No Place For a Lady Page 9

  Their husbands rode off at the crack of dawn. Lucy could still feel Charlie’s hurried last kiss on her lips, and wondered if she would ever have a chance to kiss him again. As she and Adelaide made tea they were uncharacte‌ristically silent.

  Some women were climbing to a ridge from which they could view the battle so Lucy and Adelaide followed. From the top they were close enough to see the main Russian encampment just across the River Alma, close enough to make out smoke from their fires drifting into the air. It was eerie to think of them sleeping in their tents and heating food, just as in the British camp, perhaps some of them also accompanied by their wives. Yet soon they must be attacked and driven back; soon they must be killed.

  The British, French and Turkish armies had superiority in numbers but the Russian army was on a raised plateau and they’d had time to dig in their gun emplacements. Suddenly Lucy was deafened by a wall of noise: explosions from big guns and the pop-popping sound of small guns mingling with the eerie sound of the bagpipes played by some regimental bands. The fighting had started. Dust rose in the air blurring individual forms and Lucy wondered how the men could tell who was friend or foe. She was horrified to see bodies fallen face down in the river and to realise they must be dead. The Russians appeared to be advancing down the hill, and suddenly her heart was filled with such fear for Charlie that she could no longer watch. Sick to her stomach and overwhelmed with the awfulness of the scene before her, she turned and hurried down the hill to sit on her own, hands covering her face. She’d thought she could cope but nothing in her upbringing had prepared her for witnessing such carnage. After a while Adelaide joined her, reassuring her that already the British and French appeared to be prevailing.

  Back at camp, Adelaide decided to occupy herself by cooking and somehow turned their dried pork rations and some herbs picked in the undergrowth into a fragrant stew.

  ‘Won’t you try some?’ she asked.

  ‘I feel too sick,’ Lucy said. ‘I’ll wait until the men return and I can breathe easy again.’

  She considered asking if Adelaide knew about the tragedy in Charlie’s life that Bill had alluded to – those two seemed so close they must have discussed it – but it hardly seemed the right time with their husbands in battle facing a deadly foe. Besides, she felt embarrassed that Charlie had not told her himself. Instead she asked Adelaide about her children, knowing she always enjoyed talking about Martha and Archie.

  But as Adelaide spoke, Lucy realised she was only half-listening. Her brain focused on the booming of the big guns in the distance and her constant churning fear for Charlie.

  Suddenly, at around four-thirty in the afternoon, the gunfire ceased. They looked from one to the other. Half an hour later the first souls came down from the ridge to announce victory for the allies, and Adelaide and Lucy hugged each other. Lucy found another bottle of porter in Charlie’s bedding roll and poured them each a small glass to toast the troops. Men began to trickle back to camp, weary and dirty. The wounded were carried on the shoulders of their comrades, since no ambulance carts and insufficient stretchers had been brought along. The women went to offer sips of water and words of comfort while they waited for a doctor.

  Charlie arrived around eight in the evening, and Lucy dashed up to him, almost pulling him from Merlin in her joy. Her chest had been tight with fear all day but now at last she could breathe easily. With him he brought a ladies’ parasol of black lace over ivory silk, a wickerwork picnic basket and a bottle of wine he had found abandoned on the Russian side.

  ‘Their wives were watching behind the lines,’ he said. ‘It was a day out for them.’

  ‘Where is Bill?’ Adelaide asked, her voice tight with nerves.

  Charlie grinned reassuringly. ‘He was helping to round up prisoners but should be back before too long. Shall we open the wine now or do you want to wait for him?’

  They agreed it was fairest to wait. An hour went past, then another. Finally Charlie offered to ride out and see what was keeping Bill.

  Half an hour later, they looked up to see Charlie galloping across the field towards them. He leapt from his horse, eyes wide with shock and his whole body shaking. ‘I’m s— so sorry.’

  Adelaide screamed and clapped her hand to her mouth.

  Charlie struggled to speak: ‘One of the prisoners had a pistol and when Bill tried to disarm him he was sh-shot through the h-head.’ He broke down and sobbed so hard the last words were virtually indistinct: ‘He died instantly.’ Adelaide’s legs buckled and she sank to the earth with a cry, her face buried in her hands. Charlie leaned his face into his horse’s flank, his body trembling with violent sobs, and Lucy looked from one to the other, so shocked she couldn’t react. Bill had gone. He wasn’t coming back, although he’d been the picture of health when he rode out that morning. It was unfathomable. What about his children? What about Adelaide?

  Lucy realised she must comfort her friend but what should she do? Charlie had fallen to pieces. If only Dorothea were there. She must comfort people who’d lost their husbands all the time. She would know what was needed, but Lucy didn’t have the first idea.

  Chapter Twelve

  Charlie arranged for Bill’s body to be brought to a quiet spot amongst some bushes on the edge of the camp, where Adelaide kept vigil by his side all night long. Lucy and Charlie took turns to sit with her as she grieved. Sometimes she muttered prayers, at others whispered to Bill under her breath while stroking his face or holding his hand. Someone had arranged his fur busby on his head to hide the fact that part of his skull had been blown away. Adelaide wouldn’t accept any tea and barely said a word to either Lucy or Charlie, but focused all her attention on the man lying on the ground. As night went on, a purple stain seeped down into his face, which swelled until he was barely recognisable, while his limbs stiffened awkwardly, but he was still her husband, the man who played at being a big bear while their children clambered over him.

  Charlie was in tears much of the time. How would he cope without the steady presence of Bill, who had been such a close friend? Only the previous evening they’d all been chatting by the fire. Somehow Lucy had expected there would be an inkling of impending death, such as they’d had with her mother, but Bill was full of life one moment and gone the next. Her heart ached for him, for Adelaide, Martha and Archie. And sometimes a selfish thought passed through her mind: Thank God it wasn’t Charlie.

  Towards morning, Adelaide began to go through Bill’s pockets, removing personal items, and she gave a little cry when she found a letter addressed to her in an inside pocket.

  ‘What can this be?’ she asked and opened it with trembling hands. Soon tears were streaming down her cheeks unchecked, and when she finished reading, she held the letter to her lips and kissed it tenderly before handing it to Lucy.

  ‘My most precious darling,’ it said, ‘I am writing these few lines, lines that I hope you will never read, in case fate is against us and our time together on this earth is now at an end. The memories of our blissful life together fill my thoughts and I feel grateful to God for giving us the great passion and intimacy we have shared. Without you, my life would have been humdrum and ordinary; with you I scaled the very highest peaks of love, and count myself the most fortunate man who ever lived. Not only did God give us each other but he rewarded us for our long patience with two miraculous children, on whom I have doted so dearly. You are the most admirable mother, the most magnificent woman that ever I encountered, and I know I leave our offspring safe in your hands. Cherish them for me, talk to them of me from time to time, and tell them that I died to make their futures safer. I will be with you, Adelaide, watching as you hum while sewing, while you gaze out the window at the tall trees swishing in our garden, while you read to our children. You and I shall meet again, of that I have no doubt, but first I wish you will not mourn too bitterly. Devote your boundless energy and strength to raising our little ones so that I may live through them. I adore you, now and for always, Bill.’


  ‘It is his last gift to you,’ Lucy said, handing it back, her voice catching. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  Adelaide wiped her eyes. ‘And now I must do as he asks. First I will bury him with as much dignity as we can achieve in this foreign land, then I will sail home to my children.’ She grabbed Lucy’s arm. ‘Come with me. You have seen enough now to know we made a mistake. We shouldn’t be here. There is no accommodation for women and there is not enough food to go around. You could be more help to Charlie sending him packages from back home. This is a place for men to fight.’

  Lucy was stricken. The truth of Adelaide’s words was clear. But how could she leave Charlie, knowing he might suffer the same fate as Bill and there would be no one to stand vigil, no one to bury him with dignity? And if he lived, how could she leave him to return each night to a cold bed and dry army rations, with no woman to make tea or wash his clothes? And yet, she did not know how she would manage without Adelaide. The thought of leaving with her was enormously tempting.

  ‘I will talk to Charlie,’ she promised and Adelaide nodded, adding: ‘I would much appreciate your company on the voyage.’

  When she told Charlie of her friend’s suggestion he broke down in tears.

  ‘Lucy, darling, please don’t go. How could I manage without you?’ He clung to her, distraught. ‘Am I to lose my best friend and my wife as well, one day after the next?’

  His tears surprised her, but she knew he was overcome with grief about Bill’s death. ‘Of course not. I just thought I could be of use to Adelaide …’

  ‘Please don’t abandon me. Things will be easier for you when we establish a new camp. There will be proper washing facilities and decent food, and you will make new friends to take Adelaide’s place. Besides, we will only be in Crimea at most a few more weeks.’

  His plea was so impassioned that Lucy couldn’t help but agree, despite her strong misgivings.

  ‘Of course I will stay. I am your wife and my place is by your side.’

  The funeral was held in light drizzle beneath overcast skies. A bugler played the haunting ‘Last Post’ as Bill’s body was wrapped in a sheet and lowered into a hastily dug grave. Adelaide had placed in his arms the coloured drawings their children had sent and a lock cut from her own hair. She laid his bayonet alongside him, and turned away so as not to see the soil thrown on top.

  ‘Now I must go home.’ She clutched Charlie’s arm. ‘Please will you make arrangements for me to get on the next ship? I must reach my children as soon as the Royal Navy can possibly carry me.’

  He promised to do what he could.

  While Adelaide packed her bag, Lucy penned a quick letter for her father, telling him of her whereabouts and about the victory at Alma but omitting mention of Bill’s death. ‘I miss you terribly, Papa,’ she wrote at the end, her chest tight with homesickness. She missed Dorothea too; what she wouldn’t give to see her sister again, despite their quarrel! She knew she was going to feel bereft without Adelaide’s calm, sensible presence and realised in a flash of understanding that she had provided security, like a substitute sister.

  Though Adelaide was distressed when Lucy broke the news she would stay, she said she would ensure that the letter was delivered as soon as she got back, which she hoped would be well before Christmas. A wagon full of wounded men was leaving for Evpatoria and she was to ride with them to meet her ship so their tearful farewells were rushed. Charlie stood with his arm firmly around Lucy’s waist, as if fearful she might change her mind and jump on board at the last moment. She hoped he would stay to be company for her, but as soon as the wagon had gone he rode off to check on his men, who were out on patrol, and Lucy was left completely alone.

  She wandered over to the cookhouse to find Mrs Williams chatting to Mrs Jenkins and some women Lucy had never met. Mrs Williams made the introductions and Lucy tried to spark a conversation. ‘I hope you ladies won’t mind me intruding. I’m happy to help with laundry or cooking, or any chores you are doing,’ she said. ‘I hate to be alone.’

  ‘You could always go and live on board ship. I thought that’s what the officers’ wives were doing,’ remarked Mrs Jenkins, unsmiling.

  ‘I want to be with my husband and if that means living in a tent, so be it. I’ve managed so far, with only a few mishaps.’ She told them the story of the leeches, laughing at herself; her horror at those creatures now seemed as nothing compared to what had followed.

  ‘We’ll be on the move tomorrow,’ Mrs Williams told her. ‘We’re going to camp on a plain outside Sevastopol. It’ll be a long march. Is your blister quite healed?’

  Lucy was touched that she remembered her mentioning it. ‘Not quite, but I will apply fresh dressings. I hope you ladies won’t mind if I walk with you? I promise to keep up.’

  ‘Soak your heel in strong tea tonight,’ Mrs Williams suggested. ‘That will help. I’ll call by your tent in the morning.’

  The march, a distance of around forty miles, took three days to complete. The women sang to raise their spirits, and Lucy surprised them by singing some popular show tunes, including ‘Lay a garland’ and ‘Rol al lu, rol al lay’.

  ‘I thought it was all symphonies and arias with you aristocratic types,’ Mrs Jenkins said.

  Lucy laughed. ‘My father was a furniture merchant so we are not remotely aristocratic. My mother was fond of all types of music. She took me to the music-hall a few times, and she always sang around the house.’

  Mrs Jenkins made a face but seemed appeased and the women stopped to listen whenever Lucy struck up a new song. Her voice was easy on the ear, they agreed.

  As they walked, they passed through farmland which had been deserted by its Russian and Tartar owners and they grabbed any produce they could carry: late-season grapes, peaches and pears from the orchards, and beets, potatoes and corn from the fields. This seemed fair enough but Lucy didn’t accompany the women when they broke into abandoned houses and stole silver salvers, porcelain ornaments and bottles of wine or champagne. Food was one thing but taking someone else’s property seemed wrong, even in wartime.

  She missed Adelaide terribly. They came from similar backgrounds and had the same sensibilities. She had become in some ways like a sensible elder sister, a version of Dorothea but one who did not criticise her the whole time. Now she was gone, Lucy’s thoughts turned increasingly to her sister. There had been no response to her letters sent from Malta or Varna, but she supposed it must be difficult to locate individuals when they were on the move. She hoped a letter would come once they struck camp. Surely it would.

  After three days of walking, which left Lucy’s feet blistered so badly that she often took off her boots and stockings and tramped barefoot on the earth, they reached a plain from which they could see the rooftops of the town of Sevastopol and in the distance, the sea. Just over a ridge was a wide stretch of land that was to become the new British camp; supplies would arrive via the nearby port of Balaklava. Each company was allocated an area and their tents were erected in long rows. The temperature was dropping every night, and Lucy quickly sought out Henry Duberly to ask for her trunk to be delivered from the Shooting Star. Mrs Williams told her she was wasting her time. An attack against Sevastopol was due any day and after that they could all go home but Lucy was grateful when the trunk appeared because she had in it some beige calf’s leather shoes that were gentle on the feet. At last she could arrange all the little items she had brought with her: her tin bath for washing, her mother’s beloved silk bedspread, a little painting of blue flowers, some cooking pots, cutlery and china plates. The familiarity of her possessions in this otherwise foreign landscape was comforting. There was a general store in the nearby village of Kadikoi where she was able to purchase basic foodstuffs at inflated prices. Charlie kept his pay in a locked wooden box in case of pilfering but gave her some whenever she asked.

  His mood had been flat since Bill died. Lucy suggested that he set up a card game some evening, but he preferred to sit by the fire outside their ten
t, eating his dinner, drinking a few tots of rum, and then falling into bed. They made love, but it was perfunctory and lacking in the passion he had previously shown. His talk was of the commanders’ frustrating delay in ordering the attack on Sevastopol and the impossibility of fully encircling the port, meaning that supplies would still be able to get in even though it was besieged.

  ‘What is Raglan thinking of? How can we possibly prevail from this position?’

  Lucy had no suggestions to offer, except to repeat what Mrs Williams had said about an imminent attack, and to remind him that the British army was the greatest in the world and must soon triumph. This was the kind of conversation he used to have with Bill and she knew he felt the loss of his friend greatly. When she asked him how long he thought they would be camped there, he shrugged gloomily and said, ‘It’s anyone’s guess.’

  Once their camps were set up the French and British artillery began bombarding the Russian positions outside the town, with explosions that sounded like thunder and made the ground shake. The Russians fired shells back but Charlie reassured Lucy their camp was out of range and she had nothing to fear so long as she didn’t stray any closer. Still she was anxious with each blast and glanced around as if expecting Russian troops to appear on the horizon with bayonets raised.

  Before daybreak on the morning of 25th October, they awoke to a rumpus outside the tent.

  ‘The Turks are fleeing their lines,’ someone called. ‘The bloody cowards!’ Charlie dressed hurriedly and saddled his horse.

  ‘The Russians are attacking Balaklava,’ someone else yelled. ‘They’ll encircle us.’