by Gill Paul
One of Murad’s sisters came running out into the garden to look for her, then shouted something in Turkish over her shoulder. Lucy turned – and could not believe her eyes.
She blinked hard.
There, standing in the doorway, with a bag at her feet, was Dorothea.
For a moment Lucy was so startled she couldn’t react. Was it really her? But how could it be?
Dorothea walked into the garden, out of place in her dowdy coat and bonnet. She seemed older, strands of grey hair framing her dear, lined face. Lucy was utterly amazed. She leapt to her feet, ran to her and flung her arms round her, crying, ‘You came!’ Her eyes filled with tears as emotion swept over her. Dear sweet Dorothea, whom she thought had abandoned her, had travelled across an entire continent to find her. Heart pounding, Lucy squeezed as hard as she could, burying her face in Dorothea’s familiar shoulder, feeling her sister’s arms close around her, smelling her skin. Nothing had ever felt as good as this.
‘Of course I came.’ Dorothea squeezed back then pulled away to examine her, flushed with joy. ‘Your face is thinner but it suits you. And your complexion is radiant. Oh Lucy, I’ve missed you so much! I can’t begin to tell you …’
‘How did you get here so quickly? It’s wonderful to see you. I’ve missed you too. Oh please – sit down.’ Lucy motioned to a basketwork chair but hung on to Dorothea’s hand, not letting go.
Dorothea looked at Murad for the first time and Lucy followed her gaze. ‘This is Murad.’ She hesitated, trying to decide how to introduce him. ‘Perhaps you received my letter about him? What I didn’t tell you, but you perhaps guessed, is that we are in love and plan to marry just as soon as he recovers. And we are seeing progress every day.’
She looked defiantly at Dorothea, waiting for signs of disapproval, bracing herself for a lecture, but Dorothea nodded politely at Murad and said, ‘Good to meet you, Sir. If my sister loves you then you must be a fine man.’ She sank into the chair while Lucy blinked in surprise. ‘My goodness, what a journey I’ve had,’ Dorothea continued. ‘You will be surprised to hear I have not come from England, as you might think, but was nursing in Balaklava. All these months we have been close to each other without knowing it!’
‘You were in Balaklava?’ Lucy was baffled.
‘Yes, I volunteered as a nurse. I left England a year ago. I was hoping I would encounter you along the way – and now I have!’ Dorothea beamed. ‘Oh, Lucy, I can’t believe we’re together at last. I’ve been so worried. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I never gave up.’ She turned to regard Murad again. ‘I’m sorry about your fiancé’s injury. We will talk of this, as I have some experience of head injuries. But if you can see gradual signs of improvement, that is good news.’
‘Dorothea, is it really you? I feel as though you have arrived from a different lifetime. So much has happened …’ Lucy still hadn’t let go of her sister’s hand. ‘I didn’t think you would come. You didn’t write …’
‘I did write. Once I discovered where you were, I wrote to you every week. It was only after I reached Balaklava and came to look for you, I learned that my letters had been …’ She made a snap decision not to tell Lucy the truth for now; she would show her Charlie’s last letter when the time was right. ‘… Misplaced. You had not received them. You must have thought I had abandoned you. And then to lose poor Charlie …’ She squeezed Lucy’s hand. ‘My goodness, what a dreadful time!’
Tears of self-pity pricked Lucy’s eyes but she blinked them away. ‘I still can’t quite believe you are here. And Father? Is he well?’
‘He seems to be. He is bossing Henderson around like a tyrant, I imagine.’
‘I’ve never understood why Henderson puts up with it. There must surely be other posts he could obtain.’
‘I suppose they are simply used to each other and don’t relish change. I find it hard to be sympathetic with Father’s constant complaints, even though I know they are a symptom of his declining wit, but Henderson manages to pretend concern every time.’
Lucy laughed. ‘Do you remember when Papa thought he was dying of a stomach cancer and it turned out to be wind?’
Dorothea rolled her eyes and was about to reply when Hafza came into the garden and approached with a welcoming smile.
‘Bu anneniz mi?’ she asked Lucy. Is this your mother?
‘Ablam,’ Lucy corrected her quickly. ‘My sister. Dorothea, this is Murad’s mother Hafza, who has been as kind as a mother to me since I arrived.’
‘Nasılsınız? Memnun oldum,’ Dorothea said, using a greeting she had learned from a Turkish patient, which meant ‘How are you? I am pleased.’
Lucy watched them bow their heads to each other and a huge weight lifted off her shoulders. For the first time since she had left England, she felt safe and protected. Dorothea was here and she wasn’t cross – although she didn’t know about the pregnancy yet. That would be a fresh challenge to her equanimity.
Chapter Forty-two
Hafza moved Halida and Nakiye in order to give Dorothea the bedroom alongside Lucy’s. That night, when everyone had gone to bed, Dorothea crept into Lucy’s room in her nightgown, hoping for one of the cosy bedtime chats they used to have in the old days, but Lucy was sound asleep, her hair fanned out on the pillow. Dorothea held her candle above her, looking down at that dear face, and felt such a pang of love that it was all she could do not to wake Lucy and cover her cheeks with kisses. After all this time, they were together at last and, what’s more, it seemed they were friends. Nothing mattered more than that.
Over the next few days, the sisters talked incessantly, telling each other all that had passed since they last saw each other. There were many surprises. Dorothea explained that she knew Florence Nightingale, that she had even nursed her when she caught fever in the Crimea, and so when she arrived in Scutari looking for Lucy Miss Nightingale was able to provide the address at which to find her. Lucy explained that she had been living in an abandoned dacha not far from Balaklava, where Murad had taken her to recover after Charlie died and that love had developed between them that summer. Dorothea told her about meeting the 8th Hussars’ wives at the British camp and gave her the ship in a bottle. Lucy narrowed her eyes when she heard about one of the women wearing her shell-pink gown, a particular favourite.
‘I left Mama’s silk bedspread there. I don’t suppose they gave you that,’ she asked, then answered her own question: ‘No, I thought not.’
Then Dorothea broke her own news: that she had become engaged to a doctor with whom she worked in Balaklava.
‘Oh, I’m so glad!’ Lucy clapped her hands together. ‘A doctor. He must be very clever. I always thought only a clever man would do for you. Is he handsome?’
‘Not particularly.’ Dorothea shook her head with a faraway smile in her eyes. ‘But he is a good man.’ She explained their plan to marry at the ambassador’s residence in Constantinople, and suggested that perhaps Lucy might attend.
Lucy was excited. ‘Maybe we can have a double wedding, if Murad is recovered enough.’
Dorothea smiled. ‘Miss Nightingale told me you were already married but I guessed that was probably not the case.’
‘Not yet, but as good as …’ Lucy said quickly.
‘Mr Crawford and I were hoping to marry around Christmas, which is only a few weeks hence. I think it may take a little longer before Murad is himself again.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. I wish there was a way to speed his recovery. You said you had some experience of head injuries. What must we do?’
‘I had a patient in London who had been working on the railways when he was struck on the head with a steel girder. At first we thought he was catatonic – that means entirely unresponsive – but a young surgeon told me that such patients can respond to stimuli, particularly things that were familiar to them before the accident. In the case of this patient, we realised he responded to the sound of his pet dog barking, and when we put the dog on his lap he began to move his hand a
s if to stroke it. We got his wife to wave a candle back and forwards in front of his eyes, to ring bells, sing songs he knew, and later to take him to places and to meet people he was familiar with. It’s good to encourage all the senses, of sight, hearing, taste, smell and touch.’
‘And he recovered fully?’ Lucy was excited.
‘Yes, he did. It was miraculous.’
This advice seemed so invaluable that Lucy got the governess to translate it for Hafza and they began to discuss what stimuli might work for Murad. Hafza said he had enjoyed sea bathing as a child, so they decided that the orderly and Murad’s uncle would take him to the beach one day. Lucy would have liked to go along, but Hafza said that was not possible, without explaining why.
‘He liked to hear me play the pianoforte when we were in the Crimea,’ Lucy said, and Hafza immediately ordered a pianoforte, impatient when she was told it would be some weeks before it could be delivered.
His sisters became involved, suggesting favourite foods, toys he had played with as a child, and the scent of the jasmine plant which climbed the walls outside the window of his childhood bedroom. They were excited to be given something positive they could do to help him and everyone had ideas.
‘How long do you think it will take?’ Lucy asked Dorothea as they strolled in the garden, arm in arm one evening.
‘I wish I could give you an answer, Lucy-loo, but I expect every case is different. I’m so sorry. It must be unbearable for you to see the man you love in this helpless condition.’
Lucy hung her head. ‘I wish you could meet him properly. I know you’d like him. He’s nothing like Charlie: he’s quiet and thoughtful and considerate. He saved my life, you know.’
‘I love him for that already. And I pray he will recover soon.’
‘It’s just that I need him back urgently because …’ She couldn’t bring herself to say the words. Instead she turned in profile, smoothing her gown so Dorothea could see the swelling of her belly.
Dorothea drew in breath sharply. ‘You’re with child?’
Lucy nodded tentatively. Was she about to receive a lecture? The Dorothea of old would have lambasted her without mercy. Having intimate relations outside of matrimony was unforgivable by every standard of society, whether in England, Crimea or Turkey. There was a pause and she held her breath but when Dorothea spoke it was of practicalities.
‘When is the baby due?’
Lucy shrugged. She didn’t know.
‘When was your last monthly bleed? I’m guessing from your size the child must have been conceived in the summer.’
‘Yes, in July or August,’ Lucy said.
‘So it is due in April or May. Were you sick in the early months?’
‘Very sick. The nausea has only just passed while I have been here.’
‘Might I feel your belly?’
Lucy assented, and Dorothea cupped the bulge in her hands, feeling for the head. She had no experience in midwifery but knew the basics. She felt a fluttering sensation just beneath her hand. ‘Ah, that’s the baby kicking.’
Lucy’s eyes widened. ‘Are you sure?’ For the first time the reality struck that she was carrying Murad’s child inside her. Until that moment it had been an abstract notion but the fact there was a living, breathing creature inside her womb, a creature capable of kicking, was a chastening thought.
Dorothea caught the panic in her expression but misread it. ‘There is still time to travel back to London for your confinement and hire an experienced midwife. I know just the woman.’
Lucy shook her head. ‘You wouldn’t believe how ill I was during the journey from Constantinople. I can’t possibly sail home. Besides, Hafza knows a midwife and assures me there is nothing to worry about.’
Dorothea did not share her confidence. Over one in twenty births in London caused the death of the mother and she couldn’t believe Smyrna would have a better record. Lucy was young and fit but that offered no protection from post-natal haemorrhage and fever. ‘Wouldn’t you rather have someone who spoke the same language as you while in the grip of labour pains?’
‘Yes. I want you to be here, Dorothea. Please say you will.’ Lucy spoke with passion.
‘Of course I will.’ She decided she would persuade Mr Crawford to come as well in case surgical intervention was required. She would trust him above all others.
‘And will you stay in Smyrna until then?’
Dorothea was torn. She had told Miss Langston she would only be gone a few weeks, but Lucy’s due date was still five months away. And she couldn’t abandon Gordon for so long when they had only just become engaged. It would be heartbreaking to leave Lucy, especially in her condition, but she knew she would be well cared for in Murad’s household. ‘I promised to return to Balaklava for the winter, but now I know where you are we can write to each other. And if you need me, I am only a week’s sail away. It will be fine, Lucy-loo. You’ll see.’
Dorothea suggested they try to involve Murad in the routine of the household rather than leaving him to spend hours in bed, where he risked getting bedsores as well as muscle wastage. From then on, the orderly wheeled him into the dining room to sit with them while they ate. He could still only swallow liquids; if solid food was placed in his mouth he simply let it lie there, as if he had forgotten how to chew. Lucy sat by him and fed him spoonfuls of soup, and it felt as though he was part of the group.
One evening at dinner, Lucy was talking to Dorothea when suddenly Murad lurched forwards in his chair and uttered a noise that sounded like ‘Oosh’.
Lucy got pinpricks all up her arms. ‘Did you hear that? He’s trying to say “Lucy”. He wants my attention. What is it, darling?’ She leapt up to cup Murad’s face in her hands and he smiled at her benignly. ‘Don’t you think he was saying my name, Dorothea?’
‘It certainly sounded like it,’ she agreed. ‘Perhaps he can understand our conversation and wants to be included.’ It did seem a positive sign, and she was glad for Lucy.
But that evening when Murad was back in bed, they heard the orderly calling for help. Lucy and Dorothea rushed into the room to see Murad jerking violently, throwing himself all over the bed, his tongue hanging out and his eyes rolling. Lucy began to wail, terrified that he was dying. Dorothea knew what to do, though. She grabbed a cloth and, holding his chin, forced it into his mouth then she held on to his shoulders, motioning for the orderly to help pin him down. The kicking and jerking continued for some minutes before Murad flopped back onto the bed and appeared to be sound asleep. Dorothea took his pulse and listened to his heart with her ear to his chest, then removed the cloth from his mouth.
‘What on earth happened?’ Lucy cried, horrified. ‘He’s never done that before.’
‘He had a seizure,’ Dorothea explained. ‘If it happens again, be sure to put something in his mouth or else he could choke on his tongue … Don’t cry, Lucy. It’s quite a common symptom of brain injury. It needn’t mean a setback.’
She got up to embrace her sister, stroking her hair. Lucy still shook with sobs. It was too cruel to be given hope with his attempt to say her name, and then have it snatched away again immediately with this horrible seizure.
None of Dorothea’s reassurances could calm her that evening but Lucy had a fundamentally optimistic nature and next morning, her good humour had returned. She began spending hours each day coaxing Murad to talk and reporting things she imagined he was saying.
‘I know he likes you, Dorothea. He always responds to the sound of your voice.’
‘Really?’
‘And he loves this lilac gown his sisters gave me,’ Lucy smiled, stroking the skirt. ‘I can tell he likes the colour. While we were in the dacha he only ever saw me in the same old blue gown so the change must be welcome.’
Dorothea worried that she was reading rather more into his very limited responses than they warranted. Lucy continued to believe that Murad’s ‘Oosh’ sound was an attempt to pronounce her name although Dorothea had heard him utter it qu
ite randomly when her sister was nowhere in the vicinity.
It was a balancing act: she did not wish to raise Lucy’s hopes too high, but neither did she wish her to sink into despair while she was carrying his child. Perhaps it was best to err on the side of optimism.
Dorothea had written to Gordon telling him of Murad’s injury and Lucy’s condition, and within ten days there was a reply. He sent great sympathy for the plight of Lucy’s fiancé, writing, ‘Head injuries can be the luck of the draw. I have seen men make a full recovery from states such as you describe, usually within six months of the accident. After that, in my experience their condition is highly unlikely to improve significantly.’ He had little to add to her advice about stimulating Murad in as many ways as possible, merely recommending that his muscles be kept from atrophying with daily stretches and massage, and that they were to guard against sores.
The weather in Balaklava was wet and cold, he wrote, with frost in the mornings, and the nurse who had replaced Dorothea as his assistant in the operating theatre was clumsy and inept: ‘However, this is not the main reason I miss you. I find myself constantly wishing to discuss matters with you, from the condition of a patient to the progress of the war, and to hear your wise, considered opinions. I have no experience in writing love letters full of sweet sentiment – rhapsodies comparing eye colour with precious jewels and voices with the trilling of a nightingale, etcetera etcetera – but it is factual to say that I miss you very much simply because I like you being around. There is a space at my side that I wish you occupied.’ He said he understood that Dorothea’s sister needed her support, but wondered if there was any chance she could still travel to Constantinople for a Christmas wedding. Her father had written with his permission to wed and her consent would make him the happiest man alive.
Dorothea didn’t hesitate for one moment. She replied immediately that she would meet him in Constantinople around the 20th or 21st December and would become his wife just as soon as it could be arranged. She sealed the letter then hugged herself, almost unable to contain her happiness. In front of Lucy she would tactfully play down her excitement, so as not to rub salt in the wound, but she felt private joy bubbling inside.