No Place For a Lady

by Gill Paul

  Dorothea’s first thought was for Lucy. ‘Can’t the army go in and rescue them?’

  ‘They’ll need to wait. The fire is burning too fiercely and they are worried the Russians have laid traps.’

  ‘But those left behind will be too weak to move. There may be British prisoners of war. It’s inhumane not to assist them.’

  Over the succeeding days, Dorothea begged Mr Crawford that they might form part of a party going into Sevastopol to help the injured. He approached the head of the medical unit with their request. Word came on the 13th that they might proceed into Sevastopol as part of a small medical team to administer first aid. Dorothea told no one of her ulterior motive: a secret hope that she might at last find her beloved little sister.

  Nothing could have prepared Dorothea for the devastation that met her eyes as she walked into Sevastopol. Not a single building remained undamaged and many were reduced to rubble; they had to climb over piles of it in the streets. The green cupola of the church had been split right down the middle.

  Everywhere there were heaps of bodies in different stages of decomposition. The group held handkerchiefs over their noses but still the sweet stench caught the back of the throat.

  They wandered aimlessly at first, unsure where to start. Dorothea spotted a man sitting upright, staring straight ahead, and hurried over to see if she could help him. He didn’t respond to her enquiries and when she touched his arm, he toppled over, stone dead.

  French troops were looting the houses, removing wooden icons, silver samovars, fancy furniture and oil paintings, even stealing from the churches, which didn’t seem right. They ran back towards camp with their arms full of treasures, leaping over the dead and wounded who got in their way. It made Mr Crawford very cross and he shook his fist at them, shouting: ‘Scoundrels! Stop that at once.’

  Dorothea peered through doorways into rooms with no roofs, and down into dark basements where rubble blocked the entrance. Lucy could be anywhere. She simply didn’t know where to start looking. She listened for moans that might indicate human life and struggled through debris to find the injured. There was an elderly woman trapped under a wooden beam, a mother and two bruised and terrified toddlers, a young boy with a shattered arm who ran away from them even though Dorothea opened her coat to show her nurse’s uniform. In each building, round each corner, she had a moment of wondering – could Lucy be here? – before her hopes were dashed.

  The party came upon a hospital building and hastened inside to find the most appalling sights yet: Russian patients had been abandoned by the fleeing troops without food, water or medicine, and they were in a desperate state. Broken bones pierced through raw inflamed flesh; maggots thrived in stinking necrotic wounds; the dead and dying were swollen and bloated, with blackened tongues protruding from their mouths. They had been left to die in agony. Those who could speak called out in Russian, begging for help, pointing to their wounds, pleading for a sip of water.

  ‘We’ll have to treat them here,’ Mr Crawford said. ‘Ambulance carts can’t get through the streets. Just do what you can.’

  Dorothea started working her way around the first ward, doling out water and opium, and dressing hideous stinking wounds that made her want to retch. She spoke to the patients in a soothing voice, trying to calm them with her tone even if they could not understand what she said.

  Suddenly she heard a familiar voice and looked round to see Mary Seacole trundling in with a cart. The smell of freshly baked cakes wafted around the room and heads turned in disbelief.

  She waved at Dorothea and began to dispense her goods to any who were capable of eating and drinking: ‘Here you are, dear. Sponge cake for you? A meat pie? Some lemonade?’ She had bandages and herbal remedies too, including her potion for curing fever, and she applied them skilfully to the poor creatures lying in their beds. Dorothea watched the tender way she cleaned a head wound thick with congealed blood, all the while reassuring the terrified patient in her motherly tones. She seemed a skilful nurse. Mr Crawford raised an eyebrow; he had obviously never visited the British Hotel and did not know what to make of this exotic dark-skinned creature in bright yellow, red and blue, with clanking jewellery and an enormous pillowy bosom. The injured Russians gazed at her as if she were a ghost, or a mirage that could disappear at any moment.

  By dusk, the party had worked their way around the hospital but Dorothea had not had time to search for any jails where prisoners might be held. She wanted to continue looking but Mr Crawford pointed out it was not safe to remain in the crumbling ruins of the city after dark. Anything could happen. Dorothea resolved to return to hunt for Lucy the following day, if permission were given. But when she got back to the room she shared with Elizabeth Davis, there was a surprise waiting for her: a letter from her father. She sat on the bed and opened it eagerly. There was a brief note in his messy scrawl saying he had recently received the enclosed correspondence from Lucy.

  A sob burst from Dorothea. Lucy was alive! She hadn’t realised how tense she had been feeling all day, fearing she might find her sister’s body in every basement she had peered into, every hospital ward she visited. But instead here was a letter from her. Dorothea wiped her eyes and began to read, galloping through so fast that she had to go back and read the letter again. Lucy wrote that she was staying in a house in Crimea. Where might it be? She didn’t say. Who was this Turkish officer who had protected her? Reading between the lines, Dorothea hoped there had been no impropriety, especially as Lucy was still in mourning. These questions troubled her; but most of all, she was overjoyed to hear that Lucy was alive and yearned to see her, to know for sure that she was safe and well. The letter said to contact her via the harbourmaster’s office; perhaps they could be reunited within a matter of days.

  Dorothea was too restless to sleep that night and at first light she walked down to the office to speak to the harbourmaster himself.

  ‘Good morning, sir. I have been asked to write to a Turkish officer named Murad bin Ahmed care of this office. Instead I would like to find him and speak with him. Do you have any idea how I might locate him?’

  The man removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. ‘Murad bin Ahmed … yes, I know him. Speaks good English. He came in several times this last month enquiring after a letter. But I don’t think I’ve laid eyes on him since the fall of Sevastopol. Must be over a week now.’

  ‘Might you know where his company is located?’

  ‘Well, there’s a Turkish camp at Kamara, but most of them have been sent to Evpatoria on the west of Crimea. You won’t find many left at Kamara. Maybe Mr bin Ahmed has gone west.’

  ‘How far is Evpatoria?’

  ‘My goodness, it must be about fifty miles all told. I don’t recommend the journey. There is still sporadic fighting across the peninsula so it’s not safe.’

  Dorothea walked back to the General Hospital to ask Elizabeth Davis’s advice. She knew a lot of people and perhaps she would have a contact in the Turkish camp. First she had to explain that Lucy was staying in a dacha with the support of a Turkish officer and Elizabeth’s eyes widened.

  ‘A Turk, you say? What is she thinking of?’

  Dorothea shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’

  Elizabeth said she knew a man called Osman Bey who was adjutant to Omar Pasha, the Ottoman commander, and would mention the name Murad bin Ahmed. If he was an officer, Osman might know him. Perhaps they would know Lucy’s whereabouts as well.

  ‘You must be happy to find she is well, at least, even if …’ Elizabeth didn’t finish the sentence. Dorothea remembered Mrs Duberly calling her sister a flirt when they met in the British Hotel. Perhaps Elizabeth was remembering this as well and coming to believe there might be some truth in it.

  Dorothea could see that it would be in Lucy’s character to jump from one impetuous lover to the next. Mourning would not suit her passionate nature. But Dorothea resolved she would refrain from saying anything critical when they finally met. She had made that mistake once
before. This time she would support her sister and try her very hardest to see things from her point of view.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Autumn came suddenly, with a violent thunderstorm followed by weeks of heavy rain that fell day and night without let up. The ground became marshy and it was impossible to dry clothes or bedding properly after they had been washed. There was no more shelling now that Sevastopol had been evacuated but carts brought the Russian wounded across to Balaklava to receive medical care. The wards at the Castle Hospital were full to bursting, with beds lining the corridors as well as crammed together in the wards. Dorothea had wondered whether there might be any resentment between the British wounded and their Russian counterparts but, on the contrary, they were soon playing cards together, sharing their harsh tobacco and chatting to the extent that their language skills permitted. It seemed to be generally accepted that they’d all had a tough time of it.

  A message came back to Elizabeth Davis from Osman Bey, saying that he could not be sure of Murad bin Ahmed’s whereabouts but it was possible he had gone with Omar Pasha to help relieve the siege of Kars in eastern Turkey. Bey had not heard talk of a Turkish officer offering protection to an English lady but he promised to ask around. Dorothea was frustrated that there was no way of writing to Murad care of the army. It seemed the Ottomans were much less organised than the English and French armies, with frustratingly little in the way of records to tell them where any individual might be at a given time. She left a note for him in the harbourmaster’s office, asking him to contact her urgently at the hospital. She also went to the British Hotel to ask Mrs Seacole’s advice, because she knew many Turks personally.

  ‘Oh my dear, how frustrating for you to find your sister is so near yet not be able to contact her. I haven’t heard of an English lady staying in a dacha but I will ask all my friends.’ She added: ‘Don’t worry about this officer. They’re good people, the Turks. They’ve been given a bad name in this war – all this business of folks calling them cowards and spreading tales that they cut off the ears of their enemies. Well, how many men have you seen in hospital with their ears cut off?’

  Dorothea admitted she hadn’t seen any.

  ‘I’m sure your sister will be fine. Try not to worry, lovely lady.’

  There was nothing else Dorothea could do except wait.

  After the siege of Sevastopol ended, the war continued on other fronts but those in the British and French camps knew they were lucky to have survived, unlike so many of their comrades, and an atmosphere of gaiety reigned. Copious supplies of alcohol had been discovered in Sevastopol and drunkenness became endemic in the British camp. Horse races were held whenever the rain eased off, and Dorothea went along with Elizabeth to watch and even to place a small bet, something she would never have dreamed of doing in London. She lost, but enjoyed the camaraderie as everyone cheered themselves hoarse in support of their particular favourites. In the evenings, many gathered at the British Hotel, or anywhere there were a few bottles of hooch and someone with a good singing voice. There were impromptu dances and women were much in demand, as the ratio of men to women was more than a hundred to one. One of Dorothea’s colleagues at the Castle Hospital became engaged to a company sergeant of the Royal Artillery and there was a lively party to celebrate. Elizabeth hinted broadly to Dorothea that there were several more romances brewing, as the unmarried women could more or less take their pick, despite being older than would be considered marriageable age back home.

  Dorothea’s thoughts were never far from Lucy, and she didn’t miss a chance to enquire at the harbourmaster’s office, but it seemed Murad had not collected her letter. She sent firm instructions to her father to forward any further correspondence, but nothing came throughout the month of October. It was well into November when another letter arrived bearing her father’s handwriting. One of the porters brought it to her on the ward and she tore it open then and there. The envelope contained a short note from Lucy saying that Murad had been wounded in the fall of Sevastopol and that she had joined him at the Barracks Hospital in Scutari, where she was by his bedside, nursing him. She did not say what kind of injury he had sustained, or whether he was recovering from it, but Dorothea could tell from the tone that Lucy was distressed. Instantly she decided to go to her.

  First of all she asked Miss Langston if she might take a few weeks off to sail to Scutari, promising to return as soon as she could. Miss Langston agreed and sent a porter to enquire at the harbourmaster’s office about the next sailing. They were less frequent now than they had been during the fighting but word came back that there was room on a ship departing two days hence.

  Next, Dorothea went to tell Mr Crawford of her plans and to explain that she would find another nurse to assist him during her absence.

  He seemed startled when she explained her reasons: ‘But you did not tell me you had a sister. Why have you not mentioned her before?’

  She was puzzled. ‘It did not seem material to our professional relationship.’

  ‘Hmm … that’s all very well. But what’s to be done now?’ He seemed quite put out by her news. ‘And you will definitely return, you say? But you don’t know exactly how long you will be?’

  ‘I’m sorry to inconvenience you like this.’

  He tutted, then bit his lip. ‘I wonder if you would come outside with me for a moment, Miss Gray. I suppose I must … I would like to have a word with you in private.’

  There was a howling gale blowing outside and although they stood in a porch the rain blew in sideways, soaking them. The sea and sky merged on the horizon into a seething blur of dark grey and despite being the middle of the day it was so dark they could barely see each other.

  ‘Since we have worked together, Miss Gray, I have found you to be a most excellent nurse. You are dedicated and skilled, and I admire your sharp wits and your compassion. Yes, your compassion.’

  He paused. Dorothea thought it was out of character for him to speak so warmly without a hint of his Scottish humour, but wished he would hurry up, since she was shivering. She hadn’t had time to put on her cloak. ‘Thank you. If I need a reference letter to apply for a nursing post on my return, perhaps I might ask you?’

  ‘Well … That’s not … Of course …’

  Dorothea had never seen him quite so lost for words. ‘It’s been a pleasure working with you,’ she said. ‘I have great respect for your surgical skills and have learned a lot from assisting you.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Thank you. But what I wondered was … whether you would consider becoming my wife.’

  The noise of the wind increased at just that moment and Dorothea wasn’t sure she had heard correctly.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’d like you to marry me, or at least to consider it. Now I realise this is rather abrupt but in my opinion we get on very well. We share the same values and have respect for each other. I am a few years your senior – I realise that – but I do not as yet have any of the impairments that can afflict the elderly. I have my own house in Edinburgh – rather a good house, with four servants. But we could always get more servants if you felt it necessary …’ He stopped, at the expression of total astonishment on Dorothea’s face. ‘I apologise. I appear to be gabbling. You will, of course, want time to think about this.’

  Her heart was beating hard as she tried to compose herself to reply. ‘I am very surprised by this proposal, Sir, as you had not given me any indication that your feelings ran in this direction. But I am flattered, of course. I would be most grateful for a little time to think, but I promise I will let you know my answer before I sail for Scutari the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, of course. That would be most kind.’ He nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  They hesitated, both unsure how to conclude the conversation.

  ‘Perhaps we should go inside out of the rain?’ Dorothea suggested.

  There was a moment when he leaned towards her and she wondered if he was going to kiss her, then he
thought better of it and shook hands with her instead before charging out into the downpour, his boots slithering on the wet ground as he hurried down the hill in the direction of Balaklava. Dorothea stared after him, unable to believe what had just happened. It was the second proposal she had received just as she was on the verge of setting off on a journey. But her feelings this time were quite different than they had been at the last.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  For the rest of the day, Dorothea’s mind was full of both concern for Lucy and wonder at Mr Crawford’s proposal. She found it hard to concentrate and when patients spoke to her she had to ask them to repeat themselves. It wasn’t until she was lying in bed that night that she had time to think through her feelings, to sort and assess them.

  Mr Crawford hadn’t said he loved her; weren’t men supposed to say that when they proposed? Of course William Goodland hadn’t said he loved her either, but he was a dry old stick who didn’t seem capable of high emotion. Mr Crawford, on the other hand, had appeared very emotional, although his words were practical and unromantic. Having watched him under pressure, she knew he had an even temper, and that he was a hard-working, honest man. She liked him. Would it not be a happy life married to such a person? Certainly happier than returning to Russell Square to live with her befuddled father and, after his death, on her own as an old maid. She tried to imagine herself as a surgeon’s wife in Edinburgh and felt a warm glow in her core. They could discuss his patients over dinner, and perhaps attend concerts on his evenings off. Dorothea was sure they must have concert halls in Edinburgh. They had never discussed their musical tastes, but didn’t everyone like music?

  She wondered if this was how Lucy experienced love; or for her was it like the passionate scenes she read of in her romance novels? Should Dorothea be feeling weak-kneed and giddy? She realised she couldn’t imagine kissing Mr Crawford: those ginger whiskers would surely tickle her lip but she liked his pale skin sprinkled with freckles. Suddenly, she thought about what it would be like to have marital relations with him and a knot of anxiety formed in her stomach. What if she was no longer a virgin after the attack in Scutari? Mr Crawford was a surgeon: he would be able to tell on their wedding night if her maidenhead was ruptured and would feel she had cheated him. She couldn’t possibly marry under false pretences.