No Place For a Lady

by Gill Paul

  Dorothea lay awake most of the night agonising over her dilemma: she must not mislead Mr Crawford by pretending to be a virgin when she may not be. Perhaps it would be best to turn him down; but the minute she thought this, she found she didn’t want to. She had successfully relegated the attack in Scutari to the back of her mind but now she faced the dual circumstances of a man wishing to marry her and a return to the place of her misfortune, and the sensation of those two awful men holding her down and poking at her most private parts came back to her with full force. She could remember their smell, of stale sweat and cheap alcohol, the harsh foreign voices, and the throbbing pain in her private parts afterwards. She hoped Lucy was safe and staying well away from those despicable cellars while she nursed her Turkish officer.

  In the morning, as Elizabeth Davis lit the fire in their stove, Dorothea decided to confide in her. Elizabeth was a woman of experience who would offer sage advice. At the same time, although she liked to gossip about goings-on in the camp, Dorothea trusted her to be discreet over such a private matter. She began by telling her of Mr Crawford’s proposal and Elizabeth chuckled with glee.

  ‘About time too. Anyone with eyes in their head could see he was mooning over you!’

  Dorothea was amazed. ‘Really? I had no idea. How could you tell?’

  ‘I knew it back when you first started working together. Surgeons don’t normally pay any attention to their nurses but he hung on your every word. I’m glad he’s finally got round to it. But what are your feelings?’

  ‘He’s a good man …’

  ‘Ye-es. He is that.’ Elizabeth was watching her closely.

  ‘I think that maybe we could be happy together … But …’ Dorothea couldn’t think how to explain. ‘But I am rather anxious about the wedding night.’

  Elizabeth chortled. ‘In that case, you are like every other first-time bride that ever lived. But when you see brides all-aglow the morning after the wedding, it’s obvious nothing awful has happened to them. Quite the reverse.’

  Dorothea summoned her courage: ‘Something terrible happened to me when we were in Constantinople. Remember how ill I was? It was the result of being attacked by two foul men.’ She felt a sob in her throat as she said the words and paused to compose herself. ‘As a result, I am not sure if I am technically still intact.’ A tear leaked down her cheek and she wiped it away.

  ‘Oh my dear,’ Elizabeth came to sit on her bed and embrace her. ‘You should have said. That’s simply awful. Where did it happen?’

  Dorothea described her trip to Scutari on Boxing Day the previous year. ‘It was over so quickly that I could not tell whether penile penetration had occurred or if I have been damaged in some way that Mr Crawford will be able to detect.’

  ‘But my dear, if you were to tell Mr Crawford your story, he would feel only sympathy for your experience.’

  ‘I can’t!’ It would be too humiliating to tell him about the attack. She would never be able to find the words.

  ‘All right then. Do you remember if you bled afterwards?’

  Dorothea shook her head. ‘I was very sore but not bleeding.’

  ‘That’s a good sign. I’d say you are probably intact. Anyway, in my experience, men cannot tell one way or another. Even a surgeon can be confused because every woman looks different down there.’

  ‘And yet I have heard it is possible to tell. I have tried to examine myself with the aid of a looking-glass but do not know what to look for. I don’t suppose you know, do you?’

  Elizabeth patted her hand. ‘I tell you what … shall I examine you? That way you can be sure.’

  Dorothea coloured. ‘I am mortified to ask …’

  ‘We are both medical people. Think of me as a nurse and yourself as the patient. Let’s do it now. I shall light a lantern.’

  Dorothea’s cheeks were scarlet as she lay back on her bed, lifted her nightgown and parted her knees. She felt shy and exposed as Elizabeth brought the lantern close. ‘Just relax now,’ she coaxed. Dorothea felt a cool finger moving her drawers aside and touching her delicately. She held her breath. There was a brief pause, then Elizabeth declared, ‘Your maidenhead is completely intact. No damage whatsoever. Those men must have failed in their attempts.’ She pulled Dorothea’s gown over her knees. The examination had taken only a few seconds.

  Inadvertent tears trickled down Dorothea’s cheeks as she sat up to embrace Elizabeth. ‘It’s such a weight off my mind. I don’t know what I would have done without you.’

  Elizabeth smiled and patted her shoulder. ‘Here’s what you can do: stop being a nincompoop and go and tell that lovely Mr Crawford that you accept his proposal!’

  Rather than give him his answer at work, Dorothea asked Mr Crawford if they might dine together at the British Hotel that evening. It would enable them to talk in peace, and she thought he might enjoy seeing the renowned Mary Seacole presiding over her establishment. Besides, the food was rather good and it seemed he liked to eat. He searched her face for a clue about her reaction to his proposal, but she merely smiled enigmatically.

  That evening she wore the only gown she had brought with her, the brown sprigged muslin. It smelled musty from storage; over the ten months she had been in Crimea she had worn nothing but her nurse’s uniform. She and Mr Crawford caught the train to Kadikoi and alighted by the British Hotel, where lanterns were blazing and the babble of talk and laughter drifted out on the night air. Mary was in a bright red décolleté dress, with a wide blue sash and a yellow bonnet, and she greeted Dorothea like an old friend.

  ‘Welcome, my dear. Come, come – the best table is this one in the corner. Are you planning to eat? Let me recommend my Jamaican chicken stew, to warm you on this cold night.’

  They both ordered a bowl of the stew. Mr Crawford was nervous, fiddling with the edge of the tablecloth so clumsily that he threatened to capsize the glasses resting upon it.

  ‘Before I answer your very kind proposal, might I ask you a few questions?’ Dorothea began.

  ‘Of course. I would expect you to.’ He began playing with the cutlery.

  ‘You said yesterday you were some years older than me. I am thirty-two. I wonder if I might ask your age?’

  ‘Forty-one. I hope that’s not too old …’

  ‘Not at all,’ she smiled. ‘It seems to me a perfectly decent interval … Now, my elderly father suffers from senility. He lives in London and I have left him with just the servants to look after him, but he expects me to return when the war is over – if he even remembers who I am. I wonder …’

  ‘He would be welcome to live with us in Edinburgh if that is what you – and he – wish. Or, if he stays in London, you could visit him whenever you like.’ Mr Crawford’s nerves made him garrulous. ‘I very much hope you would enjoy living in Edinburgh but if you find you don’t like it, then I could search for a job down south – always assuming they could understand my accent.’

  She smiled. ‘From all I’ve heard, Edinburgh sounds most charming, Mr … Actually, there’s one rather important thing you have not yet mentioned to me.’

  ‘And that is… ’

  ‘Your Christian name. Although I expect I will find it difficult to call you anything but Mr Crawford.’

  ‘Gordon. Gordon Alastair Crawford. And I know that you are Dorothea.’

  ‘Gordon.’ She tried out the name. ‘My father is an old-fashioned man, Gordon Crawford, and I think that despite us being substantially more mature than the average engaged couple, he would appreciate it if you would write and ask his permission.’

  ‘But of course. Does that mean you are thinking of accepting my proposal?’ He seemed as excited as a young boy with a new toy.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, happiness welling inside her so she couldn’t stop grinning. ‘Yes, I should very much like to marry you.’

  He reached over the table and clutched her hand, squeezing her fingers tightly. ‘Thank you,’ he breathed, gazing into her eyes as if to check she was being genuine. ‘I can
’t believe … I am just overjoyed.’

  Mary Seacole brought their bowls of stew and Dorothea suspected she had been watching and waiting for her cue. She also filled their glasses with a delicious golden cordial, and they toasted each other.

  Mr Crawford continued: ‘Now you have agreed, I am impatient to become your husband as soon as possible. I will understand if you want to wait until our return home, but I heard of a colleague getting married at the ambassador’s residence in Constantinople and wondered if you might like us to do the same? I could meet you there after you have finished your business with your sister. Possibly we could even be married before Christmas. But at the same time, I don’t want to rush you.’

  Dorothea found it endearing that he talked too much when he was nervous. ‘That sounds perfect,’ she smiled. Constantinople was a breathtaking city and a wedding there would be an event to cherish forever.

  They ate and talked of details. During a lull in the conversation, she said, ‘I hope you know I will be a dutiful wife to you.’

  He shook his head. ‘From what I know of you, Dorothea, you have been dutiful all your life. The last thing I want is to become another duty. I want us to be companions who travel through life together, making each other happy.’

  He took her hand again and enclosed her fingers in his. It was a wonderful feeling.

  PART EIGHT

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  19th September 1855

  Lucy disembarked from the Belleisle at a quay on the European side of the Bosphorus and, knowing she was penniless, the captain paid for a caïque to take her to the Barracks Hospital on the Asian side, the same place where she had stayed with Charlie on their arrival in Constantinople. She rushed up the track to the extensive red-roofed building and just inside the doorway she accosted a nun in white habit.

  ‘I’m looking for Murad bin Ahmed, a Turkish officer who was brought here last week.’ She was breathless from running.

  ‘Turkish, you say?’ She gave Lucy a stern look. ‘Are you a relative?’

  Lucy made a split-second decision. ‘I’m his wife.’ She blushed at the lie, but the nun did not appear to notice.

  ‘All right, come with me,’ she said, leading the way down a corridor. Over her shoulder she remarked, ‘You’re very young. Are any family members here with you?’

  ‘No. They’re back in England.’

  The nun stopped at the door of one ward and asked a question of a nurse, then took Lucy up a flight of stairs to another landing, where she instructed, ‘Wait here while I make enquiries.’

  Lucy’s heart was pounding. She couldn’t bear any further delay now she was finally in the same building as Murad. Deep inside there was a hard nugget of fear: what if he was dead? She knew she would fall apart. Suddenly, she felt a wave of dizziness. She crouched on her heels with her head between her knees to avoid fainting.

  Instantly the nun was beside her again. ‘You poor child! Let me get you a chair.’

  ‘I just want to see Murad,’ she whispered, but the nun hadn’t heard her as she was fetching a nurse. Together they hauled her into a chair and waved a bottle of smelling salts under her nose. The chemicals stung her nostrils and throat.

  ‘We think we have an idea where your husband is, dear,’ the nurse told her. ‘I’ll take you just as soon as you feel well enough.’

  Lucy insisted she was fine, and stood up gingerly. The giddy spell appeared to have passed.

  ‘May God be with you,’ the nun said kindly, before taking her leave.

  The nurse, who introduced herself as Mrs Roberts, led Lucy along a corridor and up another flight of stairs. She quickly lost her sense of direction in this rambling building of echoing corridors and closed doors. They entered another ward and Mrs Roberts consulted a nurse, then guided Lucy to a bed beneath a tall window. For a second she didn’t recognise Murad because his head was swathed in heavy bandaging, his face swollen and his eyes closed, but then she saw it was him, and with a cry she rushed to his side.

  ‘Murad, it’s me, Lucy. I’m here,’ she whispered urgently, reaching for his hand.

  His chest was rising and falling evenly, his expression peaceful but there was no indication he had heard her.

  ‘Murad!’ she called a little more loudly, then asked Mrs Roberts, ‘Is he asleep?’

  Mrs Roberts found a chair for Lucy and dragged it to the bedside, motioning for her to sit down before she replied. ‘He has had a nasty knock on the head and has not yet regained consciousness – but you mustn’t worry.’

  Instantly Lucy burst into tears and Mrs Roberts passed her a handkerchief in a practised gesture. ‘After trauma it is good for the brain to rest in order for healing to take place. He is simply at the resting and healing stage.’

  Lucy couldn’t stop crying. Throughout the journey she had pictured arriving at Murad’s bedside to find him weak, perhaps, but overjoyed to see her. She had imagined them kissing and embracing, and her taking over the task of nursing him until he was well enough to be released. Not in all her dreams had she predicted this.

  ‘He may be able to hear you, so whisper cheerful things to him. Let your happy voice tempt him back from the blackness.’

  Lucy looked at the blank unresponsiveness of his face and couldn’t believe he could hear anything. But at least his breathing was regular, she told herself. That was the main thing; at least he was alive.

  When Mrs Roberts left them alone, she tried whispering to him. ‘I’m here, darling. Your Lucy. I came to be with you. Hurry up and get well. Seni canımdan çok seviyorum – see, I remember the words you taught me. They are true – I love you more than my life.’ She told him about Emir coming to fetch her and about the crossing on the hospital ship. ‘You must open your eyes soon,’ Lucy chided, ‘else I shall get lonely.’

  Someone brought her a cup of English tea, the first she had tasted in many months, and she was offered a bowl of beef broth, which she declined. Her stomach was tied in knots and she couldn’t face food.

  As night began to fall, Mrs Roberts returned with an auburn-haired woman she introduced as Miss Nightingale. ‘She is superintendent of the hospital,’ Mrs Roberts explained in an aside.

  ‘I understand you are married to this Turkish man?’ Miss Nightingale said, with steel in her voice. Lucy agreed, eyes lowered. ‘In that case, we will find you a room in which to sleep. Do you have any luggage?’ She looked Lucy up and down, frowning at her ragamuffin appearance.

  ‘No. In the rush to get here, I brought nothing.’

  ‘Mrs Roberts, could you find Mrs bin Ahmed some fresh clothes? And perhaps some soap and a hairbrush.’ She folded her arms firmly. ‘Where are your family? You are too young to be alone in such a circumstance. You must write and ask someone to join you.’

  ‘I am fine, I …’

  Miss Nightingale spoke as one who was used to being obeyed. ‘Mrs Roberts will supply paper and a pen and I would like you to write this evening. We will mail the letter for you. While you are here, you can assist the nursing staff in caring for your husband and perhaps you can do some mending. In return, we will feed you and give you a roof over your head. Is that clear?’

  Lucy agreed, but asked, ‘Might I not sleep on the floor by my husband’s bedside? I would prefer not to leave in case he wakes in the night.’

  ‘No women are allowed on the wards after eight p.m.’ The tone of her voice brooked no argument and Lucy had to concede.

  At eight o’clock, when the ward was cleared, one of the nurses took Lucy to a large dining hall where portions of stew were being ladled out, but the smell made her nauseous. She could only manage to nibble a slice of dry bread and drink a glass of brandy. Afterwards, the nurse gave her a fanoos lantern and showed her to a small, windowless room with a narrow bed in it. She sat on the bed and wrote the letter she had been asked to write, then climbed under the coven and sobbed herself to sleep, images of Murad’s swollen face and bandaged head filling her thoughts. ‘Oh please save him, oh please,’ she r
epeated, like a mantra, as she drifted off.

  Next morning, there was a knock on the door and a rosy-cheeked woman, who introduced herself as Mrs Bracebridge, walked in with an armful of clothes. There was a fresh set of undergarments and two gowns, one brown and the other violet, neither colours Lucy would have chosen for herself. They looked rather large, but at least they were freshly laundered and she accepted them gratefully. There were some toilet articles as well, and a towel. She washed and dressed then rushed back to Murad’s bedside, full of hope that there might have been a change in his condition overnight.

  ‘It’s me, Lucy,’ she whispered, the tears coming. ‘Please wake up. I need you so much. Please. Seni canımdan çok seviyorum.’

  He breathed in and out at the same even pace, but his eyelids did not so much as flicker.

  Murad didn’t regain consciousness that day or the next, or for the remainder of the week. Every morning, Lucy took her seat by his bedside, remaining there until eight in the evening, apart from hurried trips to the latrine. She spent long hours memorising every detail of his appearance: the black curl of his eyelashes, a tiny scar on his temple, the lump of his Adam’s apple, those fingers that had touched her with such desire … She found his green leather book and pored over all the fine drawings within, spotting new images within the patterns: lions, musical instruments, ornate buildings. To her eye, he had a prodigious talent.

  Mrs Bracebridge brought mending to keep her occupied, saying, ‘The devil finds work for idle hands.’ Lucy’s sewing was sloppy; she had never had the patience for it as a child and now she did not have the concentration, but Mrs Bracebridge overlooked the uneven stitches and roughly knotted threads.