A Tale of Two Sisters Read online

  ‘And at the time she said nothing to you about leaving?’

  ‘I was not a close companion of hers, you understand. But no, she said nothing.’

  ‘Do you think she would have mentioned it, if she were expecting to go?’

  ‘I suppose she might. She would have had to arrange a time for the girls to come to the library to collect the book.’

  The soup bowls had been replaced by plates of roast chicken and two silver tureens of potatoes and carrots and peas. They were spicy to the taste, certainly nothing like Cook’s overwrought vegetables, but Alice found them tasty and surprised herself by enjoying them. They were halfway through the meal before she ventured the question that was burning through her mind.

  ‘Your acquaintance with my sister was slight, Mr Frome, I understand that, but when you saw her on that last occasion did she appear any different to you?’

  ‘In what way “different”?’

  ‘Worried, anxious maybe.’

  ‘No, I’m sure not. In fact, I would say happier, if anything. I believe her work was highly valued by the palace – the princesses seemed to like her more modern way of teaching. She told me they had written to her recently to say how much they were looking forward to seeing her.’

  Alice stopped eating. Nothing Harry Frome had said made sense. If her sister had been happy, delighted her pupils would soon be with her again, what was she doing packing her bags without a word to anyone?

  She felt him watching her closely.

  ‘I must admit I was surprised when I heard she had left,’ he said, ‘but I’m sure you will find there’s a rational explanation. I am not the right person to ask. You should talk to the women she lived with. They will know her far better than I.’

  It was sound advice and she thought it best to change the subject. ‘Tell me about the library. It sounds a fascinating project.’

  He needed little prompting. ‘It is. A wonderful enterprise. My employer set up a charitable foundation in the city some years ago. It does amazing work in the poorer areas – funding a hospital, building a new school, that sort of thing. But he wanted to do something for the palace. Sultan Abdülhamid is a good friend. The palace had everything, as you can imagine, or so it seemed. But then Monsieur Boucher hit on the idea of a new, more comprehensive library that would house the precious Islamic texts that were kept in the Sultan’s private apartments. But not just them. There are ancient works by Greek and Arabic scholars, too: on astronomy, mathematics, physics, many translated into Turkish, and of course, literature from across the world. We have built an impressive collection and it is growing all the time.’

  ‘And how did you come to be working there? Does your family know Monsieur Boucher?’

  She could feel the chill even before he spoke.

  ‘I had never met him before I took the job. My family does not move in exalted circles. I won my position on merit. That and hard work. I have a first-class degree from Oxford.’

  She was about to apologise, to smooth feathers, but decided she had not the energy. Mr Frome was a prickly character and she had learned virtually nothing about her sister. If he was determined to be difficult, she would keep her own counsel. When the waiter offered them the dessert menu – a Souffle Alaska or a Corbeille de Fruits – she shook her head and got up to leave.

  He seemed to be regretting his earlier sharpness and said in a conciliatory voice, ‘We will be travelling for another two nights and if there’s anything more I can tell you about Topkapi, I shall be in the dining room every evening. Do come and find me.’

  ‘You are most kind, thank you.’ Her sentiment lacked any sincerity.

  But then he said, ‘I’m sorry I could not be more help. If I think of anything, I will let you know. Where are you staying in the city?’

  ‘I have been given a room at the palace. I telegrammed a few days ago and they were kind enough to invite me to stay.’ It had taken a morning of hovering by the front door, on constant watch for the telegram boy, to ensure only she was privy to their response. ‘Mr Frome—’

  ‘Harry. You must call me Harry. We are to be fellow inmates as well as fellow travellers, it seems.’

  ‘Mr Frome, Harry, perhaps you could advise me on this? I feel some awkwardness that in truth I have invited myself. I would like to offer some recompense but have no idea what that should be.’

  He smiled and she thought again what a difference that made. He was a pleasant enough looking young man, but nothing more – Lydia would have called him ‘ordinary’ – but the smile was transformative. She found herself staring at him for far too long, and, embarrassed, bent her head and picked an imaginary loose thread from her dress.

  ‘The Turks are a most hospitable people and would be insulted if you were to attempt to pay for your accommodation,’ he replied. ‘Very few foreigners are invited to stay, and you have been honoured. But in any case, there are so many rooms in the harem that one more occupied is neither here nor there.’

  ‘The harem?’ She looked aghast and he gave a small laugh.

  ‘It is not quite what you imagine. The harem houses the women’s quarters. Of course, the Sultan’s favourites live there, too, but so do a good many other women who have no personal connection to him. The Valide Sultan, the Sultan’s mother, is in overall authority and she runs a strict regime.’

  ‘And it is the Sultan who employed my sister?’ As she spoke, she wondered if she might gain an audience with this great man.

  ‘Not Sultan Abdülhamid, no, but one of his many brothers, Sultan Selim.’

  ‘I see.’

  She wasn’t sure that she did, but once at the palace she hoped the situation would become clearer. When she had asked Lydia who was actually employing her, her sister had seemed hazy and too grateful for the job to request much in the way of detail from the previous governess. It was enough that Miss Lister had facilitated her escape abroad. It’s quite common for wealthy families in Turkey to hire English or French governesses, Lydia had said airily. We add cachet, you know! That was typical of her sister’s impulsiveness, plunging into a new life without thought and without any true idea of what it involved.

  ‘I will bid you goodnight then, Miss Verinder.’

  ‘Please, Alice.’ She blushed again, thinking how shocked her mother would be at such informality.

  ‘Goodnight, Alice. I hope you sleep well.’

  She couldn’t imagine she would sleep well. The train was rocking in an unnerving fashion and she was bounced along the narrow corridor to her compartment. But when she slid back the door, she saw that in her absence the steward had been busy. A comfortable bed had appeared in place of the sofa and its crisp white linen looked inviting.

  She put on her nightgown and brushed her hair in front of the small oval mirror. A year ago Lydia must have done the exact same thing, tugging a brush through luxuriant curls that by bedtime would have been a wild tangle. How many hours every night had she spent trying to tame her sister’s hair, unknotting knots and rolling curls into rags, with Lydia squeaking when she tugged too hard and squirming this way and that until the rags hung lopsided. Not that it ever mattered. The morning would see Lydia’s hair once more a glorious, rippling mane.

  She wondered if her sister had found the journey equally unsettling. She thought not. Lydia was bold, she would have taken it in her stride. And taken it in her stride if she had met Harry Frome. Alice remembered now that somewhere in the letters there had been a mention of a library and of encountering someone on the train. In that first letter, she thought. Who was it that Lydia had written about?

  She delved into the cloak bag stowed in one of the small cupboards and brought out the precious letters, pulling one from the bottom of the stack and beginning to read. Lydia had found the Channel ferry exciting and here she was at Calais. There was a long description of the noise and bustle of the station, several sentences rhapsodising over the ingenious arrangements on the train, and then… she skimmed down a paragraph. Yes, here it was.
Lydia’s first meal on board.

  I shared a table at dinner tonight with a delightful couple. They are also travelling to Constantinople and as it turned out they have a connection to Topkapi. What chance of that, I wonder? Quite a large chance, Alice thought. I met Mr Frome, after all. The journey to Constantinople on the Orient Express was expensive and more than likely to attract people who had connections to the palace. Their name is Boucher – they are French, how delightful. Paul’s father – and I was invited to call him Paul, everything is so informal beyond Dover – is a very important person at the palace. A philanthropist. Have I spelt that right? Never mind, dear Alice, you will correct me as I go along…

  Chapter Four

  LYDIA

  The Orient Express, August 1905

  Lydia enjoyed travelling alone. It hadn’t been difficult to invent a suitable story to allay her family’s fears: she had found a female companion for the journey, she’d said, a nursemaid travelling to an English family in Constantinople. They had been too immersed in their grief for Charlie to raise doubts – even Alice – and she had gained this wonderful, unfamiliar freedom. No tiresome chaperone preaching rules, no irritating demands from sick parents, no elder sibling fussing over her. The thought made her feel guilty. As well as loving Alice, she had huge respect for her caring, dutiful sister.

  At times, though, that sense of duty was almost too strong. It could become a conviction that no one else was right but Alice. Their father’s new office manager, for instance. He had come to dinner in Pimlico and Lydia had mistrusted him immediately. He was too smooth, flattered too much, and he seemed to Lydia to hesitate whenever matters of finance were raised. When she had said as much to her sister, Alice had told her to keep silent. The man their father had chosen was perfectly competent and it was their duty not to worry Theo with silly doubts. Three months later the man had absconded with a large amount of clients’ money and, once the news spread, their father’s practice began its long decline.

  But it was her sister who had held the family together these past few months. And her sister who had negotiated with the Honourable Member for Islington, though the necessity for doing so still made Lydia furious. Surely it had to be right that women took action to defend their interests. And what, in fact, had she actually done? Broken a window, that was the full extent of her felony, and no matter what Alice said, there had been little danger to anyone. She had heaved the brick into his downstairs scullery, but not before the kitchen staff were safely out of the room. And then she’d offered to pay for the window, though if there were any justice in the world he should be the one paying. And for more than a window. But there wasn’t any justice. The man was implacably opposed to women’s votes and continued to make incendiary speeches on the topic. He deserved more than a brick, but if hers had worked to remind him that women possessed the power to disrupt, that was to the good. And there was poor Alice having to humble herself, to beg forgiveness for her sister’s outrageous crime. It made Lydia sick to think of it.

  But that was all behind her now. She was here on a train bound for Constantinople and a new life, and it was Alice who had won her that freedom. Freedom from the relentless gloom of home, from the memory of Charlie, the golden son and heir. No, not freedom from Charlie. He lived in her heart and always would. But the exhilaration of travelling to a foreign land, a very foreign land, could not be suppressed. Nor her sheer amazement that for the first time in her life she had a job. Two darling little girls to whom she was to teach English. How difficult could that be? And how magnificent the palace looked. She had taken a cab to the London Library – Theo Verinder still paid a subscription – and found photographs of Topkapi in an old edition of Picture Politics. She had gazed at the palace in awe, hardly able to believe its splendour, and in two days’ time she, Lydia Verinder, would be a part of it.

  Independence was delightful, but she was glad she would have dinner companions this evening. She had been feeling unaccustomedly nervous about eating alone in a public place. Would people think badly of her, think she had no friends, no family, that, heaven forbid, she was no better than she should be? But she had been rescued by a delightful couple: the Bouchers. She had literally bumped into the husband at the Gare de Strasbourg. The train had waited there a good thirty minutes and she had decided to stretch her legs on the platform while she could. Paul Boucher had been supervising the loading of what looked an incredible amount of baggage and somehow she had become entangled, turning quickly and running straight into him. He had been the one to apologise. He’d gazed at her rather too interestedly while he apologised, but she was used to that. It was how most men reacted when they met her. Fortunately, his wife appeared at his side at that moment and after general introductions, they had invited her to dine with them.

  She had been delighted to discover they were bound for the same destination: they made an elegant couple, seeming to possess the French flair she had read so much about. She had been looking forward to sharing a table with them, but half an hour into the meal had begun to wonder if she’d been mistaken. Madame Boucher might be beautifully dressed, but she said little. And as for Paul, he was simply dull. Dull, but amiable.

  ‘The Court is only temporarily at Topkapi while refurbishments are taking place at the Yıldız Palace, but I’m sure you will enjoy life there,’ he was saying.

  ‘There is more than one palace?’

  Paul Boucher smiled sympathetically. ‘There are many. But you will be at Topkapi for some time – the work at Yıldız goes slowly – and the young princesses are very much looking forward to welcoming you there.’

  Lydia was relieved he spoke in English. Her schoolgirl French would have made the conversation a struggle.

  ‘They know I am coming?’

  ‘Most definitely. As soon as Sultan Selim received the recommendation from Miss Lister, he called the girls to him and told them they would very soon have a new governess. Arrangements for your arrival were already in place before we left for Paris.’

  Lydia sent a silent thanks to Florence Lister. It had been central to Alice’s difficult conversation with that vile man, the dishonourable member for Islington, that her sister left the country immediately. If Lydia went abroad, he’d said, he would not press charges. And where else could she have gone? A ghastly spa town in Bavaria or some mean pension in the French countryside. It had been Florence who had paved the way to a wonderful job in a wonderful country.

  ‘The princesses have already reorganised the schoolroom,’ Paul said between mouthfuls of baked salmon and asparagus. ‘They have collected together all the work they did for Miss Lister so that you can see how they have progressed. Then ordered new pencils and pens, and had the furniture moved – your desk now has the most beautiful view of the Bosphorus. They invited Elise to see their schoolroom when it was finished. I know they are hoping very much that you will like it.’

  ‘I will like everything,’ she said, and meant it. Her face broke into a wide smile and her deep blue eyes danced. He smiled back and she knew he was drawn to her. What kind of marriage did these two have? she wondered. It was probably best not to enquire too closely. But if everyone at Topkapi were as good-natured as this man, she would be fortunate.

  ‘And where do you work in the palace, Monsieur Boucher?’

  ‘Paul, please. And this is Elise. There are very few Europeans at the Ottoman court and we don’t stand on ceremony. I work with my father, Monsieur Valentin Boucher. He is a great man, is he not, Elise?’

  Elise nodded, but Lydia saw her eyes close slightly. Paul might be amiable, but she was not so certain of his wife, suspecting her silence hid a sharp and possibly hostile intelligence.

  ‘What kind of work do you do there?’ She wanted him to talk, to tell her everything there was to know.

  ‘My father set up a charity some years ago. We call it The Foundation. It has done great work in the city and provided several schools for the poor and a splendid new hospital. His last project was the Abdülh
amid Library. It is a magnificent structure and quite, quite beautiful.’

  ‘And you assist him in the library?’

  ‘Oh, no. We employ a librarian, a young man from Oxford. I work in the office, snowed under with paperwork. There are so many projects to administer – you can imagine how many letters arrive, how many requests we receive.’

  She wondered how hard his days really were. Somehow, he did not seem made for work. His clothes were worryingly stylish and there was a flimsiness about him, as though if you pushed your finger into his chest, it would meet no resistance. It was an uncomfortable image and Lydia gave herself a mental shake. She was determined to like everything and everybody at Topkapi.

  ‘Have you been a governess for long?’ It was Elise who asked and hearing her voice came as a shock.

  Lydia flushed. She had been hoping no one would enquire too deeply into her credentials. Florence Lister had trained at Homerton, but her own education had been basic, to say the least. Florence would never have recommended her if it had not been for the camaraderie they’d established during several suffragette marches. But a basic education meant she could read and write English and that, after all, was the main requirement. She hoped so, or the young princesses would see her floundering.

  ‘I have been teaching only a short time,’ she lied. ‘But I am determined to find ways of interesting the girls to help them learn. What are their names? Miss Lister made no mention, but perhaps I must call them by their titles.’

  Paul laughed. ‘They are precisely eight and six years old. It will be quite in order for you to call them by their given names. They are Esma – she is the elder – and Rabia. Their father, Sultan Selim, is the fifth brother of Sultan Abdülhamid.’