by Gill Paul
‘I will make a fire in the bedroom upstairs so that you can rest awhile,’ he said.
He disappeared through a doorway and came back with an armful of logs, which he carried up the sweeping staircase.
Lucy backed into a corner and stood, trembling. She supposed she should run and hide, but she wouldn’t get far. Her legs were weak and her toes were on fire with a stabbing pain. What should she do? Her brain wouldn’t work properly, befuddled with shock and grief and cold.
The man came down the stairs again, keeping a respectful distance. ‘My name is Murad bin Ahmed. I am an officer in the Ottoman army, responsible for finding provisions for the troops. And you?’
‘Mrs Lucy Harvington,’ she told him, her voice wobbly with nerves. ‘I came out here with my husband Charlie, a cavalry captain.’
He nodded. ‘Mrs Harvington, I must return to our camp now but I suggest you spend the day resting here. There is a little food in the cellar if you are hungry. I found this place while searching for supplies for our men. I’ll come this evening and if you are ready to go back to the British camp I will take you then.’
Lucy felt a fresh wave of panic. Was she to be left alone in a strange house in the midst of this country at war? ‘What if someone comes?’
‘The house is very remote. I’ve been a few times and have never been disturbed. But if it would make you feel safer, I’ll leave my pistol. Did your husband ever show you how to fire one?’ Lucy shook her head. He produced an old-fashioned duelling pistol with a pearl handle and came a step closer to show it to her. ‘It’s loaded so you just have to un-cock it, point it and pull this trigger. It will fire a distance of up to thirty feet. But I am convinced you will not need it.’ She did not extend her hand, so he placed it on a side table.
He moved towards the door, as if to leave. ‘The bedroom is on the left at the top of the stairs.’
Suddenly she realised that she was still wearing his coat around her shoulders. She shrugged it off and rubbed her arms, shivering in the chill.
‘I think you will be warm enough upstairs,’ he said with a bow. ‘Until later, Mrs Harvington.’ He picked up his coat and walked out, leaving her all alone.
Lucy looked around at the high-ceilinged hallway and the curve of the stairs. She picked up the pistol and held it close by her side as she began to climb the stairs, knees trembling. She had to cling to the banister for support and stop to rest several times, but she was drawn upwards by the sound of a fire crackling and the comforting scent of woodsmoke.
In the bedroom there was a large, canopied bed. Light was slanting through shutters that covered floor-length windows along one wall. On another wall, pale rectangles showed where paintings had once hung. A mahogany bureau stood just inside the room and by crouching and getting her weight behind it, Lucy managed to shove it in front of the bedroom door as a barricade. She placed the pistol under a pillow then climbed beneath the burnt-orange quilt which covered the bed. An overwhelming weariness descended and she was asleep within moments.
When Lucy woke, sun was streaming through the shutters. Her first thoughts were for Charlie and she sobbed harshly for everything she had lost. Her eyes, her skin, her heart – everything felt raw from the trauma of the previous day and night. She pulled Charlie’s watch from her pocket for the comfort of holding something of his, and saw it was midday. Her feet were swollen and painfully red so she sat up and rubbed them vigorously. After a while she got up to hobble across the room and open the shutters. Outside there was a wide vista: a cultivated garden with a lawn, ornamental trees and what looked like a vegetable patch, and then, in the distance, a glint of grey sea. She couldn’t see another habitation, and there were no boats on the water.
She shoved the bureau aside and wandered out onto the landing, which had several doors leading off it: more bedrooms, with the beds made up but all decorations removed from walls and surfaces, and a room with a claw-footed bathtub in the centre. She glanced in a mirror hanging on one wall and was shocked to see how pale and thin she looked, her cheeks almost hollow. The months of poor diet had taken their toll, as had the deathly cold of the previous night. I hope you can’t see me, Charlie, she thought. I look such a fright.
Tentatively, she crept down the stairs, half-expecting to be challenged despite Murad’s assurances. She found a dining room with an elaborate chandelier hanging over the centre of a mahogany table that would seat at least twelve, then a drawing room with dustsheets covering the familiar shapes of chairs and tables. Lucy opened the drawing-room shutters and saw the same garden view but now she noticed there was a well to one side, and a loveseat beneath an arbour. It must be glorious to sit there in summer with a loved one.
She continued her exploration and found a library of leather-bound books with Russian lettering on the spines, then she walked down a corridor to a large kitchen area with a sink and a grate where a cooking pot could be suspended over a fire. She remembered Murad saying there were some supplies in the cellar and found a doorway with steps leading down. It was dark, so first she located a lantern on a shelf and found matches in a cupboard.
At the foot of the steps she held the lantern aloft and saw shelves of ceramic containers with labels on them in Russian. There was a crate of wrinkled potatoes with sprouts poking out and she squeezed one, wondering if they might be edible. A basketful of apples was a lucky find and she bit into one, her stomach gurgling as the sweet juice awakened her hunger. She opened a container at random and inside there was a white substance, probably a type of flour. The next one was almost empty but there were traces of sugar on the bottom. She licked a finger and dipped it in the residue then sucked off the delicious sweetness, the first sugar she had tasted for many months. It was Christmas Day, she remembered; the previous Christmas Charlie had visited her at home and they had laughed merrily as they fed each other sweet treats, watched by a disapproving Dorothea. She closed her eyes to try and relive the memory but it felt like another lifetime, lived long ago. In the remaining canisters, she found grains and some dried herbs she could not identify. If only she had learned to cook. At one end of the cellar she found a pile of logs chopped for firewood and picked up a few so she could light a fire in the kitchen grate.
Next, she ventured out into the garden to draw some water from the well. The first time she lowered the bucket it hit against a layer of ice on the surface. She found a heavy stone and hurled it in to break the ice, then was able to draw two bucketfuls of water: one to heat over the fire to enable her to wash, and the other to boil some wrinkled potatoes. She looked around the garden; even with the sun already lowering towards a wintry horizon, it was beautiful, and so remote there was no other dwelling in any direction. A tiny bird that looked like a type of sparrow hopped across the frozen grass in a futile search for food.
After washing and eating, Lucy continued her exploration of the ground floor. She opened the double doors of the main room at the front of the house and gave a little shriek to see the familiar shape of a pianoforte hidden beneath a dustsheet. She pulled it back to reveal a box grand piano with ornate scrolls on the carved legs and a curlicued music stand. It was a stunning instrument that had been meticulously cared for, with not a mark on the polished wood surfaces. Lucy played middle C and the tone was clear, the tuning pitch perfect, so she played a few chords and trills, then paused to see if anyone had overheard. The only sound was the wind in the trees, so she played some more.
‘Listen to this, Charlie,’ she said out loud. ‘The first music I’ve heard in months.’ She realised she had been talking to him in her head all day, although barely conscious of it. Everything she looked at, she imagined him looking at with her. She knew he would be proud of her for getting water, lighting a fire and preparing a small meal. And now she had a pianoforte too.
She sat on the stool and began to play a Chopin Nocturne, opus number 9 in E-flat major. Charlie had particularly liked it. The clarity of the notes, the joyful trills and its sheer familiarity brought goosebu
mps to her arms and tears pooled in her eyes, but she didn’t stop playing. Somehow the music was releasing a great tension in her ribs and making her feel like herself again. When she finished, she let the tears roll down her cheeks. ‘That was for you, darling,’ Lucy whispered.
The light had almost faded so she lit a lantern, wondering what she would do when the oil ran out. Might there be more somewhere in this wonderful house? So far it had provided everything she needed. She walked round again, getting used to the layout of the rooms, the shadowy corners and the way the floorboards creaked as if the house was welcoming her – or as if Charlie was there too. Was that crazy thinking? In one cupboard she found ladies’ toiletries, including a silver filigree scent bottle. She opened it and sniffed the perfume, which was sweetly floral, like jasmine mixed with something more darkly exotic. She dabbed a little on her wrists then continued her tour, taking the measure of the house, getting to know it.
She was in front of the fire in the kitchen when she heard the front door opening and Murad calling her name. She hesitated before walking out into the hall, still a little wary of him.
‘I brought you some bread,’ he said, holding it out. ‘It’s only half a loaf. I’m sorry I could not bring more.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not hungry. I found food in the cellar.’ She wrapped her arms around her shoulders defensively.
‘But you need to build your strength. I insist you eat the bread.’
She felt tears coming to her eyes at the thought that this stranger was trying to look after her. He looked frozen to the bone yet he had ridden all this way.
‘Come in to sit by the fire,’ she gestured. ‘I’ll eat a little of your bread if you will have the rest.’
He agreed so readily and wolfed down the bread so rapidly that she realised he was starving. She fetched him an apple from the cellar and he ate that too.
After they had finished he regarded her seriously. ‘Are you ready for me to take you back to the British camp? Your friends will be worried.’
Lucy shook her head. ‘I can’t go back. I’m not ready. I wondered if I might stay here a while longer? Until I feel stronger.’ She hadn’t thought through the idea beforehand; the words just came out, but once she had uttered them they seemed to make sense.
‘Here? On your own?’ His brow furrowed and she could tell he thought her a madwoman. Perhaps she was.
‘It’s peaceful here. I need some time to reflect before I undertake the long voyage back to Britain.’
Murad got up and walked to the window, staring out into the darkness as he thought through her request. ‘There is not enough food in the cellar to keep you. I’ve already taken all the dried meat and fish.’
‘I assure you, I eat very little.’
He was thinking out loud. ‘I could bring you something from time to time but our troops are desperately short of food. If only I could tell your friends at the British camp where you are, perhaps they would send supplies.’
‘No. I don’t want you to … Please don’t tell anyone I’m here. There’s no need for you to feel responsible for me. I intend to live very quietly.’ The more she spoke, the better the plan seemed. She felt the house was a sanctuary. Besides, she could still feel close to Charlie here, only a few miles from his grave. Once she left, she might not have that strong sense of his presence any more. When she got back to London, Dorothea would probably say it was all for the best that Charlie had died, and she couldn’t bear to hear that.
Murad wasn’t happy with the idea, but he accepted that he was not going to change her mind and turned to practicalities: he carried more firewood and matches up to the bedroom for her, he located extra lanterns and a supply of oil, some candles and candlesticks, and he found a cupboard with spare blankets for the bed.
‘I must go back to my camp now. I will try to come tomorrow. Keep the pistol nearby.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. Thank you.’
She couldn’t wait for him to leave so that she could reclaim the house as her own again. Hers and Charlie’s.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Next morning, Lucy explored the garden. She was not a knowledgeable gardener and couldn’t identify the rows of plants from their leafy tops but she found an old spade and, using all her strength, managed to dig up a few specimens from the frozen earth: there were embryonic carrots, scrawny onions and some potatoes and beets that appeared edible. She gathered just enough to last the day, cleaned them and boiled them together into a kind of soup. She couldn’t find any salt and the flavour was watery and insipid, but at least it filled her stomach and there was plenty left for later.
Next she heated several potfuls of water, carried them upstairs and laboriously filled the bath. She undressed and climbed in, closing her eyes and surrendering to the womblike warmth, so relaxed that she almost fell asleep. But when she opened her eyes she saw the water had turned red from Charlie’s blood, which had dried in her hair. It was strange and sad to lie there soaking in blood from his veins and she shed a few tears before pulling herself together. More water had to be boiled and carried up the stairs so she could rinse herself clean. Of course, the owners of the house had servants to fill their baths – there were some small servants’ rooms behind the kitchen – but she had to do it herself and it all took time.
Lucy only had the gown on her back – the blue wool one she’d worn when they sailed from Plymouth the previous April – and her blue jacket and bonnet. She searched through cupboards and couldn’t find any women’s clothing but she came across a heavy outdoor cloak of thick black wool. She wrapped it tightly around herself while she washed her clothes and hung them near the bedroom fire to dry. The cloak was cosy, and felt appropriate as it was the closest she had to mourning clothes. In London she would have been dressed head to toe in black.
The light was fading by the time she sat down at the pianoforte to play. She knew many pieces by heart and skipped from Handel to Beethoven, Bach to Haydn, but mostly she played her favourite Mozart piano sonatas, Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words or Chopin’s Nocturnes. The Nocturnes had special significance for her because Chopin had passed away in the same month as her mother; he was thirty-nine, her mother forty-six, both of them too young to die.
While Lucy kept busy, her sadness was held at bay but it hit her full force when she went to bed that evening. If only she had brought her mother’s bedspread instead of leaving it behind in camp, where it would probably be trampled into the mud. She yearned for Charlie with a pain that was physical, wrapping her arms tightly around a pillow and sobbing till her head was pounding. ‘I want you,’ she cried. ‘Come back to me, I need you. How could you leave me?’ And for the first time she admitted that in her core there was a part of her that was angry with him. If only he had been braver. If only he had stayed.
Murad came a couple of days later, by which time she had decided to trust him. If he were planning to manhandle her, he would have done so by now, but he seemed a quiet, gentle man.
‘You look much recovered,’ he said. ‘I feared when I first saw you that I was too late to save your life, yet two days later your complexion is glowing and you seem rested.’
‘I like it here. The solitude agrees with me. Thank you for bringing me.’ They were sitting in the drawing room, where she had removed the dust covers to find Empire-style chairs and settees in rich rose-coloured brocade and ivy-green damask, with elaborate gold carved arms and legs. ‘I am taking good care of the house for its owners, so I hope they would not mind.’
‘We are all forced to do things in wartime that would never happen in normal life. I could not be sitting talking with you if we were in my home town in Turkey.’
‘Not even if we were introduced by friends at a social gathering and there were others present?’
‘No, I can’t talk with any women except my female relatives.’
She wondered how Turkish men ever found wives in that case. ‘At home in London, I would not be seen in society for two ye
ars while mourning my husband. I suppose that’s what I’m doing here in this house: observing a period of mourning.’
‘It is understandable. In my religion, the mourning is shorter – just four months and ten days, and after that a woman is permitted to remarry.’
Lucy shuddered at the thought of being with any man except Charlie. She couldn’t imagine feeling such love for anyone again. It was impossible. Murad watched her, his dark eyes seeming wise. She looked at his hand, resting on the arm of the chair, with its dark, foreign skin, and noted he had especially long fingers and clean nails. How did he manage to keep his nails clean in an army camp? Charlie’s had always had dirt engrained beneath them and his palms were rough from tending the horses. Although Murad spoke good English he looked nothing like an Englishman and she was conscious she looked nothing like a Turkish lady.
‘I was told that Turkish men do not like to be in the presence of a woman who is not veiled,’ Lucy said. ‘Would you like me to find some piece of fabric to wear on my head when you are here?’
He smiled and shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. I understand you are of a different culture and it is not your way.’
‘I’m sure that in your culture, as in mine, we would be forbidden from being alone in a house together.’
‘I will be sure not to tell anyone.’ Murad gave her a quick, complicit smile.
She thought that the only person who would chide her was Dorothea – dear, wonderful, overbearing Dorothea. ‘I have some soup prepared in the kitchen,’ she told him. ‘It’s not very good but you are welcome to share it with me.’
She rose and he followed eagerly, watching as she heated the soup over the fire then ladled out bowlfuls, which they ate at the kitchen table.
‘You must not feel an obligation to look after me just because you found me,’ she told him. ‘I can manage on my own.’