Authors: Doreen Owens Malek
It wasn’t fair. She was almost eighteen anyway, her birthday was in just ten months, but the court appointed guardian had insisted that custody of the “minor child”( just hearing herself referred to that way made Amy furious) should go to her father’s sister. And her father’s sister, Beatrice Ryder Woolcott, just happened to live in the capital of the Ottoman Empire with her rug dealer husband, whose cousin Sarah was married to some local Turkish ruler. It was all too foreign and bizarre, Amy didn’t want any part of it, but here she was anyhow, on her way meet Aunt Bea.
Amy had fought this fate with as much initiative as she could muster, but due to her age and inexperience that was very little. She had testified at her court hearing that she would much rather live with her best friend Abigail Cutter’s family until she turned eighteen, but the judge had ruled, predictably, in favor of her father’s will. So she was packed off on this trip in the company of her mother’s friend Mrs. Spaulding, both of them still in a state of shock over the Ryders’ sudden death in a carriage accident.
One moment Amy’s young, healthy parents were alive, on their way to an evening concert at Symphony Hall. The next a runaway horse on a rain slicked street where the gas lamps were out had ended their lives. And Amy had been forced to withdraw from Miss Pickard’s Finishing School in Brookline and leave her old life behind for a new one in the mysterious East.
For years Amy had heard her parents discussing Bea’s husband James and his cousin Sarah’s involvement with the “pasha”, whatever that was, in hushed whispers, as if it were some scandal to be shoved under the carpet. Apparently this pasha had “bought” Sarah from the Sultan while she was visiting James and tutoring the Sultan’s daughter, and then the pasha had kept Sarah in his harem against her will. Amy remembered how the horrified sympathy of her family had turned to shock when they heard that Sarah had fallen in love with her purchaser and
married
him! And now the courts were sending Amy to live in the midst of these people! Did it make sense? Of course not, but it was happening. All because Bea Woolcott was Amy’s only surviving relative and an underage young woman could not be trusted to live alone or without the supervision of family. It was twisted logic but it had come to rule Amy’s life.
“You’d better fasten your cape, my dear, the wind is picking up,” Mrs. Spaulding said at her side.
Amy obediently tied the grosgrain bow at the neck of her blue wool traveling cloak, leaning on the railing and gazing out across the gray water. She wondered how long it would be before she could see land. She would only be in Paris for two days, but Mrs. Spaulding had promised that there would be enough time for Amy to see some of the sights before they had to board the train. The judge had given Amy an advance on her trust fund to pay for her passage to Turkey and for Mrs. Spaulding’s round trip. Amy got the rest of the money on her next birthday, and until then she had to do what she was told like a good little girl.
“And button your gloves, Amy, this sea mist can chap your hands,” Mrs. Spaulding added.
Amy sighed, closing her gray cotton gloves at the wrist, wishing that her companion would develop laryngitis. Mrs. Spaulding meant well, but she took her duties too seriously, barking orders at Amy as if she were training a dog. Amy couldn’t wait until the older woman was on her way back to Boston, even if it meant that she herself was left alone in Turkey with the shadowy Aunt Bea.
A gong sounded behind them on the deck of the ship and Mrs. Spaulding said brightly, “Tea time.”
Amy turned from the trailing and followed Mrs. Spaulding’s sweeping skirt across the deck.
* * *
“Will you stop pacing around the room, Bea?” James Woolcott said irritably to his wife. “Amelia is not due to arrive at the station until tomorrow, wearing a hole in the carpet now isn’t going to change anything.”
Beatrice dropped into a chair and sighed heavily. “What am I going to do with a teenage girl?” she asked despairingly. “I haven’t the first idea of how to entertain her.”
“You won’t have to entertain her, Bea, she is going to
live
here. It won’t be a continuous garden party.”
“But she’s left all her friends behind, she’ll have no one to talk to about her problems, her dreams. A girl that age needs conversation, companionship.”
“She can talk to you.”
“She hasn’t seen me since she was five, James, since we came to Turkey when you started your business here.”
“So it may take some time, but you’ll get to know each other eventually. Fretting about it in advance isn’t going to help.”
“What could my brother have been thinking?” Beatrice murmured, almost to herself. “He knew I had no children of my own, how could he imagine I would be suited for this task?”
“He was thinking that you were his sister and he wanted Amelia to be with family if anything happened to her parents. Now go upstairs and finish arranging the vases of flowers in Amy’s room. I’ll send Listak along to help you. We do want Amy to feel welcome, don’t we?”
Beatrice nodded, her marcasite earbobs jangling. She tucked some stray ginger hairs into her chignon as she stood, saying, “Did you order the goose from the butcher in the Kapeti bazaar?”
James nodded. He had already answered that question twice, but reminding Beatrice of that fact wasn’t going to help her state of mind. He waited until she had left the room, her striped bombazine skirt whispering along the bare floorboards between the rug in the salon and the tile in the hall. Then he sat down in the chair she had vacated and loaded a pipe.
He was a little more concerned about Amelia’s imminent arrival than he had allowed his wife to know. He really wasn’t comfortable with shouldering the responsibility for his brother-in-law’s child either, but James was a very practical man. He saw no help for the situation so he had decided to accept it as graciously as possible.
No one had anticipated that the provisions of the Ryders’ will would ever be enforced; Amy’s parents had both been under forty and the idea that they would die together in their prime was so remote as to be almost unthinkable. But it had happened, and now a grief stricken, unhappy girl was on her way to his home, saddled with a fate she had even tried litigation to avoid.
James lit his pipe and drew on it, reflecting on the years he had spent in the Ottoman Empire, years which had made him a rich man despite the difficulties of running a business in a foreign country. He had dealt successfully with the hostile climate, the language barrier, and the mercurial rule of a despotic Sultan, not to mention his cousin Sarah’s complicated involvement with the Pasha of Bursa, and had emerged a winner. He had augmented his original rug exporting business to include woolens, pottery and native handicrafts, and he was now one of the wealthiest foreign residents of the Western empire. He would not be inconvenienced by an underage chit who was going to be free to leave his care in less than a year.
James saw his duty and was willing to do it. He’d provide a home and supervision for this girl until she came into her trust fund and, hopefully, got married to some suitable young man. They were less plentiful in Turkey than they were in Boston, but he was already working on that, making sure Amy would receive invitations to the homes of the embassy attachés and military officers stationed in the area. From the daguerrotype he had seen the girl was very pretty, and she had had the best of private educations in New England. Unless she had an insufferable personality she should be married by the time she was twenty, and James’ problem would be solved.
He puffed away contentedly, gazing around his luxuriously appointed living room with satisfaction. One of his finest silk rugs was the centerpiece of the salon, which was decorated in the cluttered Victorian manner with objets and bibelots Bea had selected over time, culling many of them from his own inventory. His wife was proud of her home, but she still missed her New England roots and she still suffered monstrously from the heat. It was at its worst now in July, and it was one of the few problems James’ wealth could not solve. But all in all, James was content, and he did not expect that the new arrival would disturb his peace or prosperity very much.
He rested his pipe in its holder and got up to pour himself a snifter of brandy.
* * *
Malik dropped the last coin into the pile and said, “Three hundred and forty-three
kurush
.”
Anwar grinned.
“And five rings, three gold bracelets, several watches and an emerald brooch,” Malik added, gesturing to the glittering tangle of jewelry next to the money. “Take it to old Gupta at the bazaar in the morning and see what you can get for the lot. Should be at least two hundred more.”
Anwar nodded.
Malik rose and stretched, glancing around the cave, where his men sprawled in various attitudes of relaxation, enjoying a respite after the successful raid. A fire burned in a corner, and several figures crouched around it; despite the searing heat of the day, the desert nights were cold. Malik wondered how long they would be able to remain in this mountain crag, for the Sultan’s janissaries were always looking for their hideout, and they were forced to change locations frequently.
He looked back at the stolen hoard with satisfaction. That should be enough to buy arms and supplies for another couple of months, as well as outfit the new recruits. The rebel numbers were increasing daily. With each new outrage perpetrated by the Sultan, each new massacre or rout or execution, more volunteers came to join Malik’s band. Some of them were barefoot and in rags, but all had one thought: to depose the Sultan and replace him with a democratically elected ruler. It was their only hope for a better life.
One of the camp women approached him and held out a jug of
raki
, the fiery clear liquor which turned white when water was added to it. Malik drank it straight, taking a slug from the bottle, and then handed it back to the woman. Her gaze lingered on his face, but he didn’t look at her, merely went back to his reverie.
The woman turned away in disappointment.
Malik raised his head and watched his server walk away, aware of what she was thinking. It seemed cruel to treat her so brusquely, but he knew that the slightest encouragement would have her trailing after him like a puppy, and he had no time for such entanglements. He was planning a raid on the next train likely to be loaded with Western gold, but in a different spot to thwart the escort the Sultan had ordered.
Malik had read about it in the Constantinople paper, which faithfully described each rebel raid as if documenting the exploits of a foreign army. Unlike many in his band Malik could read, thanks to the education his brother Osman had provided. Before Osman Bey ran off to Cyprus with the Sultan’s daughter, Princess Roxalena, he had been the Captain of the Sultan’s Halberdiers. This privileged0 position had allowed him to pay for a British tutor for his siblings at home and a maid for his mother. Malik took great satisfaction in knowing that the largesse the Sultan had provided through Osman was now enabling his younger brother to fight that tyrant more effectively. And now that Osman was established on Cyprus, thanks in part to the jewelry Roxalena had smuggled out of the Sultan’s palace when she left, he often sent contributions to Malik’s cause.
Osman’s hatred for his former boss was no less than his brother’s.
Malik retrieved a folded, handmade map from his cloak and spread it on the ground before him.
He had to organize the next raid very carefully, because both the rail company and the Sultan’s men were now on the alert.
He smiled. They didn’t know he was planning to expand his operation to include the passenger coaches that ran from Bursa and Constantinople to the outlying districts, to Pera and Meerluz and beyond, carrying well heeled travelers from the cities to their destinations elsewhere in the Empire.
He was smarter than all of them.
* * *
Amy shot forward on her seat as the coach hit a rut. She clutched at her straw hat and glanced across the way at Mrs. Spaulding, who seemed unperturbed by the bumpy ride. The glories of Paris had faded fast in the haze and heat of the dusty train trip, and now Aunt Bea’s husband had failed to meet them at the Constantinople station. He had sent a message instead, saying that they should take this coach to the suburban district where the Woolcotts lived.
Amy and her companion were sharing the short jaunt with four other travelers. There were two businessmen in vested suits, named Ames and Harington, and two spinster sisters in their fifties who sat staring straight ahead with delicate lace handkerchiefs pressed to their noses. Amy couldn’t imagine what the Misses Ransome were doing in Turkey and didn’t care; her whalebone corset was pinching her mercilessly and her lightweight silk traveling costume seemed to weigh fifty pounds. The bolero jacket with its leg-of-mutton sleeves was suffocating. The sun beat down mercilessly on the canvas top of the coach and the unpaved road they were traveling had more holes in it than a tinker’s stockings. Amy felt as if she had been traveling forever and would never, ever reach her destination.
She glanced out the isinglass window at the sandy desert spreading before them, dotted occasionally with patches of dry grass.
The Woolcotts’ settlement was supposedly just beyond the next bend in the road, but it might as well have been on the moon as far as Amy was concerned. If the wheels beneath her jammed into one more gully she was going to scream.