No Place For a Lady

by Gill Paul

  In bed, she snuggled close, hoping to tempt him to make love. There had been no passion since the night of the Battle of Balaklava, and Lucy hoped that if she could seduce him it might bring back some of their old intimacy; but when she tried, he rolled over and lay with his back to her, pretending to be asleep. She knew he was depressed; he must be as worried as she was but instead of sharing his worries, he had retreated inside his shell. How could she give him the love he so badly needed when he closed himself off to her? If only she were more experienced as a wife, she could have found a way to coax him back but instead she could feel the strength of their marriage slipping away a little more every day.

  In her head, she sometimes had conversations with Dorothea in which she told her she had been right, that it had transpired she and Charlie had not known each other well enough to marry, and that she should not have accompanied him to war. Who could have guessed that such blissful happiness as they had known in the early months of the year could have vanished by its end, to be replaced by this impenetrable distance?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Charlie’s squadron was put on night patrol to try and prevent Russians smuggling food or arms into the city under cover of dark. November had turned to December and it was clear that Sevastopol would be besieged through the winter and that the British army were somehow to survive in their tents without sufficient food or fuel. He left camp at eleven in the evening and didn’t get back till seven the following morning. There was frost in the air that made the ground sparkle and he returned half-frozen, his moustache crusted with ice. Lucy had to sit him by the fire wrapped in blankets with cups of tea or broth to thaw him before he could go to sleep. Without him, she slept with all their blankets and coats piled on top of her, yet still she could never get warm. It was a penetrating cold, a cold that felt dangerous, as if it could sap the life out of her if she didn’t keep resisting it.

  When she ventured to the cookhouse, everyone she met had sunk into low spirits. They did what was necessary to stay alive – they ate, they drank, they sat by their fires huddled in blankets – but that was all. Most stopped washing because the water was too icy-cold to contemplate splashing it on your skin. Women started wearing their husbands’ spare trousers underneath their skirts and Lucy joined them, piling on all the clothes she could while still being able to move.

  One day the Times reporter Mr Russell came to their part of the camp, walked along the row of tents, and stopped in front of Lucy. She recognised him for his Irish accent, his curly dark hair under a blue peaked hat, and his bushy beard and moustache (Lord Raglan forbade the soldiers from growing beards).

  ‘Good day, Ma’am. I’m Mr Russell of The Times. And you?’

  ‘Mrs Lucy Harvington.’

  ‘I apologise for disturbing you but I’m writing a piece about the mood in the camp and wondered if I might ask you a few questions?’

  ‘All right.’ She couldn’t see any harm in it.

  ‘Tell me, how would you describe morale at present?’

  Lucy stared at him, puzzled he could ask such a thing. ‘Morale? I don’t think that comes into it. We’re just doing our best to stay alive.’

  ‘But don’t you feel patriotic? Surely you support the army in its necessary mission?’ His pencil was poised over a notebook and as his dark, honest eyes met hers, she felt drawn to frankness.

  ‘It feels as though the army high command have abandoned us. There’s not enough food, fuel or warm clothing to go around, and it seems we are expected to survive a Crimean winter in tents. No one understands why we are in this dreadful position when we were told Sevastopol would be taken in weeks and the war would be over by Christmas. What went wrong? I simply don’t know why we are still here.’ Her anger and frustration burst out in a passionate diatribe, and Mr Russell scribbled down her words. ‘My husband is on night patrol and returns each morning frozen solid, unable to speak for the cold that has locked his jaw. We had the first dusting of snow last night and all know this is only a mild foretaste of the severity of winter to come. Why do we not at least have huts with stoves, as the French do? Why are we not served nutritious hot food? It’s insufferable. Something must be done.’

  Mr Russell raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s quite a speech, Ma’am, and I’m sure our readers would be shocked to hear it. Perhaps you will help to spur the powers that be to take action. Tell me, what is your husband’s name?’

  ‘Captain Harvington of the 8th Hussars. But these views are mine, not his. You won’t say it was him, will you?’

  ‘Of course not. I’ll attribute the views to Mrs Harvington. I’m very grateful to you.’

  Lucy never saw the article in The Times but she knew it had been published because Major Dodds reprimanded Charlie for the sentiments expressed.

  ‘That’s not fair!’ Lucy cried. ‘I expressly said they were my views and not yours.’

  Charlie was too weary to argue the point. ‘Lord Raglan ordered us not to talk to Russell as his portraits of the war are too negative. You are my wife and therefore my responsibility.’ He turned away and the next words were spoken over his shoulder. ‘Are you really so thoughtless and stupid? I rather hoped to feel I had your support at this time, yet instead it seems you have stabbed me in the back.’

  Fired with the injustice of the accusation, Lucy pounded her fist on his arm. ‘Charlie, don’t say that. I didn’t know about Lord Raglan’s orders.’

  He turned and stared coldly, as if she were a stranger he wished to have nothing more to do with. There was not a glimmer of affection in his eyes.

  ‘Please forgive me!’ she cried, scared by his demeanour. ‘I’m sorry.’

  His eyes narrowed and he said bitterly: ‘Sometimes sorry is not enough. I should know that better than anyone.’ He walked off to tend his horse without giving her a chance to reply.

  Early in the morning of 24th December, Lucy was roused from a dream: it was Christmas in Russell Square and the rest of the family had bought gifts but Lucy had nothing to give; she was rushing around trying to make presents out of a potato, some salt pork and a piece of coal but was conscious they were shoddy substitutes for the prettily wrapped gifts the others had piled by the fireside. Suddenly she remembered the ship in the bottle Charlie had bought her in Istanbul; perhaps it would do for Dorothea. Her mother hovered on the fringes of the dream, present but out of sight. Lucy wanted to ask her advice about something but she couldn’t remember what it was.

  ‘Mrs Harvington! Are you awake?’ A voice called from outside the tent.

  She opened her eyes. ‘Yes, who is it?’

  ‘Second Lieutenant Cole, Ma’am. I must talk with you, Ma’am.’

  Suddenly she was alert. She rose hurriedly, adjusted the outdoor clothing in which she slept, and peeled back the tent flap. She could tell before the man spoke that something had happened to Charlie.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s bad news, Ma’am … Captain Harvington has been shot by a sniper near the Malakhov.’

  Lucy knew the Malakhov was a heavily reinforced Russian redoubt just west of Sevastopol. ‘Can you take me to him? Let me pull on my boots.’ She turned to look for them, blood rushing in her ears.

  The second lieutenant cleared his throat. ‘I’m so sorry, Ma’am.’

  The message was there in his lowered eyes, his embarrassment. He didn’t need to say the words; in fact, Lucy would rather he didn’t. Since Bill died she’d feared this moment might come. Now she must force herself to be as brave and dignified as Adelaide had been, even though her legs had turned to water.

  ‘I would like you to take me to him, please. I want to see my husband.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  There was a thin layer of snow on the ground, like icing sugar on a cake, and sharp white sun glinted off spurs and buckles. Lucy had brought some blankets and a flagon of water, but apart from those practicalities she kept her mind deliberately blank. She wouldn’t allow herself to think until she could see Charlie and then she would do whatever ha
d to be done, one step at a time.

  They rode to Cathcart’s Hill, some distance behind the British camp, and as they approached she could see a small group of men gathered. Major Dodds came to help her from her horse, visibly distressed; ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Harvington. He was a fine officer and a great friend.’

  She didn’t reply, too busy peering around to see where Charlie was; and then she realised the shape on the ground wrapped in a sheet must be him. She crouched, peeled the sheet from his face and gave a little cry. He looked peaceful, as if sleeping, and as handsome as the day she had first seen him at the Pendleburys’. She touched his cheek and whispered, ‘I’m here, darling. It’s Lucy.’

  Major Dodds cleared his throat. ‘We plan to bury him up here with the other officers. Of course, you’ll want time to say your goodbyes …’

  ‘Where was he shot?’ She couldn’t see any marks on his head.

  ‘He took three shots to the body, Ma’am.’ She didn’t recognise the speaker, but guessed he was a member of Charlie’s squadron. ‘I don’t understand what happened. We knew Russian snipers had their guns trained on that point where the trail emerges from behind some rocks. I suppose Captain Harvington forgot in that split second because he rode out and stopped his horse there, looking towards the Malakhov. That’s when they got him.’

  ‘Is his horse injured?’ She knew he wouldn’t have wanted anything to happen to Merlin.

  ‘He’s unhurt, Ma’am.’

  She nodded, pleased for that small mercy. ‘May I be alone with my husband?’

  Major Dodds consulted his pocket watch. ‘We’ll come back at noon for the funeral.’

  ‘That’s too soon.’

  He frowned. ‘Let’s say three o’clock then, before the light fades and the temperature drops. Can I get you anything, Mrs Harvington? Please let us fetch a lady friend to sit with you.’

  She shook her head, impatient for them to be gone so she could hold a vigil for Charlie the way Adelaide had for Bill. As soon as the men were a distance away, she began to whisper to him. ‘My darling, I love you so much. Our first months of married life were the happiest of my life. I know things have been difficult in Crimea but we would have survived and gone on to live such a good life together.’ As she spoke, she stroked the contours of his face, committing every detail to memory. She bent to kiss him and could still detect the scent of arak mingled with the odour of his body. She unwrapped the sheet and now she could see where the bullets had exploded into his flesh. There was a gaping wound just under his ribcage, one in his right shoulder and another lower down in his belly.

  ‘Oh Charlie, where are you, my love?’ The aching emptiness of his absence yawned in front of her. They would never kiss again, never make love again. She yearned to talk to him and know he could still hear. Perhaps he had left a letter for her, as Bill had for Adelaide – that would be something at least. She began to search his pockets, not caring that her cloak was being stained red from his blood. She removed his silver pocket watch from his vest pocket, took a few coins, a key and a handkerchief from one trouser pocket and, from the other, a flask. She opened the flask and although it was empty, the pungent odour of arak was evident; Charlie had been drinking on duty. ‘You silly man,’ she whispered affectionately. But her eyes filled with tears when she realised there was no letter, no final message. After the row the previous evening, she longed to hear him tell her one last time how much he loved her. Now she would never hear his voice again.

  In the lining of his vest pocket, her fingers detected a tiny fold of card. She pulled it out, her fingers clumsy with cold. Inside there was a lock of blonde hair, similar in colour to hers, perhaps a shade paler. The words on the card read, in Charlie’s handwriting, ‘Susanna Harvington, 2nd May 1842–6th June 1849’. Suddenly the little girl who had died felt real to her. She could imagine her excitement when her big brother came home with his grand army horse, the mane neatly plaited and stirrups gleaming. For the first time she felt the enormity of Charlie’s loss, a jagged, gaping wound that would never have healed.

  She lay on the ground beside him, wrapping the blankets tightly around them, and she hugged him as tightly as she could so that his blood soaked into her clothing and smeared her face and hands. She snuggled up close, her head on his shoulder and lifted his arm onto her waist, holding it around her, its weight like a final hug. And then she remembered that as he left the previous evening, he had kissed her briefly on the lips and murmured, ‘Forgive me.’ She had been drowsy and got the impression he was apologising for his distance of late. But perhaps he had already decided he was about to die. Why hadn’t she replied? How she wished she had whispered to him, ‘There’s nothing to forgive. I love you with all my heart.’ She’d been silent because she was tired and still hurt by his earlier harshness; she could never have known these would be his final words to her.

  Major Dodds came back sooner than she’d expected. ‘It’s time,’ he said, clearly embarrassed at the sight of her, all bloody and emotional.

  She wanted to scream ‘No, don’t take him!’ She had no likeness of him; how would she remember his dear face? But already he didn’t look like himself; already she could tell some intrinsic part of him had gone. The sun was setting and she couldn’t ask these men to work in the dark. She gave Charlie one final lingering kiss on his cold lips, slipped Susanna’s lock of hair into the pocket by his heart, then rose and lifted the blankets. A soldier wrapped the sheet carefully around his body then they carried him over to a place where she saw a shallow grave had already been dug. The ‘Last Post’ was played as they lowered him into the ground and Lucy just felt numb, as if this were happening to someone else, yet at the same time her heart thumped so hard in her chest that she could almost hear it. She realised she hadn’t cried yet. What must these men think of her, to be dry-eyed at her husband’s funeral?

  She stayed to watch as they shovelled earth and rocks on top of him, then Major Dodds offered to accompany her back to the camp. ‘I am here to help, Mrs Harvington. Let me know what services I can perform for you.’

  ‘I’m not ready to go back to camp,’ she said, her mind made up. ‘I will stay here a while longer.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s wise, Ma’am. The temperature is dropping fast.’

  The sun had already sunk below the horizon and just a pink glow remained in the western sky.

  ‘I’m not ready to leave him. Perhaps you could tether a horse for me to return later?’

  Major Dodds didn’t want to agree but neither did he wish to argue with a grieving widow. She could see the arguments playing out in his head, before eventually he gave his consent and ordered a soldier to tether a horse nearby. He gave her some biscuits from his ration, and topped up her flagon of water from his own, then patted her shoulder and warned her not to tarry long.

  As soon as they left and the hill was in darkness, Lucy could feel Charlie’s spirit with her. ‘Hello again, my darling,’ she said. She wrapped the blankets tight around herself then lay down on top of his grave. ‘It’s nearly our first Christmas as husband and wife. I couldn’t let you spend it alone.’ Adelaide had kept overnight vigil with Bill and she would do no less. Besides, she had no idea what she would do when she left him: there was no woman friend at the camp to offer support, her family appeared to have disowned her and she could not expect a welcome from Charlie’s. For the last year her entire life had been centred on this man who now lay a foot below her.

  Lucy dozed for a while but awoke shivering convulsively as the vicious cold penetrated to her core. Her fingers and toes were stiff and sore when she wriggled them. She could hear the horse stomping and blowing. The poor creature must be freezing. She rose and went over to stroke its nose then untied the reins to set it free.

  ‘Go on!’ She slapped its rump. ‘Go back to camp. It’s not fair for you to freeze out here.’

  The horse hesitated then, when she slapped it again, turned and galloped off. Now she was truly alone. She took out the po
cket watch and realised it was almost midnight. As the minute hand slipped onto twelve she spoke to Charlie again: ‘Merry Christmas, my very own sweetheart. I hope you know that I love you tonight more than I’ve ever loved you.’

  She wrapped herself in the blankets again and lay down on his grave to sleep.

  PART FIVE

  Chapter Eighteen

  14th November 1854

  London was unseasonably cold that autumn, with fog obscuring the view of the Cathedral from the windows of Pimlico Hospital. The Soho cholera epidemic had passed but Dorothea’s ward was crammed with patients suffering acute lung disorders, so her working days were spent to the sound of hacking coughs, wheezing chests and the expectoration of dirty yellow phlegm.

  At home, her father had backache and issued petulant orders from his armchair. Dorothea applied mustard poultices and tried to be sympathetic but she noticed that when he thought no one was watching he managed to walk to the sherry decanter on the sideboard without any sign of discomfort.

  Still she read The Times every day, following the progress of the war avidly, and like other readers she was horrified by Mr Russell’s reports of the Battle of Balaklava and the charge of the Light Brigade, which appeared in the paper on 14th November: ‘a more fearful spectacle was never witnessed than by those who … beheld their heroic countrymen rushing to the arms of sudden death’. She knew the 8th Hussars were part of the Light Brigade – a term that none outside the military had been familiar with until recent months, but which was now part of the national vocabulary. Had Charlie led his squadron down the northern valley amidst Russian guns? If so, had he survived? The odds weren’t good. According to Mr Russell, 118 had been killed and 127 wounded out of just 670 men.