I am delighted to be able to bring you an extract from Merryn Allingham's historical novel, A Tale of Two Sisters. Before you get to sample it, here's a little about the book first:
Separated by time and distance, two sisters seek answers for
all they’ve lost.
When Alice Verinder’s beloved sister Lydia goes missing,
Alice boards the Orient Express bound for Topkapi Palace in Constantinople,
determined to find her.
Lydia was governess to the Sultan’s young children and
though her letters spoke of exotic delights and welcoming hosts, the reception
Alice receives is decidedly cold and answers unforthcoming.
Now, as Alice digs deeper into the secrets of a land foreign
to her she has only Englishman Harry Frome to help her. But as their search
uncovers unforeseen dangers and exposes an unexpected ardour, is Alice ready
for the truths they’ll uncover?
An emotional historical drama perfect for fans of Linda
Finlay and Rosie Goodwin
Extract
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.’
‘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…
About the Author
Merryn Allingham was born into an army family and spent her childhood moving around the UK and abroad. Unsurprisingly it gave her itchy feet and in her twenties she escaped from an unloved secretarial career to work as cabin crew and see the world.
Merryn still loves to travel and visit new places, especially those with an interesting history, but the arrival of marriage, children and cats meant a more settled life in the south of England, where she has lived ever since. It also gave her the opportunity to go back to 'school' and eventually teach at university.
She has written seven historical novels, all mysteries with
a helping of suspense and a dash of romance - sometimes set in exotic locations and often against a background of stirring world events.
Thanks to Merryn and to Ellie Pilcher of
Canelo for a place on the tour.
To find out more, check out the rest of the tour!
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