Tasha Alexander - Tears of Pearl

“Do you think she was married?”

“I assumed, naturally, that she was attached to someone else.”

“But he thought they were going to be together?” I asked.

“I can’t say that with any conviction, Lady Emily,” he said. “All I know—as did the rest of us—was that he’d decided to take a new direction in his life and returned to Constantinople.”

“He told you he would be living in the city?”

“No, I believe it was only to be a stopover. He didn’t intend to stay in Turkey.”

“Did he speak of returning to England?” I asked.

“No. He never made mention of that. Said something about France once—some small village in the south. But I don’t know that he intended to live there. Surely his father could fill you in on the details? I thought they’d patched things up after their latest falling-out.”

“We weren’t aware there had been a problem,” Colin said.

“From what I’ve seen, there had always been problems. He was tense whenever his father visited, and they inevitably descended into argument.”

“Do you know about what?” I asked.

“Benjamin’s choice to work here. Not here specifically. I suppose it would have been the same at any site. Sir Richard would have preferred that his son pursue something more civilized—or simply live the life of a gentleman. He did everything he could to put him off archaeology. I know the attacks worried him, but on some level, I think Sir Richard welcomed them. Benjamin never got hurt, but they went a long way to shattering his nerves. And now he’s moving on.” He shrugged. “So you can well imagine it did not surprise me to see them getting along better after Benjamin had decided to leave.”

“So his father knew of this plan?”

“I thought so. Sir Richard’s last visit ended more cordially than usual. I drew what I thought to be the obvious conclusion.”

After thanking him for his help, I turned to my husband. “What now?”

“You spend the rest of the day perusing the ruins,” he said. “You’ve earned a little amusement. I’m going to the village. There’s no doubt I’ll find our sniper there.”

He returned hours later, his face tanned, eyes flashing. I’d persuaded Dr. Cartwright to put me to work after he’d given me a thorough tour of the site and was bent over a pile of dirt, sifting it through a strainer. I stood to wave to Colin as he rode towards me.

“I don’t think archaeology is for me,” I said, placing the strainer on the ground. “I’m afraid I haven’t the patience for it. Did you have any luck?”

“I did. I talked to a man whose son had been hired by an elderly Englishman to shoot at a man at Cartwright’s dig but never hit him. He was emphatic about it, apparently—said if Benjamin was hurt, there’d be no pay.”

“Did he give you any further description?”

“Only that he was tall.”

“Like Sir Richard,” I said with a sigh. “This is not moving in the direction I hoped it would.”

The next morning, my husband set off for the embassy and I for the St. Clares’ house in Pera, where I planned to speak with Benjamin. I knew all too well the pressures that could be exerted by parents with strong opinions and hoped that I might be able to get him to open up to me. Colin and I crossed the Bosphorus together, sitting side by side in our small boat, the European shore opening up in front of us.

“You’re turning green,” he said. “I’d no idea you were so prone to seasickness.”

“It comes as a complete surprise to me as well.”

“I wonder—” He stopped.

“What?”

“No, it’s silly.”

“I don’t know that I like you stopping and starting with me,” I said. “We’ve always spoken freely to each other, have we not?”

“Forgive me. Yes, of course we have. But there are some subjects best left alone by...” He laughed, shook his head. “I’m a man, after all, and that guarantees there will be certain topics with which I will never be entirely comfortable.”

I knew, of course, with absolute precision to what he was referring, and I cursed my nausea, feeling ambivalent about the entire situation. I stared into his eyes, debating confessing to him my fears, my suspicions. Something dark tugged inside me, reminding me of what I stood to lose by telling him too soon. Not only my independence and his support of my work, but I would also risk disappointing him. Regardless of Bezime’s ridiculous insistence of her certainty on the matter, I did not know if I was with child. Part of me longed to share with him my thoughts, but while he would be excited—that was clear by the way he was looking at me, eyes bright as he shot me a crooked smile—my own reaction would not be so simple. And that was bound to disappoint him.

“Heavens! I shall do all I can to avoid the topic for as long as possible,” I said, removing my gaze from his and focusing on the horizon. “Did you ever think I would so easily fall prey to something as diabolically simple as seasickness?”

“I confess I didn’t.”

“Nor did I. I’ve decided it’s a punishment for past hubris. I’ve been too confident in my abilities, physical and otherwise.”

“So you’re quite sure it’s seasickness?”

I gave him my brightest smile, my heart breaking just a little at the deception. “Unless the cook has been poisoning my food,” I said. “How are you feeling? Dizzy? Hint of queasiness hitting you?”

“I’ve never been better.” He was watching me with an intensity that all but made me squirm.

“The food must be safe, then. And you are the picture of health, as always,” I said. “Since you’re so smug and superior, why don’t you take a practice swim right now? We’re halfway to the European shore. It would be good training for your inevitable fate.”

He smiled. “You’re glowing beneath the green, do you know that?”

Benjamin greeted me with warmth, and when I’d explained what I wished to discuss with him, he begged to leave the house, not trusting his father’s servants to resist the temptation of eavesdropping on the prodigal son. Delighted at the prospect of seeing another part of the city, I agreed at once, asking only that we go on foot—the day was a glorious one, the air full of the green, floral scent of spring but not having lost entirely the final hint of winter’s crispness. We made our way to the Golden Horn, crossed the Galata Bridge, and proceeded to the Spice Bazaar.

Fashioned from long, tan bricks and with three moderate-size domes on the roof, the bazaar was located across the street from the bridge, next to a mosque. The plaza in front of the holy building was so full of pigeons, I thought for a moment I was back in London at St. Paul’s, at least until I began to listen to the voices around me. I’d been in the city long enough to distinguish Turkish from Arabic and heard two women speaking French as they passed me. What was most amazing, however, was the number of languages I could not recognize, and I wanted them to be all things exotic: Berber dialects, Farsi, or some ancient, nearly dead tongue.

We’d entered the bazaar through the front, central arch and then, ducking between stalls brimming with brightly colored spices—scarlet peppers, purple sumac, golden curry—Benjamin guided me through mazes of covered streets until we’d come out a side exit, climbed a stone staircase, and reached a small restaurant, where the owner stepped forward at once to greet us.

“Mr. St. Clare,” he said, pulling out a seat for me at a tiny table tucked into the corner of his room. “You have been away too long.”

Benjamin murmured something in reply, speaking Turkish and drawing a sigh from the other man, who shook his head and replied in kind before disappearing into the kitchen.

“Ali is an old friend upon whose sympathetic ear I have relied too many times,” Benjamin said. “He did not know about Ceyden.”

“I’m sorry. I know well how grief creeps up everywhere when you’ve lost someone you love.”

“My father tells me you were widowed.”

“Yes, only a few months after my first marriage.”

“I offer all my condolences,” he said. “Though they’re far too belated to be either meaningful or welcome. I must confess that losing Ceyden again has torn me up in ways I wouldn’t have dreamed possible.”

“Were you close as children?”

“All we had was each other. We traveled so much, we never had time to make other friends, but didn’t feel the need for them. We were perfectly suited playmates. Of course, as young as she was, she’d go along with nearly any game I invented.”

“What happened after the attack?”

“I was shipped back to England, where I stayed with a less than congenial aunt. My father had lost his own parents years before, and there wasn’t anyone else to care for me. I understand why he did it—it was crucial that he try to find Ceyden, and he insisted I be packed off to somewhere safe. But even after five years, when it was clear there was no hope, he didn’t come for me. I went to school, and then to Cambridge, and by the time I was done found I had little use for him.”

“Did he ever go to England?”

“He visited me twice. Sent letters once a week and always gave me a generous allowance. We never had any arguments up to that point, but then we didn’t have any real conversation, either.”

“And he continued in diplomatic service?”

“Yes. I’ve tried to never fault him for any of this. He lost my mother in the most brutal way possible and failed to stop Ceyden’s kidnappers. I can sympathize with his desire to keep me away from harm. But what little boy wouldn’t prefer that his father provide the protection himself?”

“He loves you very much.”