No Place For a Lady

by Gill Paul

  He poured her a glass of mint tea from a teapot that sat on a little mosaic table and topped up his own glass before continuing. ‘So the first option is for you to stay here and bring up the child in Turkey amongst his relatives. Arguably that could be the best thing for him, since he could encounter prejudice in Britain because of his colouring and heritage. In Crimea I noticed an insidious and quite unwarranted hostility to the Turkish troops. But, on the other hand, the very quiet life led by Murad’s family does not suit what I already know of your character and preferences. So this option has certain drawbacks. Do you agree?’

  Lucy spoke passionately: ‘I feel as though I have served seven months in gaol – albeit a very beautiful gaol.’ She looked around at the carefully tended garden and sighed.

  ‘Option two,’ he ticked off on his fingers: ‘you could come home and either live with your father in London, should he decide to stay there, or with Dorothea and me in Edinburgh. Or perhaps you could travel between the two as it suits you. That leaves the question of what to do with the baby.’ He was watching her expression closely. ‘If you bring the child to England, you would not be unique in raising him alone. Many women have lost husbands in this war, and many children are fatherless. Your friend Adelaide, of whom Dorothea told me, is in the same situation.’

  Lucy considered this. ‘But what kind of life must I lead? That of a lonely widow? I can’t imagine that I will ever find love after Murad but at the same time, having known the joys it brings, it is hard to accept I will never experience them again.’ She shocked herself by saying this. How could she think this way while Murad lay trapped in a world of his own? Were their situations reversed, she was sure he would be more devoted. She must be a terrible person.

  Gordon did not appear shocked but answered in a rational tone: ‘It is true there are some gentlemen who would not want to take on a woman with a dark-complexioned child; but equally I am sure there are plenty of good men who would. And you are very beautiful, my dear, so I imagine the chances are fair.’

  Lucy screwed her mouth to one side. She could not get used to thinking of herself as a woman with a child, never mind a dark-complexioned one.

  Gordon paused before continuing: ‘Your third option might be to leave the child here in Smyrna to be raised by Murad’s family, at least during its infancy. I expect Hafza would readily agree, and would welcome you whenever you wished to visit. Meanwhile you would be free to make a new life in England as you wished.’

  Lucy frowned. ‘But what kind of woman would leave behind her own child?’

  Gordon selected his words carefully. ‘Many of the soldiers’ wives who accompanied their husbands to war have not seen their children in two years. Lady Stratford de Redcliffe, the British ambassador’s wife, has four children who were raised in England and she has seen them but once or twice a year during the thirteen years they have been based in Constantinople.’ Lucy’s tears were flowing silently now. Gordon continued: ‘No one who knows your history could condemn you for any decision you make, so long as the child is well cared for.’ He offered a handkerchief and Lucy took it and blew her nose hard.

  ‘I want to go home, but it doesn’t feel right … I don’t know if I could leave my own child. I must think further.’

  ‘Dorothea and I plan to leave next week and you are welcome to accompany us. Before then, I am going to perform an operation on Murad that I hope will relieve the fits he is suffering. With the family governess translating, I explained it to Hafza and she has agreed. Is it all right with you?’

  ‘Of course. If you think it will help. Thank you, Gordon. Thank you so much.’

  After their conversation, Lucy felt a welling of excitement. Perhaps there was a way she could return to London and see her Papa. She missed the weather. She missed having a glass of port wine after dinner. She missed her own clothes. Most of all, she missed conversation and friendship. She didn’t miss the petty rules of London society, but she had been so lonely in Smyrna, and before that in Crimea, that now she yearned for company.

  Thoughts of leaving made her feel more affectionate towards the baby and when the wet nurse brought him to see her later she covered his little face in kisses. He really was rather a dear thing, sucking his fists and gurgling as he squinted up at her. She had agreed with Hafza that they could name him Murad, after his father, but Lucy couldn’t bring herself to think of him as that, so instead she nicknamed him ‘Mumu’. Little Mumu.

  ‘Aren’t you the sweetest little darling?’ she cooed, and he frowned as if trying to work out who she was. ‘It’s Mama. I’m your mama.’ He gazed at her, boss-eyed, then hiccupped, surprising himself and making Lucy laugh out loud.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Dorothea supervised as Hafza’s staff scrubbed a tiled side room on the ground floor and brought in a long wooden table. She cleaned Gordon’s instruments in boiling water and donned her nurse’s uniform to assist him during the operation on Murad. He planned to carry out a trepanation, a procedure in which a hole is cut in the skull in order to release any noxious vapours or fluids that are pressing upon the brain. It was not without risk but had often achieved good results in patients who suffered repeated seizures.

  They had brought some chloroform with them from Crimea and Dorothea administered it, sending Murad to sleep before he was lifted onto the table. She knew some doctors performed trepanation without anaesthesia but they could not risk their patient thrashing around during surgery. As he lay unconscious she looked at his handsome features and tried to imagine the kind of person he had been, this man who had captured her sister’s heart, who had produced the extraordinary calligraphy she had shown them. Lucy described him as quiet and gentle, an opposite type to Charlie; Dorothea wished she had had a chance to meet him in better days.

  The operation began: first Dorothea shaved Murad’s head then Gordon fixed it tightly within a brace and, using a circular tool known as a trephine, began to cut into the top right-hand side of his skull close to the site of the scar caused by his injury. Blood gushed from the wound and Dorothea did her best to mop it so it did not obscure the area in which Gordon was working. He cut round a section of skull about the size of a shilling and removed it with tweezers. Inside, Dorothea saw the bloodied curls and folds of his brain, the mystical organ that scientists believed controlled human thought and personality. Some whitish liquid oozed out, as Gordon had predicted. If only this operation could jolt Murad’s brain back to sentience and reason. She knew her husband had promised no such thing but couldn’t help but hope.

  Gordon cauterised the wound to stop the bleeding and Dorothea cleaned the blood from Murad’s face and neck. The plan was to keep this aperture open so any noxious fluids or vapours could be released and the edges would need careful tending till they healed. The orderly carried Murad back to his bed and Dorothea sat by his bedside checking his pulse as he began to come round. When he retched, sickness dribbled down his chin and she had to clear it from his mouth and airway lest he should choke. She showed the orderly how to do it, and also got the governess to translate her instructions on cleaning the wound every day and giving a dose of the medicine Gordon had prescribed. While she was talking, she glanced around to find Murad’s eyes had opened and he was gazing directly at her. He appeared able to focus again; that was an encouraging sign. When Gordon came in to check on the patient, he professed himself pleased.

  Over the next two days, Dorothea kept a careful watch on Murad’s progress and was glad to note that he did not have a single seizure. His vital signs were good, and to her eyes he seemed vaguely aware of what was happening in the room.

  ‘Is it possible that he still has his intelligence of old but has no way of expressing himself since his physical body no longer functions?’ Dorothea asked Gordon. ‘Would that not be the cruellest of fates?’ At least with her father, he seemed to have no knowledge of his decline; he did not remember that once he had been an astute business owner.

  ‘Let me show you something,’
Gordon said. He vanished for a minute and came back with a small glass containing some lemon juice. ‘You know that while I have been here I have been testing Murad and experimenting in many different ways to ascertain his capabilities and sentience. What you are about to see is but one of the measures I have tried.’

  He pulled up a chair alongside the bed and offered Murad a sip of the lemon juice. Murad’s lips opened and he drank a mouthful then shuddered and grimaced at the bitter taste. ‘You see that? He doesn’t like it.’

  Dorothea nodded.

  Gordon offered Murad another sip from the glass, and once again his mouth opened, he took a drink then grimaced. Gordon paused to let Dorothea consider the conclusion. ‘He had no memory that just seconds before he had not liked that taste. Babies of a few months old have better memories. His reactions are all physical instincts. The corners of his mouth often curve upwards, but I wouldn’t call it a smile. He doesn’t differentiate between his reactions to his mother and to me, a relative stranger. He shudders and struggles when something does not feel nice, but does not shrink from its repetition. Occasionally he makes sounds but I suspect they are caused by wind or lying in an awkward position rather than being within his control. All my tests have proved – to my mind conclusively – that there is no intelligence there. His memories and everything that made him the man he was are gone, and all that remains is the shell he inhabited.’

  He passed Dorothea his handkerchief to stem the tears that were leaking from her eyes, then put his arm around her. ‘I’m sorry to be so frank but I know you can take the truth.’

  ‘I’m glad you told me. I would have hated to think he was somehow trapped, knowing his fate and unable to affect it. But now I see that was never the case.’ She stroked Murad’s head, where the hair was already beginning to grow back, before whispering: ‘It was such a cruel war.’

  Dorothea went up to Lucy’s room to report on Murad’s progress. She found her sister curled on top of her bed with the baby asleep beside her, her finger gripped in his tiny fist. Lucy listened without responding as Dorothea told her that Murad seemed slightly improved.

  ‘Would you like to see him?’ Dorothea asked. ‘He is ready for visitors.’

  ‘I can’t. I can’t bear to see his tongue lolling out of his mouth and eyes rolling like a lunatic, and I don’t think he would want me to see him like that.’

  ‘I think you will find him a little better. He no longer rolls his eyes in that distressing way … But this is not the only matter troubling you, is it? Gordon told me of your talk in the garden and I wondered if you have made a decision about whether to sail with us next week?’

  Lucy shook her head. ‘I would love to come. I want nothing more than to return to London. But how can I leave my son when I understand what it is to be motherless? How can I inflict that pain on a child? I know you will say it is different because I was thirteen when I lost my mother and Mumu does not even know me yet. But no one loves a child as much as its mother. Already I can feel that. And he should not grow up without the security of that all-encompassing, immutable love, the kind of love that Mama always had for us.’

  Dorothea pulled a chair to Lucy’s bedside and sat down. ‘If you want to come home and you do not want to be separated from your child, then you must bring him with you.’

  ‘But how will I look after him?’ Lucy sat up, her voice rising. ‘I have only recently learned how to look after myself. I know nothing of babies.’

  Dorothea took her hand and smiled. ‘Neither do I, but perhaps we can learn together.’

  Lucy blinked. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I must share with you some news that I have not yet told Mr Crawford. I beg you to keep it to yourself for now but … I believe I am with child.’ She grinned. It was the first time she had said the words out loud and she couldn’t repress her exhilaration.

  ‘Oh my!’ Lucy grabbed her and hugged her tightly. ‘Oh, that is wonderful news! Dorothea, I am overjoyed for you.’

  ‘If you bring Mumu to Edinburgh and live with us, our children can grow up together, like siblings. We will hire a nurse for them and in time a governess, and you can fill your days however you wish.’

  ‘But what would Mr Crawford say to this plan?’

  ‘Before I even agreed to marry him, he offered to have you and Papa live with us. I know he would be delighted to welcome you and your son.’

  Lucy clapped her hands in glee, then stopped. ‘And Hafza? How can I take her grandson away?’

  ‘You will be able to visit regularly now that steamships cross the Mediterranean. She can still be a part of Mumu’s life. And his father can see him as well. Do go and visit him, Lucy. I think you will find him at peace.’

  *

  Lucy’s last dinner with Hafza and her daughters was a feast of colourful dishes. There was chicken cooked with apricot and almonds; whole fishes baked in salt; bright vegetable mixtures and, for dessert, sweet pastries and ripe fruits. They gave Lucy a gift of a new gown in the Eastern style, in silk the exact shade of a deep pink flower she admired in the garden. For the baby, there were soft blankets and a tiny suit with trousers and tunic in apple-green silk, decorated with embroidered scrollwork. And for Dorothea and Gordon they had some fragrant oils stored in tiny painted glass bottles within a leather travelling kit. Lucy kissed each girl in turn and hugged Hafza, the woman who had become like a mother to her.

  ‘I will return next winter,’ she promised. ‘You will see Mumu again before he is a year old.’

  Hafza gazed at the child, who lay sleeping in his cradle in the corner of the room, and said something in Turkish. Safiye translated: ‘She says he is the best gift she has ever received, and that you will always have a home here.’

  Lucy dreaded saying goodbye to Murad but when she forced herself to enter his chamber she got a surprise. The shaved head startled her – she hadn’t known his beautiful hair must be cut – but his eyes were open and his lips curled into a little smile as she walked in, as if he was pleased to see her.

  ‘My darling,’ she explained, holding his hands in hers, trying not to look at the hole in his skull. ‘I’m going home for a while with our son but I will return soon. Don’t forget me while I am gone. I have loved you so very much. Seni canımdan çok seviyorum.’

  His expression was blank but he was regarding her calmly. She kissed him on each cheek then on his curled fingers and said, ‘God bless you, my sweet man’, before standing to leave the room. Outside the door she paused to compose herself. She heard the orderly bringing him some drink and then she heard Murad’s voice saying ‘Oosh’, quite distinctly, as if he were calling her name.

  On the 1st June, the Espinola stopped in Constantinople after picking up some returning British troops in Sevastopol. Gordon, Dorothea and Lucy boarded at a wharf to the south of the European side of the city, along with Mumu and the Turkish wet nurse, who would stay with them to feed the baby until Lucy’s return to Smyrna. Gordon had paid for a luxurious suite of cabins where they would have every possible comfort. Lucy had fretted about the journey being hazardous for such a young baby, but Gordon reassured her that Mumu was a sturdy boy of robust good health, and that he and Dorothea were on hand should they be needed.

  As the ship struck out into the Sea of Marmara, they stood on deck to watch the minarets of the city getting gradually fainter, until they were ghostly black fingers pointing to the dusky pink sky. Someone shouted, ‘Look over there!’ and they turned to see a couple of dolphins playing in the water, rolling and gliding in their wake.

  ‘Look, Mumu. Look at the pretty fish,’ Lucy said, stroking her son’s cheek.

  Dorothea was on the point of correcting her, telling her that they were dolphins, when she stopped herself. She caught eyes with Gordon and shared a smile.

  Dorothea loved the fact they could tell each other’s meaning from a single glance. Every day it seemed they grew closer. Suddenly, standing there in the fading light, she felt full to the brim with love. There was t
he fierce love she felt for her sister, the warm glow of love she felt for Gordon, deepening by the day, the protective love she felt for her poor befuddled father, and the maternal urge she already felt towards the child growing silently within her. The feelings she’d had for some of her patients was love, just as it was for the little dark-complexioned nephew she hoped soon to introduce to her own child.

  She expected Gordon to guess her condition any time now. Perhaps he had already, because when they descended the stairs to their cabin he gripped her arm so tightly that she knew, no matter what happened in the future, he would never let her fall.

  Historical Note

  The Crimean War

  One of the immediate triggers for the Crimean War has a certain resonance in the 21st century: an argument over which religious faction should have priority access to Jerusalem’s holy sites during festivals. The religions were different – Russia supported Orthodox rights against those of the Catholics, who were backed by France – but the city was a flashpoint 160 years ago, as it is now.

  The bigger picture was about the political repercussions as the vast, hugely over-extended Ottoman Empire crumbled. At its height at the end of the 17th century, it encompassed the modern-day countries of the Balkans, from Greece to Hungary, the Caucasus region from the Black Sea to the Caspian Sea, huge swathes of the Middle East, including much of Iraq, Egypt and Saudi Arabia as far south as Somalia, and the North African coast as far west as Morocco. One by one, areas started breaking away, as Greece did after a rebellion in the 1820s, and Russian Tsar Nicholas I hoped to position himself as a ‘protector’ of the Balkans and of Orthodox Christians throughout the Ottoman Empire. Britain wasn’t at all keen on this, suspicious of his motives and anxious to protect her own naval supremacy (and her trade route to India), and France was similarly wary.