The Janissary Tree

[ 69 ]

“Charmante! Tout a fait charmante!

Eugenia blushed slightly, and curtseyed. There was no doubt in her own mind that the valide, who was reclining against cushions scattered around a window seat, must have been ravishing herself. With the soft light at her back she had the easy poise of a beautiful woman. And the cheekbones to go with it.

“I am so glad we were able to persuade you to come,” the valide continued, without a hint of irony. She raised her lorgnette and peered at Eugenia’s dress. “The girls will think you quite a la mode,” she pronounced. “I want you to sit here by me, before they come to devour you. We can talk a little.”

Eugenia smiled and took a seat at the edge of the divan.

“It was so kind of you to invite me,” she said.

“Men don’t think it, but there is so much we women can arrange, n’est ce past Even from here. Tu ne me crois pas?”

“Of course I believe you, valide.”

“And you Russians are very much in the ascendant these days. Count Orloff, your husband’s predecessor, was a good friend to the empire during the Egyptian crisis. He had a very plain wife, I understand. But no doubt they were very happy together.”

Eugenia’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “She was a Voronsky,” she replied.

“Believe it or not,” the valide said, “I have never been impressed by the claims of old family. Neither I nor my dear childhood friend Rose were precisely Almanac de Gotha. We were clever, and that counts for much more. She became Empress. Her husband Napoleon, of course, came from nowhere at all. The Ottomans, I’m delighted to say, have no snobberies of that kind.”

Eugenia blinked lazily, and smiled.

“Surely,” she said carelessly, “there’s one old family in the empire whose claims have to be respected?”

The valide put out a hand and rested it on Eugenia’s arm. “Perfectly right, my dear. But my son was brought up to defend those claims, rather than rely on them. It doesn’t matter if you’re the fifth or the twenty-fifth or—in Mahmut’s case—the twenty-eighth sultan of the Ottoman empire, and in direct descent from Osman Bey himself, if you can’t prove that the empire needs you. Mahmut has exceeded my expectations.

“I’d like you to meet him. He would be delighted by you, of course.” The valide saw the surprise in Eugenia’s expression, and laughed softly. “Oh, don’t be alarmed. My son is no Suleyman.”

Eugenia found herself laughing. Suleyman the Magnificent, the great Renaissance sultan, had fallen head over heels for a Russian courtesan, Roxelana. He wound up marrying her—the last time any sultan had married at all.

The valide gave her arm a squeeze. “And entre nous, he prefers them rather more upholstered. You’ll see.”

She raised her hand. As if by magic, two girls entered and bowed. One of them held a tray containing coffee in tiny china cups. The other, a narghile.

“Do you smoke?”

Eugenia gave the valide a startled look. The valide shrugged.

“One forgets. It is a harem vice, I’m afraid. One of several. Parisian fashions are another.”

She gestured to the girls, who set down the tray and the pipe. One of them knelt prettily at Eugenia’s feet and presented her with a coffee cup.

“The inspection has begun,” said the valide drily. Eugenia took the cup and murmured a thank you. The girl made no effort to move, but touched her hand to her forehead and addressed a few words to the valide.

“As I expected,” the valide said. “The girls have been wondering whether you would like to join them in the bath.”