The Sultan's seal

17

Dearest Maitlin,

Father has had one of his spells again. I think Mary Dixon’s murder has upset him. He cannot bear to be reminded of Mother’s death, of any death. He sleeps in the library and takes all his meals there. I will see to it that his mind remains untroubled by such things in the future. Otherwise, he is as dutiful as ever, seeing to the interminable paperwork himself. He recently let go of his secretary because he said he wasn’t to be trusted. Perhaps Father is right, since after his dismissal, the man remained in Stamboul and has set himself up as an agent of trade instead of booking return passage to England. That may sound melodramatic in Essex, but it is true that, here, one must always be on guard against spies in the pay of the sultan or other foreign interests, even British ones. I still worry about Asma Sultan’s concern for Father’s welfare. How many people know about his decline?

I find myself wondering what it would be like to remain here, especially as Father shows no interest in leaving. There is much to be admired in the life of an Ottoman lady, although there is something childlike and seductive about it, quite unsuitable for the civilized mind. They seem never to use their heads for more than interminable intrigues, like squabbling children, although with rather more severe consequences. Still, these women are not as soft and passive as they appear. They can move from languorous and childlike to regal and commanding in moments. Their nature is not fixed, like ours.

As you can see, I have retained my objectivity and have not, as you suggested in your last letter, “gone native.” These days, though, the families of officials I visit with Father live much as we do. The women’s gowns are the latest Paris fashion, likely more up-to-date than those of Essex ladies. The men too dress in European style. Men and women dine at table together, then retire to separate rooms, as we do at home. It is true that their taste in European furnishings is untutored. The coat rack might be placed right next to the piano. They have a love of ostentation that renders even the best gown hideous when topped by a jewel-encrusted kerchief. And the men wear that tasseled, round felt flowerpot on their heads. But this is simply inexperience with the medium of civilization, as natural as children learning to walk. If ever I have my own household here, I will entice you and Richard and the boys to come visit, and perhaps the Orient will seduce you, as you claim it has seduced me.

I’m sitting in the shade of the pines on the patio and can hear the cheerful toots of the steam ferries that ply the Bosphorus beyond the Residence wall. I do so wish I could share my thoughts with you here by my side. I have been trying to rein in my imagination, as you have so often advised me to do. Shukriye is arriving in a few days. I think I will visit her first and see whether there is anything to learn before mentioning it to Kamil.

You know, when Kamil comes by, we sometimes sit in the kitchen, quite companionably, like an old couple over a cuppa’. I’ve invited him to dine with Father and me this evening. Our old chef, Monsieur Menard, has come to mind quite a bit lately. A sign of impending age, perhaps-reminiscing about the past, though I have precious little past to occupy me. However, as you are fond of saying, there is always the future.

I’ve rambled on much too long again, my dear. You write that you avidly read these digressions of mine and that they are a welcome respite from your duties. Nevertheless, I feel I impose myself far too much with these long missives. In my own defense, I have never felt so alive. And who better to share this with than my devoted sister with whom I have ever enjoyed a rare friendship and commonality of mind and sentiment? In the name of that friendship, forgive my imposition on your busy day with these fanciful accounts of mine.

As always, my love to you and the men of your family, for that is what I will find when at last I see my dear nephews.

Your loving sister,

Sybil