by Gill Paul
On the 24th June it was six months since Charlie had died and the anniversary prompted Lucy to re-examine her emotions. The bitterest stage of the grief had passed. She no longer felt as though she was wearing an extra-heavy greatcoat that weighed her down; she no longer sobbed in bed until her head ached. Instead she felt sadness for the waste of poor Charlie’s life. He had possessed a genuine talent for entertaining others and was in his way a generous soul. In peacetime they could have been happy together. He would have been a lovely father to their children. She could picture him wrestling on the lawn, playing tricks to make the little ones laugh, but careful not to be too exuberant, always mindful of what happened to his darling sister. It was sad, but she accepted her loss.
She credited the change in her feelings to the conversation with Murad in which he explained why Charlie might have killed himself. Of course he didn’t know the whole story but it had been a huge weight off her mind to explain that she thought it was suicide and not have Murad pass judgement. She remembered him saying that Muslims were not supposed to judge. If only she could believe that Charlie was now in heaven, freed from all the cares of the world: a Christian heaven or a Muslim heaven – or perhaps they were the same thing.
Finally, on 30th June, Murad arrived. It was the middle of the afternoon and Lucy and Emir were working in the garden. When she saw him, relief flooded her: he was walking, his limbs were intact. Lucy jumped to her feet, ran across the lawn and threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly. As she pulled away, she saw she had embarrassed him as he shuffled backwards and could not meet her eyes.
‘Forgive me,’ she apologised, realising she had crossed a line. ‘I was just so happy to see you. Come and sit down. Pray, tell us what has happened.’
Emir came to join them and listened to Murad talking in English, only occasionally asking for clarification in his own language. Murad told them that French troops had taken the defensive structure called the Mamelon but there had been huge losses in the attempt to capture the Malakhov and the Redan and they had to retreat. Hundreds were killed outright and thousands more wounded. He had been involved in scouring the battlefield for survivors and had seen terrible carnage.
‘I saw a French soldier going to the aid of a wounded Russian, only for the Russian to pull out a pistol and shoot him between the eyes.’ He shook his head rapidly as if to erase the memory. ‘I saw men looting corpses, stealing their boots and going through their pockets. There were worse things, which I would not mention in front of a lady … but I also saw great humanity. There is an incredibly brave Jamaican lady called Mary Seacole who has set up a hotel in Kadikoi to cater for the troops. The men love her so much, they call her Mother. As I worked on the battlefield, she was treating wounded men, entirely oblivious to the dangers and undeterred by the horror. She gave me a cake she had baked and I saved it till after sunset, when it was much appreciated.’ He smiled. ‘There are no medical supplies in the Turkish camp so I had to take patients to the hospitals in Balaklava, where there were queues of men waiting for a doctor’s attention. And Mother Seacole was there again with her cakes and remedies, spreading cheer even amongst those who seemed certain to die.’
‘Is Mother Seacole dark-skinned?’ Lucy asked.
‘Yes, darker than me, although not as dark as some people I have seen from the Caribbean.’
‘What happens now?’ she wondered. ‘If the troops have not taken Sevastopol, does the war just continue as before?’
Murad shrugged. ‘There seems no solution as the city is so well guarded. And I have another piece of news: your British commander Lord Raglan died yesterday of fever. I do not know who will succeed him but I hope it is someone with a wise head.’
Murad stayed to eat a meal with them before galloping back to the Turkish camp at Kamara. That night Lucy lay in bed filled with relief that he was uninjured. It had been wonderful to see him again. She realised she had missed him desperately during the long separation: missed his calmness and quiet wisdom, his gentleness and his emotional nature, the way his eyes often filled with tears as he listened to her playing the pianoforte. In a sudden burst of clarity, Lucy realised something that, once it had entered her head, could not be ignored: she had fallen in love with Murad.
And yet it was impossible. She knew it was impossible. She was still in mourning for her husband; widows should mourn their husbands for a full two years before returning to society, even widows like her who had been married less than a year. She had passed the Islamic mourning period but was nowhere near fulfilling the British one. Besides, Murad was so traditional that he flinched if her hand accidentally brushed his and he had shrunk back in horror when she embraced him earlier. The differences between them were too great, their expectations too far apart for any romance to ensue.
Besides, she had not had the slightest inkling that he liked her that way. Charlie had pursued her from the start, bombarding her with gifts and compliments, and bowling her over with his charm. By contrast, Murad had been reserved and gentlemanly throughout their acquaintanceship. After the war he would go home and marry a nice Muslim girl. He most certainly was not interested in taking a lover; it was probably against his religion. She must forget her feelings and continue to treat him as a kind man who had aided her in her hour of need. Any other thoughts must be put firmly out of mind.
Chapter Thirty-three
Summer arrived with an intense, punishing heat and swarms of little black flies that nipped the skin, making it impossible for Lucy to work in the vegetable garden. She stayed indoors, only venturing out to lay laundry on the grass to dry in the sun. She felt happier than she had done for a long time and sang as she wandered round the house: ‘Is good,’ said Emir the first time he heard her voice, and Murad was very complimentary when she sang a Mozart lied for him. ‘There is a sweetness to your tone. You are like an angel.’
She laughed: ‘How little you know me. My sister Dorothea would tell you I am no angel!’
She sang jaunty show tunes for them and accompanied them with little dances, encouraging them to clap along to the beat. Gradually she began to feel herself again, the Lucy of old, and she liked the feeling. She and Murad sometimes conversed late into the evening before he rode back to the Turkish camp, talking of their lives at home and the vast differences between their two cultures.
Although Lucy felt clearly the impossibility of a relationship between them, her attraction to him grew stronger by the day. Was it genuine love or was she simply grateful to him? There was no doubt that what she had felt for Charlie was true love, so how could she possibly love again so soon? She remembered having feelings for other men of her acquaintance before she met Charlie but these had been shallow and soon passed. Time was the test … And yet she had spent no time at all with Charlie before they married; she just knew she loved him. Perhaps it had been the sense of his inner sadness, and the way he needed her that made her love him so dearly. With Murad, there was no such sense. He didn’t seem to need her at all; on the contrary, she needed him. Everything was confusing; none of it made sense.
One breezy morning in July, when the weather was not as sweltering as it had been of late, Murad arrived at the dacha bringing a spare horse.
‘You must be tired of seeing the same view every day. I wondered if you might like to visit the Monastery of St George, which is about fourteen miles along the coast from here? I brought a horse with a side-saddle for you.’
Lucy had mixed emotions. It would be wonderful to spend time on her own with him but the dacha was her sanctuary and it didn’t feel safe to leave, even though Murad assured her the fighting was in a lull and there would not be any danger. She felt guilty about leaving Emir behind but Murad had not invited him. And she had other worries too.
‘I am not a confident rider,’ she confessed. ‘I’ll be fine if we can take it slowly.’
He agreed that they would.
‘And I do not wish to see anyone from the British camp. Are you sure we won’t run into the
m?’ She didn’t want to have to explain herself to Mrs Jenkins or Mrs Duberly. Her life now was none of their concern.
‘We must ride past Balaklava, which is only seven miles from the British camp, but we can circle the outside of the town to avoid them.’
As Murad helped Lucy onto the horse, she felt ashamed of her blue gown. She had been wearing it for almost seven months now, just washing it when she could, and it was becoming threadbare. The wool was far too heavy for the heat of summer, even though she didn’t wear petticoats or a corset any more. If only she had picked up more clothes that December morning when she left the camp, instead of just bringing two blankets. If only she had brought some of Charlie’s things as keepsakes. She hadn’t known then she would never return.
They rode along the cliffs under a cloudless sky of startling blue. Dense green forest encroached right up to the cliff edge in places and Lucy was grateful for the shade of the trees. She inhaled the giddy scent of pine and felt happiness bubbling inside her, to be here, in such glorious surroundings. Murad stuck close by, keeping the pace at a slow canter, but they didn’t talk as they rode, each lost in the experience.
Balaklava seemed bigger than when Lucy was last there, trains chugging along its railway line and many more buildings spreading into the countryside behind. It was bustling with people and wagons even on the outskirts and Lucy tilted her face downwards for fear of being recognised, but no one paid them any attention.
Beyond Balaklava the coast became wilder, with rocky scree and waist-high shrubs stretching out to a point. Just as they reached the edge of the land with only sea beyond, she saw a tiny gold-domed monastery perched precariously on the cliff edge. The track wound down to a yard where there was a two-storey white building and then the shrine itself, and below it, terraces of steep gardens descending to the water.
They pulled up their horses and Murad helped her to dismount.
‘What a charming spot!’ she exclaimed. Some children were playing a game of tag in the courtyard, shrieking with high spirits, with no thought for the war taking place just a few miles away. She could see some monks in dark brown habits walking into the monastery. ‘Are we allowed to explore? These monks won’t mind?’
‘Yes, of course. The monks are Russian Orthodox but the allies have given them permission to stay and they deliver supplies weekly, because they are caring for children who are refugees of war.’
‘Their parents are lost? Oh, the poor mites.’ The children seemed perfectly happy, absorbed in their game.
They walked over to the monastery and Murad held the door for her. Inside the white-painted walls were decorated with dozens of bright-coloured paintings of saints with golden halos, and Murad told her these were called icons. The back wall was formed by the rock face itself, and shrines were carved into it. Thin candles flickered and there was a heady smell of incense. A monk nodded to them, and Lucy shivered at the realisation that he was Russian, the enemy they were here to fight. What must that gentle-faced man make of them? She examined the art in silence, imbued with a sense of the ancient holiness of the place.
Out in sunlight again, Murad took her arm to help her down a stony path to the garden. There was a wooden bench in the shade of a cypress tree and they sat and drank from the flagons of water they had brought along. Wildflowers poked out of crevices in the rock: deep red shrubs she did not recognise, tall yellow irises, and sweet-scented violets.
‘How far are we from Sevastopol?’ Lucy asked, peering along the coast.
‘About six miles.’
She was shocked. ‘Is that all? I can’t hear any shelling.’ The only sounds were the buzzing of a bee nearby and the children shrieking further up the hill.
‘I think the heat has drained all appetite for fighting. It’s clear the Russians are running out of ammunition because they only return one shell for every six sent over by the British and French. But they defend their redoubts so fiercely that too many are killed in any attempt to storm them. I can’t see how this war will ever come to an end.’
‘You must be anxious to get home to your mother and sisters. I expect you miss them greatly.’
‘Yes …’ He seemed about to say something else, then stopped.
‘I will miss you when we leave here,’ she said. ‘I’m so grateful for all you have done for me. I would have died without your help, and now I feel revived and renewed. Your friendship has meant so much …’
She turned to look at him and was puzzled to see that he was blushing deeply, too tongue-tied to speak or even meet her eye. She carried on boldly, as if intoxicated by the drowsy heat and the charm of the surroundings.
‘I expect it won’t be long after your return before your thoughts turn to marriage. I hope you don’t think me forward, but I wonder if you have met any girl you might consider?’
Murad stuttered as he replied: ‘In my country, our parents and older relatives choose our brides for us. We have a say of course, but as I told you, I am not permitted to speak to women outside the family.’ He stood and walked a little distance then came back again. ‘I apologise. I am a very shy man and find it difficult to speak of such matters, even when …’
She waited but he couldn’t finish his sentence. ‘Oh, but you must speak of such matters when you have an opportunity, because who knows what direction life will take next? Paths cross and then they diverge and if the moment is not seized it may never arise again.’
He was having trouble speaking and she noticed his hands were shaking. ‘Do you … do you think you will ever love another man? I know how much you loved your husband so I wondered …’
‘I should very much like to, because I know the great joy that comes from such a love. Next time I would like to find someone sensitive and thoughtful, someone who loves music, who is caring and good.’ Lucy wondered at her own temerity. She was beginning to suspect … to hope Murad had feelings for her but would he find the courage to express them without her help?
He sat down on the bench then stood up again and turned his back to her, gazing out to sea. Lucy decided to throw caution to the wind. ‘Whatever is on your mind, tell me now before the moment is lost,’ she said playfully.
He turned to her, his cheeks puce. ‘Lucy … I … I know this is wrong, and I hope you will not … the thing is that … I love you.’
Her heart leapt. ‘I love you too,’ she said. The abruptness of her answer startled them both. He sat down beside her and they stared at each other in wonder.
‘You are sure? You are not just being kind to me? I don’t want your gratitude. I love you with all my heart. You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen, and yet you are strong and capable too.’ The words poured out, now he had dared to release them. ‘The way you move, the music you play, your voice, your conversation, your courage in this terrible place: I love everything about you but I never hoped … I thought the love you had for your husband was so great that you would never love another.’
‘That’s what I thought six months ago – perhaps even three months ago – but my feelings for Charlie have faded to sweet memories. I have felt myself increasingly drawn to you. When you are with me, I marvel at your intelligence and kindness; when you are not with me, I find myself reliving our conversations and wondering if we might possibly belong together.’
Murad picked up her hand and raised it to his lips. She noticed tears sparkling in his eyes. ‘But how can this be?’ he asked. ‘You are an English lady of Christian faith, I am a Muslim man. It is not possible.’
‘And yet it is wartime, and everything is different.’ Their faces were so close she could feel his breath on her cheek.
‘I will never let you down,’ he whispered.
‘I know you will not,’ she replied. ‘And neither shall I fail you.’
As they rode back to the dacha, Lucy felt as though she were floating on a cloud. Murad loved her. The enchanting surroundings of the monastery garden, just six miles distant from a war, had made the experience all the
more intense and romantic. She wished the day would never end: there was so much to discuss, so many things to say to each other. She planned the music she would play for him that evening: for moments of high emotion, Beethoven was always the best choice and she decided the Allegretto section in the Piano Sonata no. 17 in D-minor, with its joyful, bubbling excitement, would be fitting.
They found Emir had spent the day fishing in their absence and a feast awaited them. Suddenly starving, Lucy ate with great gusto. The fish was the best she had ever tasted, the bread was especially light, and she was particularly partial to asparagus from the garden. After dinner, she and Murad decided to stroll outside in the cooler air and as they walked he slipped his arm through hers. She could feel the strength in his arm muscles, the light brush of his hip, and she laid her head briefly on his shoulder.
Suddenly they heard the noise of a door slamming violently. Lucy jumped. ‘What was that? Are there intruders?’
Murad stared back at the house and shook his head. ‘No, it was Emir. I think he is angry.’
‘Why would he be?’
He took her chin between his fingers, their faces close. ‘Did you not realise that he is a little in love with you as well?’
Lucy was astonished for a second time that day. She had thought of Emir as a child but of course, there were only three years between them. Perhaps it was true. She resolved to be especially kind to him, in a sisterly way.
Chapter Thirty-four
Murad had to get back to the Turkish camp that night but he returned to the dacha the following day and Lucy led him into the drawing room, where they sat on the sofa holding hands and talking, gazing into each other’s eyes with awe at their new relationship. Lucy loved to touch his skin, which was warm and smooth, the colour of toffee. She knew her hands were rougher than they had been before she began to work as a laundress and gardener, but still he exclaimed over their whiteness and kissed her fingers ardently.