Tasha Alexander - Tears of Pearl

“She wanted to take a carriage, and I insisted... I love to walk, you know—it’s all my fault—”

“There, now, she’ll be fine.”

He put a hand on my back and guided me to the sitting room, where, to her credit, Margaret was sprawled out, half on her chair, half on the floor. To anyone with experience, it was clear her pose was far too elegant to be authentic, but there are moments in which artistry cannot be resisted. Mr. Sutcliffe pulled a bell cord, and the butler appeared almost at once. As soon as he saw Margaret, he stepped out again and returned with a bottle of smelling salts that he handed to his master. She flinched admirably when he placed them beneath her nose—although that would not have required much acting—opened her eyes, and looked at our host.

“Mr. Sutcliffe,” she said. “You are like a vision of an angel.”

“I... well, yes. Thank you, Miss Seward.”

“I’m so sorry for disturbing you,” I said. “I know you’re off to Rome and in the midst of the last-minute rush. We picked a terrible time to call. For all practical purposes, you’re already gone.” I almost felt sorry for him. It was embarrassing to have been caught claiming not to be home, although everyone does it to avoid unwelcome callers. My sympathy was more than limited, however, as first, I strongly suspected Mr. Sutcliffe of murder, and second, I did not like to include myself in any list of unwanted visitors.

“Yes. Apologies. Had I known I would have two charming ladies calling, I should not have said I wasn’t at home,” he said.

“Especially if you knew one was about to faint,” Margaret said, picking herself up off the floor.

“The subject we came to discuss is not urgent. It can wait until you return from your trip,” I said.

“Will you be in Constantinople that long?”

“I wouldn’t dream of leaving without seeing you again,” I said. I had moved close to the door and then realized I was about to make an exit that lacked even a shred of grace. “Will you dine with us your first night back? I’d so love to hear about your trip.”

“It would be my pleasure. And I must insist that you allow me to call my carriage for you. We can’t have Miss Seward walking any further today.”

Margaret, theatrically serious, looked at him with wide eyes. “I cannot thank you enough. You have rescued me today without making me feel even the slightest tinge of embarrassment. How ever will I make it up to you?”

“I would be distressed if you felt even the slightest need to try,” he said.

And with that, we left, both of us silent until we’d exited the carriage at the docks.

“That was a debacle,” I said, stretching out across the foot of Margaret’s bed. Instead of returning to the yalı —and intent as I was on getting some much-needed privacy—we had gone to my friend’s suite at Misseri’s after checking in with Miss Evans. Sir Richard had awakened and was doing much better. The doctor had assured us he was in no danger and would make a full recovery.

Margaret and I made our exit as quickly as possible. Back at the hotel, we had dinner sent to the room, and following long baths, we both pulled on nightgowns, poured glasses of port, and sat on the balcony outside her bedroom, watching the city’s lights below us.

“Thank heavens you were prescient enough to think of having me faint,” Margaret said. “If you hadn’t suggested I be on guard before you left the room, you would have come in to find me rummaging through the drawers of that desk.”

I sipped the tawny liquid, loving the warmth it sent through me. “That would have been a disaster. But I’m worried. He’s on to us.”

“ ‘On to us’? What does that even mean? We don’t know what we’re doing, do we?” She laughed. “For all that it was a debacle, it was awfully fun. You’ve very nearly convinced me to reconsider the benefits of detecting.”

“Tired of the settled life before you’ve even started?”

“Maybe.”

“Whatever will Mr. Michaels say?”

“I’m afraid even to consider it,” she said. “I had such a lovely letter from him today. He’s taken to writing in Latin, which is a great improvement. His words flow much better, and he less frequently relies on academic phrases to persuade me to believe the depth and breadth of his passionate admiration for me.”

“You’re terrible.”

“No, I’m not! I love him more than anything, but the man is an awful writer. It’s tragic, really.”

“Doesn’t seem to be keeping him from getting his heart’s desire,” I said.

“Well, perfection would be boring. And I don’t mind being better at something than he is.”

“So you write good love letters?”

“The best,” she said.

“Show me.”

“Never.” Her grin was two shades from evil and made me laugh. “What about Colin?” she asked. “How are his letters?”

“Every delicious thing,” I said. More laughter; the space around us was warm with it. I wondered how many more nights we would have like this. So much changed after marriage. But, no, it was not marriage that concerned me. It was my old fear, taking me back to that December night so long ago, when my aunt had died.

“You’ve grown dull,” Margaret said. “What is it?”

“Ivy. I’m scared for her.”

“I am, too. We all know well what can happen. But we can’t let it paralyze us.”

“You’re right, of course. I just never thought it would be so hard.” I swirled the port in my glass and pressed my lips together, feeling the early sting of tears. “Everyone else seems to be able to reconcile herself with the risk. I don’t know why I can’t.”

“Does there have to be a reason?”

“I suppose not. But if there were, I might be able to understand and then overcome it.”

“You’re so strong, you’d never have a problem.”

“Maybe.” I smiled. “I would like to give Colin an heir. It would bring him great joy.”

“Of course it would. And you as well.”

“Yes.” My face was growing hot. “It would.”

She took my hand. “Whatever happens, I shall be there with you. You won’t be alone, and you won’t have to pretend to be anything other than terrified.”

“Thank you, Margaret. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

We embraced, finished our port, began to strategize, and by morning had a more than reasonable plan as to how we could learn more about Mr. Sutcliffe.

The sun hit our more than reasonable plan with a harsh and unforgiving light, but we were undaunted. Phase one would be simple enough; it was the second half that could prove tricky. We started by making the rounds in Pera, calling at the home of every British ex-pat we could think of. Thankfully, as the daughter of an earl, my rank enabled us to do this without introductions.

“In fact,” I said, ringing the bell at our fifth house, “my mother would say this is my social obligation. A lady of rank, she always tells me, has a responsibility to call on those around her. To not do so is rude.”

“We can’t have that,” Margaret said.

In the space of a few hours—exhausting hours that left us overfull of tea and biscuits—we learned that Mr. Sutcliffe’s career had taken him to Vienna (his first post, where he served with the gentleman who was now one of the top aides to the consul here in Turkey), Canada, Portugal, and the West Indies. But it wasn’t until we met with a Mrs. Hooper-Ferris that we stumbled upon anything of use.

“Oh, the West Indies were awful!” We’d spent a pleasant half hour with our hostess, the wife of one of the embassy’s top officials. “We were there at the same time as the Sutcliffes—terrible epidemic of typhoid—people were dropping everywhere. It’s when he lost his entire family, but I’m sure you knew that already,” she said.