No Place For a Lady

by Gill Paul

  When she came red-eyed to dinner that evening, Murad’s mother rose from her cushion and hugged her as tightly as if she were her own daughter. She already knew in her heart what Lucy had finally accepted: that it seemed unlikely her son would get any better than he already was.

  Chapter Forty-five

  After their wedding Gordon and Dorothea spent two weeks exploring the sights of Constantinople: the extravagant marble palaces that lined the Bosphorus; the mosques with golden domes and superb tiles; the tall wooden houses set on narrow streets where the call to prayer rang out from all directions. They visited the renowned Grand Bazaar and bought a multi-coloured patchwork quilt to warm their marital bed, as well as a sturdy pot-bellied stove to banish the winter chill of Crimea. Dorothea loved the feeling of being a couple now, of making joint decisions and planning their future. She liked to brush lint from her new husband’s collar, to plump his pillows, and generally to concern herself with his comfort. They talked constantly, sharing opinions, exploring the other’s tastes in music, art, food and literature, and every new revelation was eagerly memorised and stored away.

  Their intimacies in the bedroom were loving and tender, and before long Dorothea plucked up the courage to tell Gordon about the attack in Constantinople. As Elizabeth had predicted, he was enormously sympathetic but also berated her, ‘Why on earth did you not share this horrendous experience earlier? It makes me sad that you have dealt with this in your usual silent fortitude.’

  On their return to Balaklava they were allocated a wooden hut to share and the first thing Dorothea did was to display their wedding daguerreotype, enclosed in a mother-of-pearl case. Elizabeth had been sent home suffering from an injured foot but left them a letter with her address and a gift of a dozen linen napkins, each with a hand-embroidered flower in one corner. Other friends gave presents of food or champagne and Gordon and Dorothea threw a small party at the British Hotel to thank well-wishers.

  There had been many changes during the couple of months of Dorothea’s absence. New shops, bars and restaurants had sprung up in Kadikoi and Kamiesch, all of them well stocked with provisions from Britain and France. Some bars had gaming tables, others billiards, and a theatre company now put on revues with names such as To Paris and Back for Five Pounds and The Moustache Movement. Dorothea and Gordon attended the latter, a heavily mannered show in which the leading lady was played by a lieutenant from the 63rd Regiment of Foot, but didn’t think much of it. They heard there was a French dancing saloon in Kamara where balls were held every Sunday but that no decent lady could be seen there because they were frequented by the cantinières, who throughout the war’s course had done nothing to belie their reputation as harlots. The horse racing began again and Dorothea and Gordon attended a few races, placing small bets on them. Everywhere there were tourists now: wandering lost between the huts in camp, spilling out of the bars, and asking anyone who would listen how they could obtain a Russian cap or rifle as a souvenir.

  By the end of January, it was clear the war did not have long to run and the boundaries of the Ottoman Empire looked secure once more. The wards at the Castle and General Hospitals began to empty as soldiers were either dispatched home or returned to their posts. Stories filtered through of conviviality between British and French troops and the small Russian force still camped by the Chernaia river: national songs were sung around campfires, and bottles of liquor were shared. Dorothea was not surprised. She had never seen any signs of animosity towards the few Russian soldiers she had nursed; this war was not about individuals but about the Russian government’s expansionism and territorial posturing. Gordon and she agreed that it had all been a waste of innocent lives. There had been no decisive victory but at least Russian military build-up around the Black Sea would be curbed. Was that worth all the blood that had been shed?

  On the 31st March 1856, news reached the British camp by telegram that a peace treaty had been signed the day before, and on the 2nd April the guns were fired in celebration. It felt like something of an anti-climax, except that it heralded the start of the mass evacuation of troops from Crimea. The timing was perfect for Dorothea and Gordon. They could supervise the travel arrangements for their remaining patients, take their leave of the friends they had made, pack their possessions, and then depart for Smyrna in time for Dorothea to attend Lucy’s confinement.

  On the 14th April, Dorothea and Gordon set sail for Constantinople, from where they took another ship bound for Smyrna. The seas were blessedly calm, and the skies filled with flocks of migrating birds. Gordon turned out to be something of an avian expert and taught her to identify storks, cranes, warblers and falcons from their different shapes and patterns of flight.

  They arrived at the house in Smyrna on the 22nd of the month to a warm welcome. Hafza had allocated a guest suite for them within the house, even though it meant she and her daughters must remain veiled at all times and the girls must avoid public rooms when Gordon was there. Dorothea introduced Lucy to Gordon and he greeted her fondly, calling her ‘sister-in-law’. She tried to respond in friendly fashion but her normal exuberant spirit was clearly subdued, and Dorothea perceived the cause when they went to sit by Murad’s bedside. His condition was much worse than it had been the previous December. His eyes no longer seemed focused, his tongue lolled out of his mouth and Lucy reported that the fits had become more frequent. Instantly the professional, Gordon tested his reflexes, moved a candle back and forth in front of his eyes to check his pupils followed the light, and listened to his heartbeat through his wooden stethoscope. Lucy did not ask the prognosis. It seemed she had given up hope.

  Dorothea knocked on Lucy’s bedroom door as she dressed for dinner and sat on the bed to talk.

  ‘You look well,’ she began. ‘I think I have never seen you so beautiful.’

  ‘No, I don’t. Look at me – I’m grotesque.’ Lucy skimmed her hands over her rounded hips and belly. ‘Even if I were beautiful there is no one to appreciate it. We are a household of women who never go out, and never receive company. It’s the way they live here.’

  ‘That must be hard for someone as sociable as you.’

  ‘I’m going mad. I just wish …’ Lucy paused. ‘Well, I wish Murad would recover, of course, but if he does not, I almost wish we had never met. Is that awful of me? I find it agony to spend time with him now that I can’t see any trace of the man he used to be and I know for certain he would not wish to live like this.’ It made her heartsick to remember their conversations about blonde-haired daughters who played piano and black-haired sons to take over his business, a house with pomegranate trees in the garden – all of it impossible now.

  ‘That’s perfectly natural. It must be awful for you to watch him in this condition. And the lifestyle here is quite different to the one to which you were accustomed in London.’

  ‘Oh, Hafza is terribly kind and the girls try to include me in their activities, but my lack of knowledge of the language hinders true friendship.’

  ‘You have not learned any more Turkish?’

  ‘I don’t think I have a gift for languages. I can’t decipher the Arabic letters and my memory simply does not retain words. Yesterday Hafza told me the word for pomegranate – and today I have forgotten it again.’ She snapped her fingers by her head.

  ‘I’ve heard being with child can adversely affect the memory,’ Dorothea said. ‘Once the baby is born, yours may improve.’

  ‘And that’s another thing …’ Lucy threw her hairbrush on a dresser with a clatter. The words burst out in a rush, as if she had been storing them up for ages. ‘I don’t even want this baby. I can’t face raising it on my own. I still can’t believe the man I love – the two men I loved – have gone.’ She began to cry, then stopped herself with an effort. ‘It’s not fair, Dorothea. It’s simply not fair.’

  Dorothea rose and put her arms round her sister. She didn’t know what to say, so just held her close. ‘It will get better,’ she whispered eventually, although at that momen
t she couldn’t see how.

  Lucy’s labour pains began in the early hours of the 8th May and she rushed in to Dorothea’s room to waken her. The contractions were still mild so they lay side by side on Lucy’s bed and dozed fitfully for a few more hours. At six, they sat holding hands on the little balcony of her room and watched the sunrise turning the stone of the garden walls pink. During the morning, the pains built gradually, and Dorothea rubbed Lucy’s back and stroked her brow, speaking soothing words. In the gaps between pains, she read to her from a novel the British ambassador’s wife had lent her, Hard Times by Mr Charles Dickens. She was more nervous than Lucy, who did not seem to appreciate the dangers of childbirth. It was better that she didn’t, but with each labour pain Dorothea felt more alarmed. It seemed to her the baby was in the right position, with the head engaged. Should it get stuck she could call on Mr Crawford to operate, but such surgery had a poor outcome for mothers, with fewer than half surviving an abdominal opening. Pray God it wouldn’t come to that.

  Hafza arrived, bringing trays of sweetmeats and cool drinks, struggling to contain her excitement. Towards late afternoon, when the contractions became more frequent and painful she summoned a Turkish midwife, a stooped, elderly woman with deep lines scored in her leathery face. She offered a herbal drink, miming that it would speed the labour. ‘Is good,’ Hafza said in her faltering English. Dorothea smelled it and shrugged, saying she could see no harm in it. Lucy had become fractious and accused them of trying to poison her, but sipped it all the same and seemed calmer afterwards.

  Within an hour of taking the herbal drink, Lucy gave a sudden scream and gripped Dorothea’s hand so tightly that her wedding ring cut grooves in the adjacent fingers. The baby was moving down the birth canal. Suddenly there was no time to worry about things going wrong. Dorothea put a careful hand between Lucy’s legs to feel for the head then gently manoeuvred it down, giving her sister instructions on when to push. Hafza held Lucy’s hands and the midwife watched over them, ready to step in if needed, but it all went very smoothly.

  Dorothea carefully slid the head out and cleared mucus from the nose and mouth before delivering the rest of the child and holding it up. To her relief, it began to squawk straight away, sounding for all the world like a seagull chick. It was only then that Dorothea looked between the legs and told Lucy, ‘It’s a boy.’

  Hafza was sobbing uncontrollably as the midwife cut the cord and delivered the placenta, and Dorothea was so profoundly moved she found she was trembling. Many times she had helped patients to pass over in death and now she had done the exact opposite, aiding in the safe delivery of a child to life. It was a great privilege, and an experience she knew she would never forget.

  The midwife washed the baby and they saw that not only was he a boy, but he was a very Turkish-looking boy, with a shock of fine jet-black hair and deep golden skin. He looked uncannily like a miniature Murad. The midwife swaddled him in a shawl and Hafza held out her arms for her grandson. She held him close and whispered in his ear what sounded like a Muslim prayer, beginning, ‘Allahu Akbar! …’ When the recitation was finished she dipped her finger in a little saucer of sweet juice and rubbed it onto the baby’s gums. Only then did she offer to hand him to Lucy.

  Lucy shook her head: ‘I’m exhausted.’ She had barely glanced at the child. The midwife offered her another herbal concoction and she drank it without question then lay back and closed her eyes. Dorothea thought she looked much older than her twenty years, and she stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. ‘You’ve done well,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you for letting me be here.’

  Hafza cradled the child, cooing to him, exclaiming over his tiny fingers and toes. She was beside herself with happiness and couldn’t sit still, disappearing briefly to fetch Murad’s sisters so she could show them their new nephew. The wet nurse she had hired arrived to give him his first feed and he took to the breast immediately, sucking noisily. Given Lucy’s exhaustion, Dorothea suggested in mime that the party move to another room to let her rest, and they filed out, taking the baby with them.

  Dorothea sat with Lucy until she was sound asleep, then went to find Gordon. ‘I did it!’ she grinned, her eyes glistening. ‘I was more scared than I thought I would be but somehow I delivered my first baby. Mother and child – a boy – are in good health.’

  Gordon kissed her. ‘I hope the experience did not disincline you from having a child yourself.’

  Dorothea blushed as she said, ‘Quite the opposite.’ She did not tell him that her monthly bleed was two weeks late. Today was Lucy’s day. Her news could come later, once she was completely sure.

  Chapter Forty-six

  Lucy lay in bed for four days after the delivery, feeling utterly drained. The heat had grown oppressive and she fanned herself with a paper fan, her nightgown damp with sweat and her head aching. She was tetchy with Dorothea, who brought light meals to tempt her appetite and cool drinks to refresh her.

  ‘How can it be so hot when it is only May? How can anyone survive a summer here? There is not a breath of air. Look, there’s no movement in the drapes although the window is wide.’

  Dorothea spoke soothingly. ‘It is a little cooler in the shade in the garden. There’s a breeze down by the fountain. When you feel sufficiently recovered to come downstairs I think you will find it very pleasant.’

  ‘I can’t possibly rise today. You have no idea of the pain, Dorothea. And I could not sleep last night for the heat. Even in the darkest hours it’s like being inside a bread oven.’

  ‘I agree it’s baking hot by night as well as by day. I suppose the people here are used to it.’ Dorothea lifted the fan and began to fan Lucy.

  ‘And I have been bitten by some flying insects. Look!’ She showed two angry red lumps on her wrist and elbow.

  ‘We keep our window closed at night so the insects do not fly in, but I admit it makes the heat more oppressive.’

  ‘Oh Dorothea, I want to go back to England. Can’t we just leave? I yearn to see London … and Papa. I miss Papa. Please take me home.’

  ‘But the child?’ Dorothea asked quietly. ‘What of the child?’

  ‘I … I don’t know.’ Lucy turned and buried her face in the pillow. How was she supposed to make decisions? Her head was all muddled and she couldn’t think straight.

  The wet nurse fed the baby but Lucy’s milk had come in and soaked through her nightclothes, meaning she had to change frequently. She knew she should be taking an interest in the child, who was brought to her two or three times a day, but most of the time he was monopolised by Murad’s mother, sisters and aunts. Everyone remarked on his resemblance to Murad and when Lucy held him, she saw it was unquestionable: he had the long lashes, the same chin, the blue-black hair. It didn’t feel as though he was hers. It broke her heart to look at the tiny boy who would never know his father. It broke her heart that Murad would never know he had a son.

  On the fifth day after giving birth, Lucy rose, bored with the view from her bed and tempted by Dorothea’s description of the breeze by the fountain. She washed and dressed in her lightest gown and arranged her hair in a loose knot. It was shortly after luncheon and everyone appeared to be resting in their rooms because she didn’t see a soul as she descended the stairs and walked out into the garden. The heat hit her like a hammer blow and the brightness blinded her. Squinting, she hurried towards the fountain, noting the overblown lushness of the huge-headed flowers and their sweet, almost cloying fragrance. Crickets were chirruping noisily and she remembered Murad telling her that the sound was emitted by male crickets trying to attract females. There were obviously many lovelorn insects in the vicinity. She passed beneath an arbour into the area near the fountain where there was a little courtyard shaded by the garden wall, and was startled to see Gordon sitting in a chair, deep in thought. He leapt to his feet.

  ‘Lucy! I’m delighted to see you recovered enough to venture outside. How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m hot,’ she sighed. ‘I c
ame in search of relief from this sweltering climate.’

  ‘Pray sit down.’ He pulled up a chair for her. ‘May I join you, or would you rather be left in peace?’

  ‘Oh, please join me. I am so fed up with the company of women. Everyone is chattering about this miraculous baby I have produced, admiring his every sigh and blink as great accomplishments. I don’t speak Turkish, of course, but one can tell that’s the only topic of interest to them.’

  ‘I’m rather in agreement with you. Babies are of limited interest at that age.’ He smiled. ‘So tell me how you are – apart from hot, that is.’

  ‘I’m confused.’ Lucy felt a sudden welling of tears and blinked them back. ‘I’m homesick for London and I miss my Papa, but how can I take the baby away from Hafza? She has lost her son and it would be unspeakably cruel of me to take her grandson as well. But I can’t stay here. I simply can’t bear it.’

  Gordon nodded. ‘You have had too much tragedy in your life for one so young. To lose your mother at thirteen, and then two husbands within a year of each other before you are twenty is harsh indeed. Now you are in mourning and must treat yourself with great gentleness.’

  Lucy liked the fact he had called Murad a husband. She felt he had been so in all but law. ‘You know my circumstances, Mr Crawford … Pray, tell me what you think I should do.’

  ‘I can’t do that – it is your decision alone – but if you like, we can explore the options.’

  Lucy thought how unlike her sister he was; Dorothea never missed a chance to dictate what she should do. And then she realised that she was thinking of the Dorothea of old, the one with whom she had spent her teenage years in London. In fact, her sister had offered no advice on her current predicament, withholding her opinions and simply offering comfort. As a result, Lucy had no idea what to do. She yearned for guidance from someone older and wiser. ‘Yes, please. If you will.’