If Victoria had thought the scene at Varna chaotic when they had landed, what she saw there during the last week in August exceeded it a hundredfold. The harbor was only deep enough for trading vessels; standing offshore was a vast fleet of six hundred steamships and old sailing vessels that were to be taken in tow. Into these hulls had to be packed more than fifty thousand men, half as many animals, batteries of guns, an arsenal of ammunition, tents, cooking equipment, medicines and stretchers, spare boots, greatcoats, blankets and saddles and enough rations to feed this force for an indefinite period.
The Hussars camped in a field just outside the small town, finding many regiments spread around in similar manner awaiting embarkation orders. Some had been there for almost a week and described the chaos caused by this monumental expedition. Victoria and Charles had dinner with Captain Jenson, whom she was pleased to see again, but he was gone the following morning. She stepped out of her tent to find the side of the hill that had been covered by infantry tents the night before bare and green. A small regret lingered inside her that she had not waved her cousin’s husband off, nor wished him God’s blessing. By midday the hill was occupied by French Lancers — and so it went on, no regiment knowing when it would be called to the ships.
During their two days in camp, inquiries revealed that a hotel room was out of the question for Victoria and Letty, for Varna had been swept by a severe fire on August 10, which had destroyed a quarter of the town. The ladies had no alternative but to return to Constantinople while their husbands were fighting. Until arrangements could be made for passage, they were invited to stay with a kindly staff officer, who had commandeered a house near the harbor.
Past caring where she went from now on, Victoria agreed to these arrangements and waited for the departure of the regiment in a mood of quiet tension, while one by one the ships filled up and stood out to sea. The orders arrived late on the night of September 1; embarkation began just after dawn the following morning. After three months in a tent, Victoria could not believe it would be the last time she would wake to look up at the sloping canvas over her head.
Charles was as silent as she as they watched the regiment march off along the sloping road to the harbor, before mounting and following in their wake. She watched her baggage and that left behind by Charles being installed in her room in the town, then turned to her husband as the soldier went out.
“You must go. They are embarking fast.”
“Yes.” He seemed lost for words for once. “I have no idea how long it will be before I can join you in Constantinople. Once we take Sebastopol the whole issue should be settled swiftly.”
“Will it be difficult?”
He shook his head confidently. “I think not. If we can beat Napoleon we can take a small Russian fortress easily enough.”
“I pray you are right,” she said, thinking of the men now, compared with when they had left England.
He hesitated, then took her hands to his lips. To her surprise there was sadness in his eyes. “It is a great pity you cannot see out the campaign. You have worked so hard at it…and I have been most excellently cared for. No man could have wanted more.”
“Thank you, Charles.” There seemed no other way of answering.
His fingers played with hers. “Victoria…if I should…” It was never completed and he slowly released her hands, turning away as he did so. “I shall endeavor to bring you a souvenir from the Crimea so that you can show your friends when you return.” He turned at the door, still reluctant to leave, yet saying nothing.
Victoria wished he would go; she wished the entire day were over; she wished…oh, she wished she were seventeen again and dancing at Aunt Almeira’s ball with laughing young men who were not riding off to be cut to pieces. She remembered the swirling couples in her aunt’s hall and how her own heart had reveled at its awakening. Why had it not remained dormant?
“Goodbye, Victoria.”
The picture faded, and she stared at the tall fair-haired man who stood in the doorway. He could have been a stranger.
“Goodbye, Charles.”
His boots clattered on the stairs. It occurred to her that she ought to say more…but he was gone. Hollow hoof-beats rang on the narrow street until there was no more sound.
Chapter Ten
Although it was now October, the heat was as oppressive as it had been when the armada left for the Crimea nearly a month before. Victoria sat at her window writing a sad letter of condolence to Charlotte, but her hand would not let her form the words she wished to say. It stilled each time her mind filled with pictures of the happy-go-lucky Captain Jenson.
The news had come through only last week of a great battle at the River Alma on September 20, at which the Russian forces had been driven back from their strategic position on the heights by courageous redcoats fighting uphill at a complete disadvantage. There were conflicting stories of the number of casualties, but there was no doubt they ran into thousands. There was also no doubt that the Light Cavalry had not been engaged in the battle — a fact that had incensed infantry and cavalry commanders alike. The Russians had retreated but could have been routed completely by a cavalry pursuit. For some reason best known to himself the commander-in-chief had kept his glittering regiments of cavalry sitting handsomely in their saddles to watch the chance of a lifetime slip away before their eyes.
Victoria and Letty could not help but feel thankful at the news, although they were well aware that their husbands were smarting with injustice at the slurs that were being cast upon their ability by the regiments of Foot. One, in particular, would be beside himself with frustration in the regiment of Hussars, but Victoria would not let herself think of him.
Other disturbing factors tormented Victoria to distraction. Inexplicably, tents, blankets, stretchers, medical supplies, chloroform and ambulance wagons had been left on the landing beaches two days’ march back, so the treatment of the wounded had been makeshift. Dying men had been left with no shelter from the cold night, the injured had been carried from the battlefield in ways that could only increase their suffering, limbs had been amputated with nothing to deaden the pain but a sleeve to bite on and blood poured from wounds because there were no bandages. Those who had been considered to have a chance of recovery had been loaded onto the transports standing offshore and were now on their way to the hospital at Scutari — that same building that had been untenable three months before!
Listening to such words made Victoria ache deep within herself. A mixture of anger, impotence and protective pity made her restless with inaction. Captain Jenson, she had been told, had lost both legs in a shell burst and had died two days later. Whenever she thought of his good-natured face smiling at her across a wooden box dinner table inside his tent at Varna it was impossible to be still. If I had only been there! Whenever she thought of his forty-eight hours of agony, of his fevered cries for Charlotte, of his loneliness as he lay dying among rows of broken men, she pressed her hands to her temples. If I had only been there! Whenever she thought of the comfort she could have brought him and hundreds like him, she lifted her head and cried silently, If I had only been there!
The paper before her lay open and innocent of ink. What could she write to Charlotte? The pen began to move. It drew patterns that told lies. It spoke of how William Jenson had felt no pain before he died; it told of loving messages he had breathed at his last; it balanced the recipient’s grief against her husband’s gallantry in the field. It wrote “The Crimea” at the head of the paper and made no mention of a month in Varna. It wrote with mercy in its tip.
Victoria sealed the envelope and went in search of Letty, who was sketching in the garden. Her friend glanced up and smiled. They had grown close during their enforced residence in Varna. Victoria knew how much Letty longed to be beside her husband and admired the strength that allowed her to sit patiently drawing when her mind was so full of fears. On September 20, it had been clear and beautiful in this Balkan port while the two armies had been sla
ughtering each other at the Alma. There had been nothing to tell the two ladies of the fact — no shot, no cry, no clash of steel. Could it not be like that again? At this very moment could not their loved ones be… No, it did not do to allow such thoughts.
“I propose walking to the post office with letters. Shall I take yours, or is your inspiration at a low ebb this morning?” asked Victoria, studying the small drawing on Letty’s lap.
“Everything is at a low ebb this morning,” Letty confessed, getting to her feet. “I cannot help thinking of Jack. It would be better in England than this place. We are so near, yet so cut off.”
“I have never felt so rootless as I do sitting here waiting for a ship to put in on its way to Constantinople,” Victoria admitted. “I shall call again at the harbor master’s office to discover if we cannot get some kind of passage soon. I swear I shall go into a decline if I am obliged to remain here much longer.”
The two young women set off to post their letters in a mood of mutual disconsolation. There was a hint of thunder in the air. There had been several severe storms in the past week, and they did not look forward to another. Letty did not like lightning, and thunder now reminded Victoria of the shooting of horses at sea. They were discussing these dreads when a voice hailed them.
“Mrs. Stanford! I could not believe my eyes, but it is indeed you.”
Victoria half turned. “Captain Porchester! How very delightful. I cannot tell you how relieved I am to see you. I had begun to think British ships did not put into Varna.”
Where a military man would have raised her outstretched hand to his lips with an elegant bow, Byron Porchester patted it affectionately while his twinkling eyes smiled into hers.
“Nor they do, ma’am, unless they have need of repairs. I had not guessed my misfortune would have this happy outcome.” He laughed in a rumbling crescendo. “Will you present me to your companion, my dear lady, before my officers catch up with me and steal my thunder?”
Introductions were made and an explanation of their presence in Varna. The captain was returning from Scutari, where he had taken some of the wounded and victims of the cholera that was still raging.
“Our forces have taken possession of the village of Balaclava that lies before Sebastopol, and they are encamped there with some permanence, I hear. I am under orders to return to Balaclava harbor but have had to put in for repairs,” he told them. “If I had been traveling in the opposite direction I would willingly have taken you both aboard, ladies. Any of my officers would be glad to give up his cabin for your sakes.”
“I believe you, sir,” said Victoria with sudden sweetness. “I have not met a finer group of gentlemen. However, none could outshine his captain in charm and courtesy.”
“Ha, ha ha!” boomed Captain Porchester. “You have a pretty way, ma’am.”
She looked up from beneath her lashes. “Not at all, sir. It is simply that I remember your kindness to me during the voyage.”
“It was a pleasure to have the company of such a gracious lady aboard my ship,” he replied gallantly.
Victoria was looking at Letty, who appeared surprised at this exchange. “Mrs. Markham, I cannot describe to you the skill with which Captain Porchester guided our vessel through the most terrible storm. I was crouching in my cabin quite terrified, thinking we should surely founder, but we came through in the manner for which our great seafaring nation is famed.”
Letty’s eyes widened fractionally and her lips moved rather stiffly. “Indeed, Mrs. Stanford? A miraculous escape, to be sure.”
Victoria turned her full battery of charm onto the middle-aged man. “All due to Captain Porchester — quite my favorite seafaring officer. I still remember the great privilege you bestowed on me by conducting me over your vessel and answering all my questions so kindly.”
He beamed. “I recognize genuine interest when I see it.” He turned to Letty. “Are you a lady of inquiring nature also, Mrs. Markham?”
“Most definitely,” Victoria said quickly. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Markham traveled with a captain who believed ladies should not concern themselves with matters of great interest to gentlemen. Unlike you, sir, he did not appreciate that females wish very much to understand the skills that are beyond their own reach. She has envied me my good fortune in traveling in Sirocco. Is that not right, Letty?”
Byron Porchester rose to the occasion immediately. “My dear lady, may I attempt to repair the omissions of your ungracious host by offering to conduct you over my vessel while we are in Varna?”
“How very magnanimous!” Victoria cried. “Think, Letty, how fortuitous it was that we should meet Captain Porchester this morning! To think your ambition is to be fulfilled so immediately. I declare, it is the first happy day we have had since being left so alone in Varna.” She let her shoulders droop, and her eyes began to fill with tears.
“Dear, dear…yes, that is a great pity,” murmured the captain. “We cannot have that…dear me, no. Mrs. Stanford, can I not cheer you both a little by asking for your company at dinner on Sirocco this evening? My officers and I would be honored if you would accept.” He rumbled with embarrassed laughter. “We get lonely at times, too.”
Victoria raised her eyes to his as her hand went to her bosom. “I have seldom heard a more beautifully phrased invitation, sir. It would give me the greatest of pleasure to renew my acquaintance with your officers, and I know Mrs. Markham would benefit from the company of cultured gentlemen after a month in this place. Her spirits have been very low after hearing of that dreadful battle.”
“Of course they have been,” he agreed sympathetically. “We shall do our utmost to put such things to the back of your minds for one evening.” He sketched a salute. “Two of my officers will wait on you at seven this evening. Until then, I bid you good day, ladies, and look forward to your company.”
He went about his business, having noted their address, and the ladies continued on their way from the post office. Letty was very quiet, and Victoria let her remain so for a little while. Then she said, “I vow I shall be hard put to know which of my gowns will look well enough for tonight. After so long folded in a trunk I fear none of them will flatter me.”
Letty could remain silent no longer. “I must tell you that I have now had a lesson in judging character, Victoria, and am greatly disappointed, I did not think to see the day you would put yourself so forward with a mere acquaintance. My cheeks burned at what impression Captain Porchester must have of us — accepting a dinner invitation with a half-dozen gentlemen while our husbands are fighting.”
Victoria burst into merry laughter and took her friend’s hands. “Letty…oh, if you could but see your disapproving face! I know Captain Porchester. He is a very charming but susceptible man. He is already feeling sympathetic toward us, and by the time we return tonight he will have promised to take us with him when he sails.”
Letty still did not understand. “But he is not going to Constantinople, he is going to…”
“Balaclava,” finished Victoria triumphantly. “And where is your beloved Jack?”
The other girl gripped Victoria’s fingers until they hurt. “Dare we?”
“It is not a question of daring,” Victoria replied, her eyes gazing at some faraway place all of a sudden. “I have to go to the regiment. I have known it since they sailed.”
*
Hugo crushed the letter between his fingers and sat for a long time trying to come to terms with what it contained and all it implied. The mail had been delivered that morning, but he had been away from camp all day on outpost duty, returning hot and weary and dispirited. The letter seemed unnecessarily to complete his feeling of disenchantment with life.
Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he silently repeated the shocking phrases. My sincerest sympathy in your loss…a great blow to us all…always so very generous and kind to me…your papa feels her absence most deeply…to come at a time when you are under great stress and danger. Charity Verewood knew how to com
fort the bereaved with well-thought-out words, but they did not comfort Hugo. Lady Blythe, the woman who had replaced his mother, had died very suddenly from a heart attack, more than five weeks ago, and Charles had said nothing to him, although the intelligence must have been his for some time.
Lying back on his bed, Hugo grasped the crumpled letter while youthful memories paraded before his eyes. The laughing pretty woman he had called Mama was prone to spoil him, for he was never told to go away when he approached, and she had loved to take him on her knee. Later, her interest in his exploits became indulgent but less absorbed, until it struck him one day that he actually knew more than she did.
From that moment of revelation he had found the situation reversed. She sought comfort from his affection, and he became indulgent. That indulgent fondness continued long after he needed anything in return, long after her tragic encounter with meningitis, long after he had been forced to watch her grow into a self-centered, eccentric woman. No matter what happened afterward, he could never forget the life and future that woman and her husband had given him.
He screwed up his eyes in pain. The letter of farewell and gratitude to his family when he left England had come easily out of his need to sever himself from anything in his past. Now, he knew the numbness was wearing off. He had thought himself strong and invulnerable — prepared to live as a man alone — but this had hurt him. Out of the past had come a lance to reach him in his armored fortress and pierce the crumbling walls. By his own hand he had renounced any claim to their future bond, but those past years counted still and it took some time to ride out the knowledge that Charles could remain silent on something that was so close to them both. Where did the realms of hatred end?
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