Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [297]
For a moment Marthe stared at her. Then she said pleasantly, ‘I’m sure Mr Crawford will have no objections. But if you want it changed, I imagine you have only to ask the maids, or the eunuchs.’
‘I have,’ said Philippa. They won’t. I’ve even seen Kiaya Khátún. She says if we move, Roxelana will be offended.’
‘I see,’ said Marthe. After a moment she said, ‘By all means then; we must not offend Roxelana before morning. What does Mr Crawford say to an odalisque in his bed? Is it a bed?’
Philippa laughed a little. ‘It’s a European four-poster,’ she said. ‘He’s awake now, I think; but I haven’t seen him. They’re bringing us supper soon in the other room.’
‘Then you can break the news to him then.’ Marthe studied the other girl for a moment. ‘Will you take advice?’
Philippa’s brown gaze was direct and her answer as simple. ‘About Mr Crawford? I think you know him much better than I do.’
Unexpectedly, the thick fair lashes fell. ‘In some things. For example … he will not, I think, find it logical to live with what he has done today. I have told him that you are his responsibility. While he believes that, he will continue to protect you. I tell you this, so that you will understand what is happening. He will measure his life by your helplessness.’
Philippa stared at Lymond’s sister, the circles black under her eyes. ‘According to Kate,’ said the Pearl of Fortune, ‘I am the very nadir of helplessness. So is Kúzúm.’
‘Good. It is perhaps academic,’ said Marthe. ‘Soon the drug will. kill him unless he stops; and if he stops he will not be fit to travel.…
And I have a feeling that, when we go, we should go very quickly.’ She smiled. ‘I shall look after your Kuzúm. Go and eat, and sleep. He will be kind to you.’
27
Constantinople: The French Embassy
He was kind, for a man who had nothing left but a violent longing to be alone. From the moment Lymond wakened in the silver four-poster bed which some sycophantic Doge had sent long ago to some Sultan, his companions hovered about him, brushing him with their silent solicitude until he brought together all his self-command and addressed Jerott, an edge in his voice. ‘Tell Archie I’m getting up. It’s like being host to a sheep tick.’
He had had two hours’ rest. Because of that, and the febrile stirring of the drug, he had recovered a flickering shadow of vigour: a nervous temper which Jerott, puzzled and anxious, could not rightly interpret. He saw only that Lymond had thrown off some of his exhaustion and was thankful. But he still would not leave him; escorting him doggedly into the larger room where they were to eat, and where Philippa had now joined Abernethy and Gaultier.
Philippa watched them come in. She had already heard their voices: Lymond’s cutting in anger, and Jerott answering. It was obvious what was happening. She even began to say, ‘Archie …’ and he had turned his broken-nosed face and answered her quickly. ‘No. We can’t leave him alone.’ Then they were in the room, Jerott breathing hard, his lips straight, and Lymond beside him, his eyes blazing, his voice soft and detached. ‘… Be a father-figure by all means if you must. Protector of the Poor and father of Orphans; the refuge of widows and the mirror of honesty and shamefastness accompanied by Modesty. Acquire a harem. But kindly don’t meddle with me …’
Then he saw Philippa and Archie and stopped; and after a moment crossed and dropped on the cushions Archie indicated beside him. Jerott walked straight past and went to stand at the window.
Philippa sat, crosslegged and silent, her bent face masked by the fall of her shining brown hair, and gripped her hands, knuckle to knuckle, until her fingers went white and the bones cracked. Dear Kate, how understanding we were about funerals: how we shared in the weeping beforehand and the lightheartedness, the unsuitable laughter which followed. We’ve had a victory. We’ve won a battle whose importance perhaps no one yet knows, after a year of effort which has