The Sultan's seal

28

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.