying a heathen would do almost as much damage.

Lately, Bernie has been spending the night. He says he has put his writing project on hold for the moment, that he needs time to rethink his approach. I’m so glad he has decided to stay here. I do so enjoy his company and welcome the diversion during the long evenings. I have for some time suffered from loneliness, particularly at night, something I never shared with you because I didn’t want you to worry about me. That loneliness is now accentuated by the absence of someone whose figure does not even fit into the composition of my life, at least as it has been painted by British and Ottoman society. There is a stubborn strain in the women of our family, a deep need to alter the frame into which we have been placed. But I cannot sacrifice Father to that temptation. You know of what I speak.

I look to you, my wise and dear sister, for advice.

Ever yours,

Sybil

Sybil puts down her pen and, taking the sheer white veil from the bed, sits before a mirror and pins it to her hair, snugging it against her forehead. She flings the veil over her head so that it hangs like flowing hair down her back and laughs. The laughter bubbles from deep inside, from a place Sybil has not realized was hers. The veil is nothing, a bagatelle, if by wearing it she will be able to move in society by Kamil’s side.

But she doesn’t believe he will require her to wear it. She pictures a house, one of those lovely Ottoman confections overlooking the Bosphorus. She will decorate its rooms in Oriental style-flowered carpets, damask cushions, velvet drapes-with enough chairs and couches to host the receptions she is sure will be part of her role as wife of a high Ottoman government official. One could say, she thinks, that she has been training for this role all her life. She will also help Kamil with his work, as she has helped her father. She could be his eyes and ears among the women. Finding Shukriye, a witness to the circumstances surrounding Hannah’s death, will prove her worth.

In her mind, Sybil populates her new house with children, a son and a daughter, and her dear nephews. Perhaps they would choose to stay. The boys could attend Robert College, in its forested eyrie high above the Bosphorus. Surely once they had seen it, they would want to stay. Maitlin could start a hospital for women. Richard would agree, as he always has. Perhaps he could hold an embassy post, finally take the reins from her exhausted father. And Bernie would be here, a familiar face.

A pleasant thought suddenly strikes her. They could all live on adjoining properties as Turkish families do. When Turks marry, they move into houses next to those of their parents and siblings. Their children grow up slipping through hedges that divide one garden from the next.

As she thinks of children, Sybil blushes. She pulls the veil across her face and sits heavily on the bed. Kamil’s physical presence, the memory of his lips heavy and demanding on her own, overwhelms her senses like a tidal wave. The timbre of his voice thrums in her a desire to submit that, in her capable persona, she would never reveal. Beneath the veil, within that narrow, lush chamber of solitude, she feels unfettered. Nana would say, running with sap.

Kamil sits on a cushioned bench under a trellis of jasmine in the garden of his mother’s house, reading Reese’s Manual of Toxicology, which he has borrowed from Michel with the excuse that it would help him with his investigations. Kamil has always taken satisfaction from knowing exactly how things work. But his reading today is in the service of a more uncertain project, his father. Opium poisoning, he reads, leaves few consistent clues in the body after death. The pupils are often contracted, but may also be dilated. Death may be sudden, or staved off altogether, depending on whether the stomach was full or empty, how many grains of opium were administered, and whether the poison was in liquid form or solid, as tincture of laudanum or crystals of morphia. But a drop of starch diluted by iodic acid will identify a residue of only one ten-thousandth of a grain of morphia by turning blue. There is nothing in the book about weaning a man from the habit of opium.

Sparks of light from the strait give the garden an air of motion and exuberance that intensifies its tranquillity. One of Kamil’s most vivid childhood memories is of the delicate, colorful crocheted butterflies edging the cotton scarf draped loosely over his mother’s hair. When she leaned over his father to serve him tea, the butterflies vibrated in the breeze and seemed to be trying to lift the scarf away from her face.

Why had his mother chosen to live here on her own? he wonders again. Her presence in the garden is strong. He can almost believe he sees her, stitching her tapestry on the bench beside the roses. Maybe he is seeing visions like Baba, he muses. He supposes his mother tired of the immense staff, the constant surveillance, the wives and families of officials and other visitors she was required to entertain at the official residence. During this time, Kamil remembers watching his parents carefully when they were together. One day, from behind a door, Kamil saw his father embrace his mother, swiftly, almost furtively, in a passageway. This embrace, though brief, relieved Kamil’s fear that his parents would part from one another, that he would lose them. At that moment he became aware of this possibility, lodged like a splinter in his heart.