…Glenay…
Lucien throws down the quill and rubs his eyes, flexing his neck side to side. There is a knot between his shoulders. He blows out his breath and looks toward the sputtering fireplace, standing to put fresh logs on it.
“Which one of us is in charge of this fire?” Lucien inquires gruffly, positions heavy logs from the pile to catch the flames. He watches critically until the blaze flares. He looks over his shoulder at the small figure sitting cross-legged in the large chair covered with a warm lap blanket.
Rosie smiles, keeping her eyes on her embroidery. The image she sees in her mind directs her stitches on the fine cloth and requires concentration. Lucien goes behind the chair to peer over her shoulder. ‘Who is this one for?’
“Father,” Rosie admonishes, “you should know. We picked almost every one of these flowers in the garden.” He smiles, “your aunt’s favorite.” He admires the depth of the colors for the flower, leaves and stems. The shadings create dimensions as though the flowers could be plucked from the linen and held in hand.
“It is beautiful Rosie. What did you make for Bianca?”
“Rayya and I did it together. Samy too.” Lucien looks surprised at this display of sibling cooperation and Rosie nods her agreement, blue eyes dancing. “Madame Rollard helped Rayya with a piece of silk Mother had saved and hemmed a scarf. I decorated it with what we found on our walks with Father Francois and Cousin Francois. Samy decided which to use and the colors.”
“Frogs, bugs and insects. Is that what adorns Bianca’s scarf?” Her father arches one eyebrow. Rosie giggles, “I added a few wildflowers she liked.”
“Where is your brother?” Lucien asks watching her nimble fingers. “He is supposed to be packing his chest,” Rosie replies and then quietly, “Papa,” she stills her fingers and sets her hands in her lap. “Hmm,’ he hums, patting her shoulder. Rosie is his only child who still calls him Papa. It signals she is worried. He moves to sit on the settee, resting his arm along the back, an invitation to sit with him. Rosie puts the embroidery aside and settles close, her head against his shoulder. He wraps his arm around her and waits for her to speak.
“Will Yusuf bring M Roberval from Marseille?” she asks. Lucien answers slowly, “yes, and Yusuf’s eldest son, Kuvvat, is arriving as well. Do you recall my explanation that Samy will return to Constantinople with him?’ She nods but clearly, she did not understand the meaning of his explanation. Or did not believe it.
“How long will Samy live with M Roberval?’” He sighs. The plan for Samy had been laid years ago, when he was a small boy and already showing remarkable aptitude for languages and study. But Samyar is Rosie’s twin and they have never lived apart. Samyar is going to Constantinople to expand his studies. It could be years before he returns to France.
‘Longer than it will suit any of us love. We will miss our Samyar however long he is away from us.”
“But we will still have each other,” Rosie points out and Lucien suddenly sees her true concern and wonders if Samyar has the same concern for himself. “Are you worried for Samy?” He feels her head nod, “he will miss us, without any of us to share it with, he will be so very lonely.” She tilts her head to look up at him, “Papa, you must not send Samy alone with M Roberval.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Sophia straightens up from the open chest, a hand to her back and stretches. “I think this one is finished,” she says to the maid. “That pile on the bed should go into the traveling bags. Carole, find a footman and have him carry this chest down to the others.”
“Yes Madame.”
Sophia sinks down on a chair and surveys the room. The doors of the wardrobes are thrown wide, shelves and deep drawers pulled out and empty. Pegs lined up on a wall are bare of cloaks, capes, caps and hoods.
“You have conquered this room.” Lucien leans through the open doorway, his hands braced on the frame. His wife rolls her eyes at his witticism. He walks behind her chair and massages her shoulders. “Hmm,” she murmurs gratefully.
“Come with us.”
She leans her head back against him, closing her eyes at his firm hands working the knots on her shoulders. “You know I cannot. I must see how Marie is getting on. Take the children. They are both sad and restless now that the others are gone. It will be a good diversion.”
“My mother has an army of priests and most of the household to help her pack.”
She is too tired to argue with him and only repeats, “take the children.” He does not answer and she tilts her head up, “the cannon?”
“Fou and Crotte brought the oxen back to the blacksmith this morning and are on their return to the Aigle.”
“When do you expect Athos?” She stands and starts to tidy the room, pushing open drawers closed and shutting the wardrobe doors. “Later this afternoon. I expect he needs a couple days to be ready.” He paces to the window, “they are bringing to Paris a local child as a companion for Bianca.”
‘That will be nice for Bianca,” Sophia replies in an absent tone, refolding the clothing on the bed, “it was good of Athos to consider it.”
It takes her a moment to realize that Lucien remains silent, staring out the window at the yard busy with preparations. “Lucien, what is it?” He shrugs, “the child has a mother, a family. Why would she wish to leave?” Sophia draws in a breath, choosing her next words carefully, “parents with few options might consider this an opportunity for their daughter. Athos and Alessandra would be careful about such an arrangement. You know this as well as I do.”
But she wonders if he does. They are no longer tolerable antagonists but brothers. Now, when they voice their thoughts or take actions it has a different effect. Despite the time spent searching for Alessandra, they still have a great deal to learn. For Lucien, there is something about a child leaving a poor family to become a companion for a privileged child that nags at him. What troubles him more is not wanting to find fault with his brother.
Lucien remains silent, his back to her, forbidding and stern. “Lucien,” she tries again, “you have taken in several boys, given them work and education. You were willing to give Joseph your name.” He scoffs, “they were orphans. No one wanted them.”
Sophia walks around to face him, lifting her hands to his cheeks. Reluctantly, he meets her eyes. She speaks quietly, “you did not have a choice, nor did your mother. It’s not the same, my love. Your brother would never harm a child nor would he harm you. Athos will ensure that this girl visits and writes to her mother. As Bianca’s companion, she will be part of our entire family. Trust your brother’s judgement.” His eyes shift away and she speaks to what is unsaid between them. “This is not Layla.”
“I know that,” he flares and quickly softens his anger. “She is …just often in my mind.” He folds his arms around her. She feels his tension lessen and asks lightly, “one last swim in the river?” He smiles, “yes.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
“Père Massey, Cousin Francois!” Lucien shouts from the riverbank. “I declare this race a draw. We must leave.” The two Jesuits pump their arms furiously through the water, splashing and interfering with each other recklessly, each determined to claim victory in their race across the river. Rayya and Samy are in the thick of the arguments. Lucien shakes his head at their antics, “I thought priests knew how to show mercy!” he chastises them. Slowly everyone drags themselves from the river wrapping themselves in heavy linens and cloaks, still debating the race.
“Jesuits,” Lucien mutters under his breath. “I declare the two of you would debate the direction of the river.’ Père Massey lowers the towel and stares at Lucien in astonishment. “Good grief Lucien, do we really need to revisit the arguments of the Greek explorer Pytheas’ ideas on the influence of the lunar cycle on the tides?”
“He was fortunate to live long before Ignatius made a persuasive argument to the Pope,” Lucien replied.“We attend to our mission,” Cousin Francois declares shaking his thick mop of curly hair, water flying in all directions. “Excellent exercise Lucien,” Père Massey declares, ‘we shall all sleep well and rise tomorrow to complete our preparations and set off for Paris. I shall miss this river.”
They mount horses, Lucien pulling Rosie up behind him on Jaaden, Rayya and Samyar ride together on his horse. They walk their horses alongside the riverbank under a warm afternoon sun, the children greeting and waving at passing folks. They know the name of every person who works on the estate. In the yard, they leave horses with stable boys and wet footprints on the floors as they walk in different directions towards their chambers. Sophia is there to apply a rough linen cloth to her daughters’ wet hair and lay out clothes. She hears a commotion outside and goes into the corridor.
“They are here!” Samyar is hurrying from his room, leaping down the stairs two at a time. Rayya hops from one foot to the other as she pulls on her shoes and then races after him, Rosie right behind her. Marie is also on her way to the yard, calling out to the children, “careful on the stairs,” Rosie replying, “I will walk with you Grand mère.” Lucien is tucking in a clean shirt as he strides towards her. Smiling broadly, he takes her hand and presses it to his lips. “My brother is home.” They walk down the stairs together.
Outside is a whirlwind of voices and activity. Bianca has launched herself from the carriage, the hand of her new friend firmly held as her cousins rush to embrace them both, everyone chattering at once.
“These are my cousins…Celestine is my new friend.”
“We went swimming every day.”
“She comes to Paris …she will live with us now…”
“Samy found a yellow toad…”
“I told her I have more cousins in Paris…”
“We have presents for you…”
“I have presents for you…”
Marie is laughing, mockingly holding her hands to her ears as she embraces her eldest son. “Good heavens, I have almost forgotten this whirlwind … how much I have missed her even for a few days.”
Samy is sneaking a pastry from a basket. Lucien kisses his brother’s cheeks, “welcome home.” He tilts his head toward the crates, “brandy?”
“Yes,” Athos says, “we have much to talk about.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
The library is quiet. Candlelight creates warm golden pools of light, leaving the corners of the room in deep shadows. Lucien and Athos are relaxed in comfortable chairs across from each other, sipping brandy. There has been a long discussion, but now all have fallen silent, each with their own thoughts, probing the details.
“The hour is late,” Sophia reminds both husbands. “I will walk Alessandra back to your chambers,” Sophia stands up. The men leap to their feet. “Allow me …” Athos starts to say, while Lucien looks slightly abashed at her mild rebuke.
“No,” Sophia says firmly, “you and Lucien have more to discuss. I will see my sister safely to her maid and in her bed.” Alessandra mocks an obedient smile, kisses her husband’s cheek and links arms with Sophia.
They walk slowly through the gallery. “You must be exhausted,” Sophia says, “do you think you can sleep or shall I bring you something to help you settle?”
“No. I am sleeping better.” Alessandra replies, casting her eyes down with a private smile. Sophia does not reply. It is enough to feel a burst of happiness for two people she loves most in this world. “The time away has been good for both of you. I can see it in your eyes.”
“Beyond a few details, I do not yet know the whole story of what happened there,” Alessandra says. Sophia replies, “Marie does know, but Lucien avoids talking with her. He claims he has no memories, so whatever she told him would be useless. I do not agree.”
Alessandra’s maid has heard their approach and is standing outside the door waiting for her mistress. Sophia embraces Alessandra, “our homes are not far apart in Paris. We will have time to talk. Bianca must treat our house as if it is hers. I will not expect the same as that means a herd of children coming your way.”
They laugh, embracing again. Sophia watches as Alessandra goes into her chamber. “Sleep well dear sister. Soon we depart for Paris.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
…Marseille…before dawn…
The moon’s glimmer fades in a changing sky. Yusuf walks quickly through the quiet house and steps into the kitchen. A tall broad shouldered young man, well-built yet lean as young men often are, is chatting amicably with the cook and munching on a thick of bread. Yusuf reaches to embrace him, cheek to cheek, “As-salamu alaykum Joseph. Lucien sends his love. You got my message.”
“Wa alaykumu s-salam,” replies the young man Joseph, eagerly thumping Yusuf’s back, “your message was scant, what brings you to Marseille? Is everyone all right? Is he coming?”
Yusuf chuckles and holds up a hand to slow down the rapid fire questions. Regretfully he dispels Joseph’s fervent hope, “Lucien cannot be here. Lucien will ask so let me look at you.” He stands back appraising Joseph up and down. “You have grown sevgili oğlum. Marseille agrees with you.”
“It does, and is now my home,” Joseph agrees smiling, still searching Yusuf’s face for what is unsaid, “and yet I can still long for Royaumont, Madame and my friends. How often do Gilo and Alban lose the sheep? M Eduin and M Levesque? They were very good to me. I hope…”
“They are well, but I must tell you of recent events and why I am here.” Yusuf gently presses the young man onto the bench and sits next to him. He summarizes the events of the past months. Joseph listens, his expression never changes, until Yusuf describes the families leaving Royaumont.
“Madame drove a wagon alone to Glenay?” Yusuf nods. He had not revealed Marchal’s assault as the reason for her hasty departure. “Not exactly alone. Cousin Francois, Cook, Gilo and Alban were with her.”
“I remember when she was determined to get into Paris to find Lucien. Jean and I went into the tunnels with her. The big musketeer pulled us out. I thought Lucien would take a strap to my backside for that.”
“He was too relieved you all survived.”
Joseph glances out the window. “It is good of you to come with me to the market today.” Yusuf stands, drawing his cloak around him, “I have an old friend who will be there.”
“We should leave now,” Joseph stands too, nodding his thanks to the cook. “The wagon line into the stalls will only get longer with our delay.”
In the yard a loaded wagon and a patient mule are waiting. The stable boy runs to open the gate and leads the mule into the narrow alley bordering the east side of Lucien’s house and gardens. They walk toward the intermittent flash of lantern light from wagons trundling down a wide road in the direction of the port and the market square. Poultry crates are stacked and teeter on packed wagon beds along with retted hemp, crates of vegetables and bags of herbs. From the opposite direction come the fishermen bringing baskets of fresh eels, mackerel, hake, sea bass and shellfish. Joseph keeps the mule in line with the slow orderly progression of wagons and carts.
“I understand you have taken your patron’s name.”
“Have I given offense to Lucien?” Joseph glances quickly at Yusuf who shakes his head, “you could never do that. Nor does a name keep you from your place in his heart and his home.”
“I was grateful to him for offering to give me his name. I came here for work that he thought would suit me. I knew nothing about olive trees and even less about lavender fields, but M Basult was patient. At the end of my time there I asked if I could stay and both Lucien and M Basult agreed.”
“You have grown fond of Eudes Basult.”
Joseph ducks his head, suddenly shy. “His only son was lost on one of Lucien’s ships. Lucien met him when he took the son’s pay to his father and stayed for a few days to help on the farm and then thought it might be an opportunity for me. Eudes has no other family. Neither do I. He has been good to me. That was the beginning.”
“A good beginning, Lucien is proud of you,” Yusuf smiles, “the soap factory now has a steady supply of oil and flowers.”
“It has grown into a good enterprise,” Joseph says with a touch of pride. “I am glad of your help today. M Basult finds the journey difficult. Your friend Kristo promised to arrive early and set up the stall.”
“I hope he is your friend also by now.” Yusuf says, chuckling as a memory arises, “Kristo’s father Murad had a popular stall in a market in Constantinople. The first customer of the day was always free. We were boys when he started teaching us to cook.”
“Kristo and his wife Katya are good friends, “Joseph declares, “I know the first customer rule. There is always a line for their cooking, so I strive to be the first customer of the day.”
They reach the stalls and move quickly to unload the wagons. A man is walking toward the stall, staggering slightly under the weight of the crates he carries. He is followed by boy carrying baskets. A pleasant scent floats from the baskets. “M Bucaro,” Joseph calls as he leaps down from the wagon bed and hurries to take the crates from the older man.
“Yusuf!” M Bucaro gasps as he recovers his breath. “What joy to see you. Is M Lucien here as well?” Yusuf looks apologetic, “I’m afraid it is only me. How fares the soap business.”
M Bucaro claps Joseph on the back, “thanks to this hard working young man, we are thriving with old and new fragrances. Business is good.” He waves to the boy to set his baskets of soap balls on the shelves and to stack the bars of soap neatly. He places the scales nearby for weighing. Joseph motions for the boy to wait for food that is being prepared. Customers are already arriving to examine the contents of the baskets and Joseph weighs the bars of soap, cutting the amount to be purchased. Joseph dribbles oil on small squares of bread for tasting and people murmur appreciatively and look hopefully at the lighted brazier. As Katya waits for the brazier to fully heat, she places fragrant honeyed pastries and fresh bread into baskets. Yusuf sits on a nearby stool, content to watch her practiced movements. She dripples oil into a bowl with flour, adding salt and then kneading it briefly before flattening the dough between her hands, slapping it on the hot brazier to cook. She mashes anchovies, garlic and olive oil into a smooth paste, flipping the flatbread from the brazier, spreading the mixture evenly, sprinkling seeds and a tiny dab of sauce. She hands one to Joseph and one to Yusuf.
“Teşekkürler,” Yusuf bites into the flatbread, humming with pleasure. He looks at Kristo, “your father would be proud.” Customers are lining up and Kristo lights a second brazier. It will be a busy day. “Yesterday an Albanian captain told me he had spotted the Zafer just off Vau,” Yusuf says into the chatter of customers and vendors.
“Then it will likely arrive today!” Joseph exclaims. ““Tanrı izni,” Yusuf murmurs.
He watches Kristo and his wife tend to their trade, changing languages easily, often slipping into the patois of Marseille. Kristo and Katya’s story is like many in Marseille where different languages, customs, and religions flowed together into an energetic mix of ambition and hard work. They own a field of hemp, a few goats and farm extensive gardens. If available, Kristo and two of his brothers work on merchant ships, sailing between Marseille and Constantinople. On one of these trips, Kristo brought home a wife.
Kristo places a small, long handled brass pot on the brazier and pours in a mixture of water and ground coffee. The stall is busy with customers, but at the exact right moment, Kristo snatches the pot from the brazier and pours the contents into small porcelain cups, adding sugar and hands it to Yusuf who takes a sip and murmurs, “teşekkürler, harika.”
He watches the busy stream of market activity, vendors and customers arguing good naturedly, women holding a hand of small child as they fill their baskets, others darting underfoot, a baby swaddled on a woman’s hip. The sun is up, warming the cobbles under his feet and the air into a hot day. Soon a local troupe of jugglers and musicians will appear. It is a scene intimately familiar to him. He is like the others from the eastern Mediterranean who wash up on shores of Marseille, offering a vague counterfeit sense of where they truly belong. Perhaps it is time for him to return.
There is a pause in the steady stream of customers. Kristo looks at him curiously. “How long do you stay?”
“My eldest son, Kuvvat, carries letters for the envoy in Paris. He will leave immediately.”
Kristo is impressed. “You have never mentioned that your son is an important official with the Porte.” Yusuf has a vague shrug. He does not know what his eldest son does or what Kuvvat’s position is within the Ottoman government. He does not know his business with the Ottoman envoy. He shrugs, “he only says he is carrying papers.”
Kristo nods and turns back to his customers. Joseph asks, “will you and M Roberval go with him? “
“No, we leave … later. Francois has business with the agents here and the women will need to rest from the voyage.”
“Women?” Joseph looks surprised.
“My eldest sister Yamina and Alya are on the ship. I was told that Alya is betrothed to the envoy. In Paris,” he adds needlessly, offering no further information.
Kristo is astonished, murmuring, “you my friend, are a man of too few words.” He glances at Joseph who is clearly troubled by the subtle shift in Yusuf. They exchange glances. “That was unexpected?” Kristo blurts out, immediately regretting his rude inquiry.
“Yes,” Yusuf replies politely, picking a nonexistent speck from his cloak. Joseph intervenes with practical matters.
“I will see Lucien’s agent to secure a docking so the ladies can avoid the longboat. Shall I arrange for a carriage or a curtained sedan chair?” Yusuf smiles, ‘thank you.”
Kristo looks at his childhood friend with a perplexed and pensive expression. But he decides against further comment. Women do not travel. If a bride must leave from her home and travel across the sea and through a country to get married, then there must be a problem. It is not proper for him to ask more questions or make inopportune remarks. Yusuf will tell him as he wishes, seek his advice if he needs it. Everyone has troubling family matters and only the women seem to want to talk about any of it. Besides, God decides these things.
“Inşallah,” he says.
Yusuf nods sighing, “inşallah.”
Twelve Years After 