A Tale of Two Sisters Read online

  Alice’s hand grazed the door, then she crossed the landing to what had been her brother’s room. Nothing was changed there since the morning he’d left for Oxford. A pile of vacation reading still sat on the square mahogany desk – Aristotle’s Poetics, Walter Pater, a copy of Paradise Lost. The leather-backed brush set Cissie had given him for his twenty-first birthday, and that Charlie had deemed too precious for his college room, remained on the dressing table. The silver cups he’d won for cross-country running shone from the mantelshelf. Dora refused to allow Mrs Ferris to touch them and every week polished them herself. She had adored Charlie. They all had.

  Alice strolled to the window and looked out onto the street below. The grass square opposite glimmered dimly in the lamplight. A cat was twining his way through its railings, off on his nightly prowl. From somewhere in the distance, a horse’s hooves rattled through the city. An overwhelming loneliness wrapped her in its shroud.

  She had been three when her brother was born and she could still remember the way she had hung over his cradle, fascinated, shaking rattles or tickling him with her favourite pink rabbit or counting his fingers and then his toes over and over again, entranced by their small perfection. And he had stayed perfect. Over the years, he had become her one support: when their father’s practice had taken a downturn and begun to lose clients, when Mama’s nerves reached breaking point, when Lydia was at her most impetuous. Despite his youth, he had been a wise counsel, a sane voice. Except for that one moment of insanity on a night in Oxford. If only he were still here with her. ‘What do I do?’ she asked aloud. ‘How can I help Lydia?’

  Her aunt had said that Alice should think about her offer and, for hours on end, she did just that. After a sleepless night, she walked out into the cold, crisp morning and made her way to Dean and Dawson in Trafalgar Square where she bought a train ticket as her aunt had ordered. But she made no mention of a hotel reservation. Instead she sent a telegram. Then in a daze she walked home through the London streets, as though sleepwalking her way back into that vivid dream. Her hand clasped tight to the slip of card in her pocket. A ticket not to Venice – but to Constantinople. She would go to find her sister.

  Chapter Two

  The crossing had been rough. Alice had only ever seen the sea from the safety of a promenade, and the mountainous white foam, swelling, curling, crashing all around her, was terrifying. The ship wallowed left to right then back again, cutting a tortuous path to the French coast while her stomach heaved and her hands clutched tightly to the arms of her chair. She had found sanctuary in one of the luxurious saloons for which The Queen was famous and remained there for the entire crossing, her form rigid and her eyes resolutely closed. It was the tide of fur-swathed passengers bound for the Orient Express that swept her down the ferry gangway at Calais and eventually deposited her on a platform running alongside the dock. She hardly knew where she was headed, though vaguely aware that her suitcase had been loaded onto the fourgon at the rear of the waiting train. Somewhere in the distance she could hear the noise of trolleys, of porters yelling, and the shouts of the train crew in their blue and gold uniforms issuing directions in French, in English, in every language on the planet, or so it seemed.

  One of the porters hurried towards her, urging her to take her seat.

  ‘My compartment—’ she began.

  He glanced quickly at the ticket she held between gloved hands. ‘The middle of the train, mademoiselle. For Constantinople,’ he called over his shoulder, continuing his swift passage up the platform.

  She was still unwell from the sea journey and badly confused by the rush and bustle. In the distance she glimpsed people gathered outside the carriages the porter had indicated, and knew she must move towards them. But her body felt strangely limp and she had to force herself into a slow walk. Clouds of steam engulfed her and the words Compagnie Internationale on the side of the golden wood carriages hazed and disappeared. She was almost at the door of the first carriage when she sensed her legs buckle and feared she would fall. She had eaten nothing since last night’s dinner and had slept no more than an hour.

  ‘May I help you?’ The voice was unassuming, a quiet English voice.

  She half turned and through blurred vision saw a young man, a concerned expression on his face. ‘May I fetch you a drink?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she managed. ‘A glass of water, perhaps.’

  She thought he had disappeared, but in a few moments he was back bearing a small glass. ‘I’m afraid the sea crossing did not agree with me,’ she said awkwardly.

  ‘I can understand that. It wasn’t the smoothest, though I’ve known worse.’

  ‘You are a regular traveller?’ She felt obliged to say something, though she found the situation uncomfortable. Her mother would be shocked that she was making conversation with a man of whom she knew nothing.

  ‘I’ve done the trip a number of times. I must be used to being tossed around. My name is Harry Frome, by the way. How do you do?’

  It was all most unconventional, but then travelling so far and alone was hardly conventional. Her aunt had accompanied her to Victoria and seen her safely into the hands of the train conductor. It was fortunate, Alice thought guiltily, that there had been only a few minutes for Cicely to say goodbye before she’d had to return to Pimlico. She’d had no time to realise her niece was bound for a quite different destination to Venice, and for most of the journey would be travelling alone.

  ‘I am Alice Verinder,’ she said as boldly as she could, uneasily aware she lacked an escort.

  He frowned and she wondered if he were judging her for it. ‘May I ask where you are travelling, Miss Verinder?’

  ‘I’m on my way to Constantinople.’ It sounded ridiculous when she said it aloud. That she, Alice Verinder, should have reached Calais was extraordinary in itself, but Turkey was a universe away.

  ‘I thought you might be,’ he said slowly. ‘Your face is a little familiar. I’m employed at the Topkapi Palace.’

  She gave a small gasp. ‘Then you must know my sister, Lydia.’

  ‘I’ve met her, certainly. But what a coincidence! Turkey must have a strong attraction for your family.’

  She brushed the remark aside. It was his acquaintance with Lydia that was important. ‘Where did you say you met her?’

  ‘I didn’t, but it was in the library. I saw her there quite often. It’s where I work. She often brought her pupils with her – she was eager for them to know how a library worked. They would stay an hour or so, wandering the shelves, finding new treasures. She seemed a person who delighted in books.’

  ‘A library – at the palace?’

  ‘There has been one at Topkapi since early in the last century. The Ottomans inherited the customs of ancient Persia, you know, and the Turks are a most cultured people.’

  ‘I was not suggesting otherwise,’ she was quick to say. ‘But an Englishman in a Turkish library? That must be unusual.’

  ‘I work in the new library. There are two at Topkapi, one very old and much smaller, but the most recent was founded by a Frenchman, in fact. A Monsieur Valentin Boucher, a great philanthropist. Monsieur Boucher is still involved in its development, but I am responsible for the library’s day-to-day running. We own a wide range of literature and some very beautiful volumes. A few are extremely rare.’

  ‘It sounds most interesting.’

  She could imagine Lydia loving the library. Her sister had always been a great reader, so often fired by the ideas and philosophies she consumed. It was only when theory took a practical turn that trouble surfaced.

  ‘I would enjoy telling you more.’ He looked across the heads of the people still crowding the platform and fidgeted with the small valise he carried. ‘I wonder – would you have dinner with me tonight, once we leave Paris?’ He sounded slightly diffident.

  In the last few minutes she had begun to feel a good deal better, able to contemplate the long journey ahead with some equanimity, but his invitation shocked her.
It was presumptuous. That was what her mother would say, and Cissie, too. But… Harry Frome appeared unexceptional, and he had known Lydia or at least met her sister several times. He could be the person with whom to begin her search.

  She had hesitated a fraction too long, and when he spoke again his voice was clipped. ‘Naturally, I understand if you prefer to eat privately.’

  She could see that she had offended him and made haste to mend her fences. ‘No, no, not at all. I would enjoy dining with you, Mr Frome.’

  The serious expression he seemed habitually to wear broke into a smile, and his grey eyes warmed. For the first time she thought him an attractive man. ‘That’s settled then. I shall be in the dining carriage around seven this evening.’ He gave her a brief nod and walked away.

  * * *

  The compartment she was shown into was astonishingly small. A long sofa, a tiny table and an even tinier wash basin that hid behind lacquered sliding doors. An array of cupboards and drawers had been artfully fitted into the nooks and crannies of the gloriously decorated woodwork, and she soon found space for the few belongings she had with her. Compact the space certainly was with barely room to turn and, since her aunt’s gift had not stretched to a private compartment, she wondered how on earth she would manage to share it with another woman. She did not have to wonder long. A whistle sounded, the uniformed guard waved his flag and touched his cap, and they were off. Her unknown companion had not boarded at Calais.

  She sank back onto the sofa and watched the countryside flow past. The sky was wide and the landscape flat, barely broken by the occasional poplar-fringed road or small village, its church steeple stark against a leaden sky. Her mind strayed to the evening ahead. The young man – Harry Frome – had been very kind. A little too forward maybe in approaching her, but good enough to find water when she needed it. And he had evidently not thought a dinner invitation was in any way questionable. Indeed, he had prickled when she’d hesitated to accept.

  But now in the quiet of the compartment, her mother’s warnings sounded in her ears, insisting on how necessary it was to have a male travelling companion. How important for a man to organise one’s journey, to supervise the luggage, to fend off unwelcome attentions. Edith had been unhappy with the idea of the holiday to Venice, at the idea of a holiday anywhere, until Aunt Cissie had smoothed things over, assuring her sister that Alice would be well looked after on the train and would have Cissie’s friend, Julia, as chaperone once she reached Venice. Alice needed a break, her aunt had said, and once she’d had her fill of art, she would be more than eager to return to the domestic fold. Her mother had agreed eventually that perhaps it wasn’t such a silly idea. Her father had merely snorted and said she was quite mad. If she wanted a holiday – though he couldn’t for the life of him see why she should – then Bournemouth was the ticket.

  She closed her eyes against the low winter sun slanting through the window. The empty fields stretched before her, mesmerising in their monotony. Gradually her head drooped and she fell into an uncertain sleep.

  A sharp jolt of the carriage woke her; the fields had disappeared and in their place grimy buildings and tattered hoardings. Paris – and they were pulling into the Gare du Nord. She had been told that once she boarded at Calais, she would stay on the same train until she reached Constantinople. She hoped that was so, but after several stationary minutes they seemed to be going backwards. And then they were drawing into another terminus, the Gare de Strasbourg, and she could relax. She knew this was where trains for the East departed. It was also where she might gain an additional travelling companion. But once again, no one appeared. It was a Sunday evening and perhaps the pious refused to travel. The conductor, checking on her wellbeing, worried that mademoiselle might feel this uncomfortable and suggested finding another young lady with whom to share if it was a problem.

  ‘It’s no problem,’ she assured him, grateful to be left alone.

  For a moment, while he hovered in the doorway, she toyed with the idea of asking him to take a message to the dining room to cancel the arrangement she had made, but then scolded herself for her cowardice, remembering that she was on this journey for one reason alone, and that was to find Lydia. She must grab whatever help came her way and it had been a stroke of luck meeting Mr Frome. At the moment he did not appear too promising – he’d had little to say of her sister – but she must start somewhere. She could not let good fortune pass her by.

  Chapter Three

  He was already in the dining room when she walked into the beautifully appointed salon. Panels of gleaming mahogany lined the walls, inlaid with the most intricate marquetry. On the floor were brightly coloured oriental rugs and at the windows velvet curtains of deep ruby. A dozen tables sported dazzling white cloths and napkins, artistically folded by the sommeliers. Crystal glasses glittered, some filled with wine the colour of the curtains. A few silver champagne buckets were already in prominent positions. Along with every man there, her companion wore a dark suit and plain white shirt, not the full evening regalia she had feared, but she was glad she had chosen the one truly elegant winter dress she possessed, a wide-sleeved wool chiffon. Its subtle grey-blue enhanced the colour of her eyes, or so she had been told. She hoped it would give her courage.

  He came towards her as soon as she appeared on the threshold.

  ‘Miss Verinder, good evening. How are you feeling now?’

  ‘A good deal better, thank you. I’m sorry I was so distracted earlier.’

  ‘No apology needed. You had every reason,’ he said gallantly.

  Forestalling the waiter, he pulled out the velvet covered chair for her, then walked around to the other side of the table, gathering up a starched napkin on his way. He seemed perfectly at ease, but then he would have sat in this carriage many times. The waiter in the familiar blue and gold reappeared at his shoulder and murmured in his ear.

  Harry Frome leant across the table. ‘Would you care for some wine?’

  ‘Thank you, but no.’

  She wondered if she had appeared shocked because he said defensively, ‘The wine is very good. You might find a small glass beneficial.’

  She shook her head and looked down at her lap. ‘I have never drunk wine,’ she confessed. Then added somewhat unnecessarily, ‘I am not a traveller.’

  ‘You don’t have to travel to enjoy wine.’

  There was something brusque in his manner that flustered her. He had invited her to eat with him for no other reason, it seemed, than wanting her company. Yet she had the distinct feeling that in some way she was on trial. She felt like making her excuses right there and then, but Lydia was a constant in her mind and she knew she must stay.

  ‘I have never even been out of England before,’ she said quietly.

  His eyebrows rose. ‘Then you are very brave – tackling Constantinople for your first journey. What takes you there?’

  She thought it an odd question since he knew Lydia was in the city, indeed had worked for many months under the same roof. ‘I am travelling to see my sister.’

  He gave a polite smile. ‘And where is she living now?’

  That sent her spirits tumbling. ‘I had hoped I would find her still at the palace.’

  He looked puzzled. ‘I am afraid you will be disappointed. I have been in England only a short while, but I’d not seen her for many weeks before I left.’ He paused for a moment, as though wondering whether to go on. But then he said, ‘I did hear – and I have no idea how true it is – that she left the palace suddenly and without a word to anyone.’

  ‘That is what I’ve been told.’

  ‘So why make such an arduous journey?’

  This was her chance to open the topic uppermost in her mind, but before she could, the waiter arrived at their table bearing bowls of soup.

  ‘Consommé Xavier. The soup,’ Harry explained, gesturing with his spoon. ‘An old favourite. Although who Xavier is or was, I have no idea.’

  She acknowledged the pleasantry with
a brief smile and took an exploratory sip before she returned to his question.

  ‘I thought I should come. My sister left behind a few personal possessions which I am to collect. And’ – she paused, wondering whether she dared say what was in her mind, but then plunged onwards, – ‘and I don’t think I believed what I was told.’

  She saw the stunned expression on his face. ‘Lydia would never leave in such a fashion,’ she said emphatically.

  ‘Are you sure your natural partiality is not blinding you? If a palace official has confirmed your sister is no longer with us, I think you can assume it is the truth.’

  ‘My sister is young and sometimes naïve. Her nature is spontaneous, too impulsive at times, but she would never disappear without a word. She would never leave her family in ignorance of where she is or how she is.’

  Her voice had grown stronger as she defended her sibling. Harry put down his spoon and looked hard at her. ‘You have heard nothing from her?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I imagined she had travelled back to England.’

  It was Alice’s turn to lay down her spoon. ‘Well, she hasn’t.’

  ‘If she is not at the palace and has not returned to England, where is she?’

  ‘That is what I intend to find out.’

  ‘Have you thought of contacting the Foreign Office? I’m sure the British ambassador would help if he knew of the problem.’

  ‘There are reasons I wish to find her myself.’ She was being deliberately vague. The Foreign Office was a last resort. Alerting them would mean alerting her parents to Lydia’s disappearance, and that was the last thing she wanted. ‘May I ask when you saw her last?’ she hurried on to say.

  He frowned, evidently thinking back over the previous months. ‘She came into the library… I think it was a day or so before I heard the first rumours she had left. Sultan Selim’s young daughters had spent the summer months at Dolmabahçe Palace – that’s the family’s home on the shore of the Bosphorus,’ he explained. ‘And your sister came for a book the girls wanted to read when they returned. On Arabian mythology – a Turkish translation, if I remember rightly.’