Tears of Pearl

Chapter 12

The next morning, my husband set off for the embassy and I for the St. Clares’ house in Pera, where I planned to speak with Benjamin. I knew all too well the pressures that could be exerted by parents with strong opinions and hoped that I might be able to get him to open up to me. Colin and I crossed the Bosphorus together, sitting side by side in our small boat, the European shore opening up in front of us.

“You’re turning green,” he said. “I’d no idea you were so prone to seasickness.”

“It comes as a complete surprise to me as well.”

“I wonder—” He stopped.

“What?”

“No, it’s silly.”

“I don’t know that I like you stopping and starting with me,” I said. “We’ve always spoken freely to each other, have we not?”

“Forgive me. Yes, of course we have. But there are some subjects best left alone by...” He laughed, shook his head. “I’m a man, after all, and that guarantees there will be certain topics with which I will never be entirely comfortable.”

I knew, of course, with absolute precision to what he was referring, and I cursed my nausea, feeling ambivalent about the entire situation. I stared into his eyes, debating confessing to him my fears, my suspicions. Something dark tugged inside me, reminding me of what I stood to lose by telling him too soon. Not only my independence and his support of my work, but I would also risk disappointing him. Regardless of Bezime’s ridiculous insistence of her certainty on the matter, I did not know if I was with child. Part of me longed to share with him my thoughts, but while he would be excited—that was clear by the way he was looking at me, eyes bright as he shot me a crooked smile—my own reaction would not be so simple. And that was bound to disappoint him.

“Heavens! I shall do all I can to avoid the topic for as long as possible,” I said, removing my gaze from his and focusing on the horizon. “Did you ever think I would so easily fall prey to something as diabolically simple as seasickness?”

“I confess I didn’t.”

“Nor did I. I’ve decided it’s a punishment for past hubris. I’ve been too confident in my abilities, physical and otherwise.”

“So you’re quite sure it’s seasickness?”

I gave him my brightest smile, my heart breaking just a little at the deception. “Unless the cook has been poisoning my food,” I said. “How are you feeling? Dizzy? Hint of queasiness hitting you?”

“I’ve never been better.” He was watching me with an intensity that all but made me squirm.

“The food must be safe, then. And you are the picture of health, as always,” I said. “Since you’re so smug and superior, why don’t you take a practice swim right now? We’re halfway to the European shore. It would be good training for your inevitable fate.”

He smiled. “You’re glowing beneath the green, do you know that?”

Benjamin greeted me with warmth, and when I’d explained what I wished to discuss with him, he begged to leave the house, not trusting his father’s servants to resist the temptation of eavesdropping on the prodigal son. Delighted at the prospect of seeing another part of the city, I agreed at once, asking only that we go on foot—the day was a glorious one, the air full of the green, floral scent of spring but not having lost entirely the final hint of winter’s crispness. We made our way to the Golden Horn, crossed the Galata Bridge, and proceeded to the Spice Bazaar.

Fashioned from long, tan bricks and with three moderate-size domes on the roof, the bazaar was located across the street from the bridge, next to a mosque. The plaza in front of the holy building was so full of pigeons, I thought for a moment I was back in London at St. Paul’s, at least until I began to listen to the voices around me. I’d been in the city long enough to distinguish Turkish from Arabic and heard two women speaking French as they passed me. What was most amazing, however, was the number of languages I could not recognize, and I wanted them to be all things exotic: Berber dialects, Farsi, or some ancient, nearly dead tongue.

We’d entered the bazaar through the front, central arch and then, ducking between stalls brimming with brightly colored spices—scarlet peppers, purple sumac, golden curry—Benjamin guided me through mazes of covered streets until we’d come out a side exit, climbed a stone staircase, and reached a small restaurant, where the owner stepped forward at once to greet us.

“Mr. St. Clare,” he said, pulling out a seat for me at a tiny table tucked into the corner of his room. “You have been away too long.”

Benjamin murmured something in reply, speaking Turkish and drawing a sigh from the other man, who shook his head and replied in kind before disappearing into the kitchen.

“Ali is an old friend upon whose sympathetic ear I have relied too many times,” Benjamin said. “He did not know about Ceyden.”

“I’m sorry. I know well how grief creeps up everywhere when you’ve lost someone you love.”

“My father tells me you were widowed.”

“Yes, only a few months after my first marriage.”

“I offer all my condolences,” he said. “Though they’re far too belated to be either meaningful or welcome. I must confess that losing Ceyden again has torn me up in ways I wouldn’t have dreamed possible.”

“Were you close as children?”

“All we had was each other. We traveled so much, we never had time to make other friends, but didn’t feel the need for them. We were perfectly suited playmates. Of course, as young as she was, she’d go along with nearly any game I invented.”

“What happened after the attack?”

“I was shipped back to England, where I stayed with a less than congenial aunt. My father had lost his own parents years before, and there wasn’t anyone else to care for me. I understand why he did it—it was crucial that he try to find Ceyden, and he insisted I be packed off to somewhere safe. But even after five years, when it was clear there was no hope, he didn’t come for me. I went to school, and then to Cambridge, and by the time I was done found I had little use for him.”

“Did he ever go to England?”

“He visited me twice. Sent letters once a week and always gave me a generous allowance. We never had any arguments up to that point, but then we didn’t have any real conversation, either.”

“And he continued in diplomatic service?”

“Yes. I’ve tried to never fault him for any of this. He lost my mother in the most brutal way possible and failed to stop Ceyden’s kidnappers. I can sympathize with his desire to keep me away from harm. But what little boy wouldn’t prefer that his father provide the protection himself?”

“He loves you very much.”

“Yes, I suppose he does in his way.” He rolled his eyes and stared at the ceiling, pain etched in the clenched muscles of his jaw.

“Do you think he could have stopped the kidnappers?”

“Yes, I do. If he’d let me run for cover by myself—which I could easily have done—he would have been able to catch up to them.”

“They might have killed him,” I said.

“Or he might have been able to pull her out of her abductor’s arms.”

“Do you blame him?”

“Sometimes. It’s not reasonable, I know. But then, neither is standing over one’s mother’s brutalized body.”

“Useless words, but I’m so very sorry,” I said.

“Thank you.”

We sat in awkward silence until Ali appeared carrying a great, puffed circle of bread and three dishes, one of hummus, one of something that resembled eggplant, and one brimming with tiny chopped vegetables. “For you to start. I will bring you all the best things,” he said. Two steps behind was a boy with tall glasses filled with red liquid.

“I feel as if we shouldn’t eat given the conversation we’ve been having,” I said.

“Not at all,” he said. “These things happened so long ago, there’s no freshness to the wounds. I’ve gone over it in my head countless times and blathered on about it to anyone who would listen for far too long. I’ve made my way to the position of accepting all of it.”

“That’s no small feat.”

“I thank you.” He poked at the dishes in front of us. “Now eat.”

I spooned some from each platter onto my plate, ripped off a piece from the bread, and dipped it into the vegetable mixture. Sweet tomato and onions burst into my mouth, unable to compete with the surprising combination of mint and hot pepper. I sighed, delighted.

“You like it?” Benjamin asked.

“If you want to understate my undying love for this dish, yes,” I said, taking another bite.

“Try the aubergine. It’s spectacular.”

I scooped a bit of the eggplant concoction from my plate. “Delicious,” I said. “Not a hint of bitter.”

“Ali’s got the best food in Constantinople.”

“I don’t doubt you. Forgive me, but I must return to our previous topic.”

“I understand.”

“What was your father’s reaction when you took up the pursuit of archaeology?”

“He was angry. In that quiet and infuriating way of his. No storming about or yelling from him. Just silent disapproval, all the while making it clear he would do anything he could to convince me to stop.”

“You must have been horribly frustrated.”

“He could not understand that I was doing something different from embarking on a life like the one he’d abandoned. I’m not dragging a family around with me, not recklessly off in search of adventure.”

“You view him as reckless?”

“In hindsight, yes. And he’d be the first to agree. I understand and respect the choices he made for us all. What I can’t forgive is his inability to accept the consequences of his decisions. He knew he was taking risks, but he wasn’t prepared for them. And I’m the one still suffering for it.”

“Dr. Cartwright tells me you’ve resolved to abandon archaeology.”

“You’ve spoken to him?”

“My husband and I visited the site yesterday.”

He shifted in his seat, pushing his hands down on his chair and twisting. “It was an agonizing decision, but I’m not walking away from the work, just the location. I’m going to try to find a position on the continent. Italy, perhaps. Working with Cartwright planted in me the urge to pursue things Roman.”

“Italy? Lovely. Will you be in Rome?”

“I—I don’t have any specific plans yet.”

“What inspired this decision?”

“Nothing in particular. A touch of boredom, I suppose. The desire to travel. A wish to put some distance between myself and my father.”

“Was anyone else planning to go with you?”

“Go with me?” His mouth hung open and he stared at me, then tossed his head and bit a piece of bread slathered with hummus. “Who on earth would go with me?” I could feel him tapping his foot beneath the table.

“I wouldn’t have the slightest idea, of course. Don’t fault me, though. I’m a lady and therefore more than a little prone to leaping without thought to romantic conclusions. I’d half hoped you’d tell me a story of forbidden love and a dramatic escape and a fresh start in a new land.”

“What a ridiculous thing to say.” His voice caught in his throat as he began, but in the end was full of nails. “Why would you think that?”

“I’m a newlywed, Benjamin, and as such bent on seeing those around me as happily matched as I am myself.” I wanted to give him a chance to come clean on his own.

“An astonishing position.”

“Not really,” I said. “Particularly given your colleagues were all under the impression you were getting married.”

He waited before answering, and I could see him summoning calm—blowing out a slow breath, dropping his shoulders, closing his eyes. “I—” He sighed. “I have not had good fortune in love.”

“Does she live here?”

“More or less.”

“Were you with her the night of the murder?”

“Of course not,” he said. “I was at the dig.”

“No, you weren’t.” I stopped for a moment, giving him what I hoped was a piercing look. “I’ve been to the dig, I’ve spoken to your colleagues. You had already left.”

His body was agitated, foot tapping, his hands playing with the tines of his fork. “Yes, I had left. But I hadn’t gone far. I wanted to spend a few days alone in the wilderness.”

“Where did you sleep?”

“I had my tent.”

“Did anyone see you? Can anyone vouch for you?”

“Unfortunately as I did not know my sister was being murdered, I had not arranged for a companion to provide an alibi. I needed some time to myself before setting off on the next part of my life. Particularly as it’s one that seems so impossible.”

“What is the impediment?” I asked. “Does your father not approve?”

“He certainly wouldn’t, given the opportunity to pass judgment. But the lack of his blessing would only have been one in a series of stumbling blocks.”

“Her parents?”

“They’re dead.”

“Is she attached to someone else? Married?”

“Not married, no,” he said. “But there is... an understanding.”

“Can she not break it off?” I asked. “Surely there is some way for you to be together, and she’s doing her fiancé no service by staying where she knows she cannot be happy.”

“We both know these situations are never so simple.” He pulled off another piece of bread. “And at any rate, it’s too late now.”

“Too close to the wedding?”

“Too close to everything.”

After finishing with Benjamin, I moved from one bazaar to another, meeting Colin in front of the Grand Bazaar—Kapal?çar?—at a stone entrance reminiscent of a crusader’s fortress. This was infinitely larger than the Spice Bazaar, but I couldn’t see that from the outside. It was only after stepping through the pointed archway and into the labyrinthine maze of covered streets that I was overwhelmed. The number of stalls was astonishing, and the paths through them, some wide, some narrow, seemed endless. In every direction were stacks of cloth, shawls, dried fruits, lanterns—nearly anything imaginable.

“Sir Richard knew nothing of it?” I asked as we made our way through the dense crowd walking along the expansive main street, jewelry shops on either side of us, gold chains and bracelets all but spilling from their windows.

“He was entirely ignorant of his son’s plans to leave the country,” Colin said. “Will you forgive me for changing the subject, just for a moment? I have a gift for you.”

“Of course,” I said, smiling.

He pulled his hand out from behind his back to show me a bottle of port. “Not vintage, but all I could find here on short notice.”

“Port! Oh, I do adore you!” The kiss I wanted to give him would have left no question of my burning affection for him, but the public location forced restraint. I squeezed his hand and smiled at him, leaving him in no doubt as to what would come later. “I had the most divine luncheon today with Benjamin. But don’t let me distract you from either your purpose or your own story. Finish telling me about Sir Richard.”

“Turkish delight?” A man holding a platter stepped in front of us as we turned a corner. “You try?” Colin took two pieces, handed one to me, and thanked the man before continuing on.

“You don’t feel guilty not buying any?” I asked, biting into the powdery softness.

“No, it’s not expected,” he said. “The approach seems aggressive to us, but it’s meant to suggest nothing but warm enthusiasm. And there are no hurt feelings if you don’t buy. Here—let’s go this way. I want to look at carpets.”

“Did you learn anything interesting today?” I asked.

“Fished around at the embassy—as I said, it’s clear Sir Richard had no idea his son was planning to go to France.”

“Today he told me Italy.”

“Italy? Which do you think is the lie?” he asked.

“I’ve no idea—he’s clearly hiding something. You didn’t tell Sir Richard his plans, did you?”

“No, though I hope you encouraged Benjamin to,” he said.

“I’m afraid I didn’t,” I said. “I’m less than pleased with the entire situation, and don’t see that Benjamin, who has suffered his entire life, should be forced to reveal something he’d prefer to keep private.”

“You don’t think his own father has the right to know where he plans to live?”

“No, I don’t. Benjamin’s a grown man—he deserves the freedom to make his own choices.”

“I am well aware of your passion for freedom. But you must admit, Emily, it has to have its limits.”

“I will give you that. Begrudgingly,” I said. “But I can’t agree in this particular incidence. This is a boy who witnessed terrible things as a child and was, for all practical purposes, abandoned by his father thereafter. If he now, as an adult, chooses to cut himself off from that relationship, I don’t see there’s any cause to interfere.”

“What if the relationship could be healed?”

“For that to happen, both parties would have to desire it.”

“Sometimes your lack of sentimentality scares me,” he said. “Where is your maternal instinct?”

His eyes told me he was joking, but the words struck me like a slap. “Perhaps I don’t have any.” I stopped in front of a stall of brass goods—hamam bowls, goblets, candlesticks.

“That’s an awful thing to say.”

“What if it’s true?” I picked up a bowl, pretending to examine it.

“My dear girl, it’s not true. It’s a silly thing to even discuss. You couldn’t avoid maternal instinct if you tried. It’s the most natural thing there is.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Have you already forgotten my own dear mother?”

“She’s fiercely devoted to you in her own way.” He leaned forward, put a hand on my cheek, and took the bowl away from me, setting it down. “You’re sensitive today.”

“Yes, forgive me. I’m tired.”

“I shan’t tax you, then,” he said. “Let’s get to Hasan’s and sit in his shop and find at least ten carpets you can’t resist.” Hasan was the best-known, most respected carpet dealer in the city, and had come highly recommended to us by no fewer than six people at the embassy.

“That sounds lovely,” I said. “Did you learn anything else of use from Sir Richard?”

“He admitted the relationship has been strained for some time, but credits it to Benjamin’s stubborn insistence on deliberately going against every bit of advice he’s received from his father, right down to choosing Cambridge over Oxford.”

“Do you have sympathy for this position?” I asked.

“To a certain degree. A man wants his son to respect him, of course. But only a fool gives advice expecting it to be taken. I know I caused my own father more sleepless nights than he perhaps deserved. But that’s part of hammering out one’s independence.”

“Exactly,” I said.

“Here—this way.” He steered me through a passage into an older section of the bazaar. Here the ceilings were lower, supported by curved arches and pillars, and the smell of spicy lamb and onions drew crowds to a kebab stand.

“My day was somewhat more productive than yours sounds,” I said. “In addition to having a spectacular meal, I did confirm that Benjamin is in love. He would not admit to planning an elopement, but there is a lady. An unavailable lady.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“Engaged?”

“What other option would there be?” I drew in a quick breath, shocked by the thought that had stolen into my head. “I have a theory.”

“I am all eagerness to hear it,” Colin said.

“He was in love with a concubine.” We passed a shop full of glistening lamps, their shades—some round, some teardrop shaped—formed by mosaics of colored glass, sending candlelight dancing from them.

“When would he have had opportunity to even see one, let alone speak to her and fall in love with her?”

“They take excursions from the palace,” I said.

“Carefully guarded excursions.” He followed my eyes. “Do you want one of those lamps?”

“No, I’m just looking. It’s possible, you know—he could have met a concubine.”

“You’re letting your love of the dramatic color your judgment. I like Abduction from the Seraglio as much as the next chap, but that’s not what’s going on here.”

“What if Ceyden was killed because she was trying to escape? Her hoard of jewels could have financed quite an expedition.”

“Are you suggesting that Benjamin had inadvertently fallen in love with his sister?”

“It’s beyond terrible, I know. But consider it: She was a beautiful girl and reminded him not only of his childhood playmate, but also his mother. He saw her out, somewhere in town, and was instantly captivated.”

“Do continue,” Colin said. “You know how I enjoy your forays into fiction.”

“He could have bribed someone—one of the guards—to tell him her name. And then to deliver messages. What more revered way is there to fall in love than by being seduced by beautifully written letters?”

“I’ve always been a great supporter of intelligent conversation, but far be it from me to question the value of a well-written missive.”

“And then they began to plot their escape.” I breathed in the most delicious scents—bergamot, ginger, vanilla—as we walked in front of a display of olive oil soaps. “An escape that would never happen because it was discovered, and Ceyden, rather than being allowed to stay alive and shame the sultan with her deviant thoughts, was silenced, to be forever forgotten. Benjamin’s Byzantine cross, which he’d given her as a token of his affection, was torn from her neck as she struggled against her executioners.”

“Deviant is a bit strong, don’t you think?” he asked.

“But you agree that, in theory, it’s possible?”

“We’re not in a position to dismiss any reasonable hypothesis,” he said.

“So you admit it’s reasonable?”

“I may not be ready to own it as reasonable, but will admit to possible. It would explain the strange reaction we’ve had from both the sultan and the government. On the one hand, they want to cooperate with the British, but on the other, they’d very much prefer that this all go away.”

“So they let us into the harem, assuming we’ll find nothing.”

“But you stumble upon the jewelry—”

I cleared my throat. “I did not stumble, my dear. I analyzed the situation and determined the best course of action.”

“Mais oui,” he said.

“En français?”

“There are times, Emily, when you so capture my imagination that I can only speak in French.”

I reached for his hand, brought it to my lips, and kissed his thumb. “Once Perestu saw that I was close to discovering too much, she notified the sultan and we were summarily denied all further access to the harem.”

“This is the part, my dear, where things begin to fall apart. Perestu’s countenance changed when she realized a piece of her own jewelry was in Ceyden’s cache. If your speculations are correct, shouldn’t that reaction have come the instant you found anything sewn into the gown?”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “There must be something about that particular piece. Perhaps it’s a clue of even more significance than we’d previously thought.”

“How so?”

“It may be the object that links Perestu directly to the murder.”

“Or to Murat’s discontented vizier,” he said. “Perhaps she’s the link between his discontented associates and the harem.”

“So you believe there is a link?” I asked.

“I cannot deny it. Where did Benjamin tell you he was the night of the murder?” I recounted for him our conversation, and Colin shook his head. “I’d hoped he’d have a firm alibi.”

“Do you think he needs it?”

“Let’s hope not.”

A distinguished-looking man stepped out of the shop in front of us. He bowed.

“Mr. Hargreaves, the ambassador told me to expect you. I am Hasan. Welcome. Please, come in. You will have tea?”

Six hours later, we emerged. Colin was wrong about my finding ten carpets. I was not able to narrow my selections below thirteen.

11 April 1892

Darnley House, Kent

My darling Emily,

I must confess that your letter left me full of melancholy. I do so wish you and Colin might have had at least a few weeks to yourself without any work. I know how you adore it, but I’ve found myself looking back on my own wedding trip with such fond memories of perfect bliss that I want you to have it as well, my dear. Things change so much as a marriage progresses, and although I’ve more happiness than I deserve, I still can’t help wishing, sometimes, to go back to those early days.

These sentiments are no doubt brought on by my current condition. The doctor has confined me to my bed—I’m told it’s a mere precaution because of some pains I’ve suffered in the past week and that I ought not be alarmed. It is not as if I’d been accustomed to gallivanting about—your mother would never allow that. But even under her strict regimens I was able to sit outside every day, and I find I miss the fresh air keenly.

To be quite honest, I’m terrified. The doctor says almost nothing to me, but I can hear the whispers in the hall. Your mother is more worried than I’ve ever seen her, and I feel as if everyone knows some dreadful secret about my condition but won’t tell me. Darling Robert is on his way here, news that at once delights and distresses me. I can think of nothing better than having him beside me, but he can only be coming because he is aware of how serious things have become. Do you think he will warn me of the horrors I’m to face? If I’m truly ill, I’d rather know than be left in ignorance.

They’re all being so kind and indulgent, it’s as if they hope to make my last days pleasant ones. I’m not supposed to know, but I overheard talk of own dear parents being sent for. Can you fathom the gravity of the situation if they’re being summoned from India?

Do please send me more letters—reassure me, Emily. Because although everyone tells me not to worry, I know you of all my friends can best understand the fear I’m hiding. I miss you very much and wish desperately you weren’t so far away.

I am, your most devoted friend,

Ivy