No Place For a Lady

by Gill Paul

  ‘I wonder if I might ask you something personal?’ he asked. ‘I have long been concerned for your family. I am sure they must be desperately worried about you despite the disagreement caused by your marriage. They may have heard of Charlie’s death and can have no idea what has happened to you, so they will fear the worst. Could you not write to set their minds at rest?’

  Lucy hung her head. She had often thought of this, and yet had convinced herself they wouldn’t worry, they would just assume there were difficulties with postal deliveries during wartime. Now she saw how selfish she had been. Perhaps in a way she had been punishing them, which was childish and unworthy of her. ‘You are right, of course. I let my hurt feelings get in the way of any consideration for them.’

  ‘I do not have writing paper or a pen but can give you some sheets from my calligraphy book and lend you my pencil. If you should feel like writing to them, I will take your letter to Balaklava and see that it is mailed.’

  ‘But what will I tell them? If I confess that I am living in a house in Crimea, they will tell me to come home straight away.’ And, she thought to herself, if she told them she had fallen in love with a Turkish man, Dorothea would be speechless. She would lecture that foreigners have different values, so the match could never work. All in all, Lucy knew, she would pour scorn on her love for Murad.

  Murad squeezed her hand. ‘Just tell them that you are alive.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll write,’ she agreed, biting her lip. ‘I’ll do it today.’

  In the end, she decided to keep her letter short. ‘Dear Papa, dear Dorothea,’ she wrote, then paused. ‘I hope you are both well. I expect news will have reached you of Charlie’s sad death at the hands of a Russian sniper last Christmas. I was too distressed to sail home directly but have been staying in a house in Crimea, leading a peaceful existence well away from the fighting. In this I have been greatly assisted by a very kind Turkish officer named Murad. He is a good man and goes to much trouble to take care of me. I am living off the land, and helping the war effort by laundering clothes for the Turkish troops. It seems I am of some use in this way so I plan to stay until the war’s end, when I will travel back to London. If you wish to contact me you can write to the harbourmaster’s office in Balaklava, marking your letter for the attention of Murad bin Ahmed, and I will ask him to enquire there from time to time.’ She sent best wishes for her father’s health and hoped Dorothea continued to enjoy her work at Pimlico Hospital, before finishing, ‘I am, as ever, your Lucy.’

  She re-read the page and regretted the formal tone, but decided it would have to do as she couldn’t take any more sheets from Murad’s book. She addressed the back of the sheet and gave it to Murad, who said, ‘I will send it on the next ship out. I have also written to my mother and I told her of you.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Lucy was momentarily nonplussed.

  ‘Just what an extraordinary lady you are.’ He kissed the palm of her hand, making the skin tingle.

  While they were talking, Emir had come into the house and stood watching them from the drawing-room doorway. He said something to Murad in Turkish, his voice aggrieved. Murad replied sharply, in a tone Lucy had never heard him use before. Soon they were arguing, Emir sounding very cross and Murad calmer but standing his ground.

  ‘What is going on?’ Lucy cried. ‘Please don’t argue.’

  ‘Don’t concern yourself,’ Murad replied, before responding to Emir in Turkish again.

  Emir punched the door hard and yelled something, then swept his hands in a gesture that seemed to mean, ‘Enough! That is the end of it!’ He turned and ran up the stairs towards his room. The whole quarrel had taken just a few minutes.

  ‘What was that about?’ Lucy asked, anxiously.

  Murad gave a big sigh. ‘I told him we are in love. He announced he must leave the dacha and go back to his company. I argued that it is not fair to leave you on your own, and he said that it is my problem now. I’m sorry, my sweet. He plans to leave tomorrow morning.’

  ‘No! I’ll talk to him.’ But she couldn’t think what she might say to change Emir’s mind, except that she would miss him – and perhaps, in the circumstances, that could be awkward.

  ‘I think we had best let him go. I will have to visit you more often so you do not get lonely.’ Murad gave a half-smile but looked distracted. She knew his army duties weighed on his mind and did not want to become another problem.

  ‘I will be fine. I managed before you brought Emir here and I will manage once he has gone. But I will talk to him all the same. I don’t want bitter feelings to overshadow the companionship we have enjoyed.’

  When she went upstairs, the door to Emir’s room was closed and she could hear him praying. He didn’t come down that evening when she played the piano and he didn’t even emerge after Murad left to go back to camp. The following morning Lucy came into the kitchen and found him sitting with a heap of flour on the table in front of him. He smiled at her but he had shadows under his eyes, as if he had not slept well.

  ‘Before I go, I show you how to make bread and catch fish,’ he said.

  Lucy was touched beyond measure. She hadn’t attempted to learn before because that was Emir’s contribution and he seemed proud of it but it would be a shame not to have any bread once he had left. ‘I’m so sorry it has worked out this way, Emir. I wish you would stay.’

  He ignored her. ‘Put your flour and yeast like this.’ He made a well in the centre of the heap of flour. ‘Add a little water and salt.’ He showed her how to bring the outsides of the well inwards without letting the water escape, then to add more water and once the dough was the right consistency, how to slap it around, fold it, push and roll it until it was light and silky to the touch. Finally, he lit the oven and shaped the dough on a tray before putting it in to bake, telling her, ‘One hour.’ She realised he had been estimating the timing whenever he made their bread but she would wind up Charlie’s pocket watch and use that.

  While the loaf was baking, he took her down towards the rocks, carrying the fishing line. She shuddered when he dug a worm from the soil and attached it to a bent nail on the end of the line. She was certainly not going to do that. He cast out into the waves and when he caught a small fish, he swung it onto the shore and hit it on the head with a stone, where it lay on its side, dead eye staring. Lucy decided she would have to live without fish from now on. She was too squeamish to kill them herself.

  ‘I’m sorry you are going,’ she told him. ‘I hope you will come and visit me sometimes.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said, but didn’t sound convinced.

  They returned to the house just as the bread was ready to be pulled from the oven. While they waited for it to cool, Emir went upstairs and collected his few possessions, so he was ready to leave.

  ‘How will you get to the camp?’ she asked him as they ate.

  ‘Walk,’ he said. ‘It is seven miles to Kamara. Not too far.’

  ‘I wish you would change your mind.’

  ‘I cannot. It is time for me to fight again.’

  She sighed. ‘Please take care.’

  She wanted to hug him as he stood to go, but instead she just handed him the remainder of the loaf and some tomatoes and cherries from the garden, which he accepted with a nod. And then he was gone, and she was all alone.

  Lucy took the opportunity to wash her clothes and dry them in the sun, and she drew a cool bath for herself. She remembered the first bath she had taken in the dacha, when the water had turned red from Charlie’s blood, and thought how far she had come from the raw grief of that day. Now she had learned to be self-sufficient and her soul was at peace. She no longer cared for that which had concerned her in London; she lived according to a quite different, more natural agenda. What’s more, she had learned to love again, something she had not believed possible just six months ago.

  She looked into the room that had been Emir’s and saw he had left it impeccably clean. There was no sign he had ever been there. Her own
room, by contrast, showed many signs of her occupancy. There was a pile of Russian books from the library, under which she was pressing some flowers. There were some stones with unusual markings she had found on the seashore. She had brought a large mirror out of a store cupboard in the hall and hung it on one wall to help as she did her best to comb and arrange her hair with no other tools except her fingers. And she still kept the pistol under her bed, just in case.

  The first day without Emir seemed longer than any other day since she had arrived at the dacha. As evening fell, she kept glancing out of the music-room window along the track that led to the house, hoping Murad would come. She prepared some vegetables and the solitary fish Emir had left but didn’t feel hungry. She couldn’t sit still, couldn’t settle to any task. Every noise – the creaking of an old tree, the twitter of birds – made her jump. She sat down to play the piano but couldn’t concentrate. Her thoughts were constantly on Murad and she felt a thrill at the thought that they would be alone together. She wanted to kiss him on the lips, to touch his tanned skin and run her fingers through his hair. Would that shock him? Would he push her away?

  It was dark by the time she heard horse’s hooves and ran outside to watch Murad dismount. Throwing all caution to the wind, she hurled herself into his arms and lifted her face to kiss him on the mouth. At first he held back but before long he was returning her kiss with ardour. His body pressed against hers, causing lust to ripple through Lucy’s core.

  They went into the house, arms locked around each other, but instead of going to the kitchen for food, their feet led them up the staircase to her bedroom. It wasn’t a conscious choice, simply an inevitability. Moonlight streamed through the open shutters as they hurried to undress each other. The buttons of his tunic were stiff and Lucy fumbled.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he whispered, stroking the hair back from her face.

  ‘Very sure.’

  She pulled her gown over her head and stood in front of him in her silk chemise and drawers. He took off his tunic and shirt, and removed his boots and the sash round his waist, then his trousers. They climbed beneath the bedcovers and she found he was shy; could it be his first time? She placed his hand on her breast, ran her hands over his body and kissed his chest until he shivered. When he was breathing deeply and she could feel his manhood had hardened, she pulled off her chemise to let him see her naked breasts and he groaned and pulled her towards him to kiss them. She let her hand slip down between his legs and soon they could hold back no longer. He climbed on top of her, and gently, so gently, she guided him inside. He gave a cry of longing and lost himself, so passionate and eager that very soon he had spilled his seed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he cried, ashamed. ‘So sorry.’

  ‘There is nothing to be sorry for,’ she whispered. ‘The night has only just begun.’

  Enjoying being the more experienced lover of the two, she pulled off the cover and lay so the moon lit her nakedness, making her skin appear luminous white. Shyness forgotten, Murad let his fingers trail across her nipples, down her belly, inside her thighs, marvelling at the softness and perfection. He bent to kiss her, tasting her skin in places she had never been kissed. He turned her over to explore the hollows behind her knees, the curve of her bottom, the delicate ridge of her spine. He sighed, unable to believe his luck, and soon passion fired him and he slipped inside her again, needing no one to show him the way this time.

  All night they made love, unable to rest for long without him inside her. In the early hours of the morning, they slipped down to the kitchen to eat, ravenous with hunger, but then couldn’t wait to get back to the bedroom and he entered her as they stood against the kitchen table.

  ‘We must try to sleep,’ she whispered once they were back in bed. ‘You will be tired tomorrow.’

  But when she closed her eyes for a second, she awoke to the sensation of him sliding into her again, pushing deep against her insides, filling her up to overflowing. They tried dozing with him inside her but her muscles moved instinctively because the pleasure was too great to resist, and then he would move in symphony.

  As dawn broke, still they were joined, facing each other, her leg curved over his thigh, and he stroked her face with the tip of his finger, tracing her eyebrow, the groove in her top lip, the whorl of her ear, and making tiny thrilling thrusts with his hips. She felt a tension building deep in her womb, ripples of pleasure intensifying, and suddenly her muscles contracted hard around him and she threw herself back with a little cry. She had never experienced that sensation before. It took him by surprise and spurred him to thrust more strongly as her contractions continued until once more his seed burst inside her. How many times was it, she wondered later. Six? Eight?

  The sun was rising fast and he groaned. ‘I must go. I don’t know how I will force myself to leave you but I have no choice.’

  ‘I will only let you go if you promise to come back tonight,’ she murmured throatily.

  ‘I promise.’ He kissed her full on the mouth then leapt out of bed. Her skin tingled, her lips throbbed and her insides were on fire from his touch. He dressed quickly without taking his eyes off her.

  ‘You are so beautiful,’ he sighed. ‘I love you more than I ever thought possible.’

  ‘And I love you the same.’

  After one last delicious kiss, he sprinted down the stairs and she heard the door close behind him. She lay still, examining the sensations in her body, like nothing she had ever known. It was as if every part of her had changed fundamentally and would never be the same again.

  Lucy slept for a few hours and awoke to find her skin still sensitised, the flesh between her legs still swollen with lust. She had no regrets over what she had done. If it had been possible for them to marry soon she would have waited, but this war stretched on with no end in sight and she simply needed to be with Murad. It had felt natural and essential to make love with him. She knew she had stepped far beyond the constraints of English society but war changed your perspectives entirely. She could no longer imagine returning to the staid drawing rooms of London with their strict social etiquette of chaperones, dress codes and calling cards, where there were rules governing every last detail of behaviour. She had stepped into another world.

  She rose and washed herself, then dressed and went down to the kitchen to attempt to bake some bread, her cheeks burning as she remembered making love against the table the night before. She followed the method Emir had shown her but somehow her dough became too sloppy and even when she added more çavdar it did not have the consistency he had demonstrated. She put it in the oven anyhow and tried to plan what she would feed Murad that evening. All the while her thoughts kept returning to the intensity of their love-making. It had been fun with Charlie; they had often laughed in bed but he had never been able to make her body respond the way it did with Murad. With him it was profound, spiritual almost, a sensation that took her over so completely she could think of nothing but the pounding of her blood, the tingling of her skin. And his skin became hers, so it was as if she could feel what he felt when she touched him. She was glad her two husbands were so different. That made it easier.

  She told herself that Murad would be exhausted when he arrived. He’d had no sleep and he had worked all day. She must not expect him to make love to her so ardently … and yet she knew he would because it was irresistible. As soon as he arrived, they hurried upstairs without words and tore off their clothes, impatient to be lost in each other again. If anything the sensations were more intense, more urgent than before as they explored every part of each other. They ate her tough bread with some fruit, they slept a little, but otherwise they spent the night entwined and enclosed in each other’s bodies.

  Towards dawn, he whispered: ‘I will find a way to spend every night with you, Lucy. I cannot be without you now.’

  The words made her glow all over. ‘You don’t think less of me for making love with you when we are not married?’

  He gazed deep into her eyes as
he replied: ‘But we are married. In our hearts we are man and wife. No ceremony could possibly make our love any deeper than this.’

  Lucy knew he was right. She felt she could explode with happiness.

  The month of August was one long honeymoon during which they walked arm-in-arm in the garden, ate, talked and made love. Every night she learned new ways to please him, and discovered new qualities he possessed.

  ‘Imagine if we had children,’ he mused one evening as he ran his fingers through her hair, which she wore loose to her waist at his request. ‘I would like them to have golden locks just like yours. When I look at your hair in sunlight there are strands of many different shades, from almost white through to rose-gold and deep sand.’

  ‘And yours is blue-black, like the wing feathers of a magpie. I hope we will have sons who look just like you, with your strong jaw and wise eyes.’

  ‘Perhaps we should have some of each: blonde children and dark children. And we will raise them to speak both English and Turkish.’

  ‘Of course,’ she agreed, delighted with the fantasy. ‘What kind of house should we live in?’

  He grinned: ‘Something like my mother’s house! It is set on a hill not far from the ocean and has the most wonderful gardens with peach and pomegranate trees. As a boy I used to make myself sick gorging on them.’

  ‘It sounds wonderful.’ Her childhood home in Russell Square did not have its own garden, although there was a public square opposite in which she had played as a girl, watched over by Dorothea.

  ‘We would have to get a pianoforte. And you could teach our daughters to play beautiful music.’

  She laughed. ‘You have to put up with many years of listening to wrong notes and simple tunes repeated over and over before it becomes beautiful. But yes, of course I would teach them.’