Scandal's Daughter Read Free

several years and taught her much about art and literature. He had even taught her to write English correctly, Mama’s orthography being anything but orthodox.
    Then his family had insisted that he marry; his mistress and her daughter had moved on.
    At the bottom of the leather case, Cordelia found a simple string of quite ordinary pearls. Those were Mama’s before her marriage and she hadn’t worn them since. She had given them to Cordelia on her sixteenth birthday. Cordelia had had little occasion to wear them, none since coming to Istanbul, but she decided to keep them. Half ashamed of her sentimentality, she told herself they were not worth much. She clasped them round her neck and tucked them under her kaftan.
    At the bottom of the sandalwood box, she found her baptismal certificate, her mother’s marriage lines, and a letter.
    My Dearling Dee, I know I have offen erked you by refusing to part with my Jewls. Now you are reading this you will reelise why and not blame yore foolish Mama—They are All I have to leave you. I know my wise child, so much wiser than her mama will make use of them wisely to ashure her Future. God bless you and keep you, my Dearling. Your ever loving Mama.
    Cordelia wept.
    * * * *
    In the cool of the morning, Aaron the Jew sat on the bench outside his little shop. His yellow turban, as decreed by the authorities, proclaimed his faith. His shabby clothes proclaimed not his relative wealth, nor a superstitious fear of the Evil Eye, but a sensible wariness of arousing the envy of his Moslem neighbours.
    Approaching, Cordelia studied his face, thin, lined, with deepset eyes and a sparse grey beard. All depended upon his willingness to help her. If he refused, or if she felt unable to trust him, she didn’t know where to turn.
    He regarded her with a gravity which inspired confidence. Standing up, he bowed and without a word held back the curtain across the doorway of his shop. She entered, followed by Ibrahim with the jewelry in a plain rush basket, wrapped in linen cloths. Aaron came in after them, letting the curtain drop. The light within was dim.
    “ Shalom , Meess Courtenay,” he said, much to her surprise, continuing in broken English, “your visit honours to me. I hear the mother dies and feel much sorry. A lady of good charm.”
    “Thank you, Mr...sir.” Cordelia unwound the shawl from her face, though she left it over her hair. “How did you know who I am?” she went on in Turkish.
    “I know your servant. Also, I have seen you with your mother, and though you wear Turkish clothes, you do not walk like a Turkish girl, if you will excuse my mentioning it.”
    Blushing, she glanced at Ibrahim, who nodded confirmation. So much for her prized anonymity in the streets! This might complicate her escape, but with luck no one would think twice about her visiting her mother’s jeweller.
    “You have come for the ring?” he asked. “It is in my workshop, not here. I have not yet done the work, but perhaps you want it left as it is?”
    “Yes, thank you.” She had forgotten the ring Mama brought yesterday to be reset—the reason for her fatal outing. “That is, it doesn’t matter now. Mr. Aaron, I need your help, but I must beg your promise to keep my affairs secret. If you cannot promise, I shall have to...to think of something else.”
    “I promise not to disclose your affairs.” As he spoke, the Jew lit a lamp. “Until you tell me what you wish, I cannot promise to help.”
    Cordelia looked around the small room. “I don’t know,” she said doubtfully, noting the bare furnishings. On the threadbare carpet stood two low, cushioned benches, and in a corner a plain wooden chest, not large, with an iron lock. A shelf on one wall held only writing materials. “Maybe I am expecting too much of you.”
    He smiled, his thin face wrinkling. “You must not judge my business by this place, Meess. Most of my stock is at my workshop. Here I show prospective customers examples of my