by May Woodward
‘Dickon – your friend Lord Brandon Fanshawe has teased me since I was in the schoolroom. So, I’m big enough now to pay back some of what I feel I owe.’
‘You’re not so big that I cannot still take you over my knee and give you a hiding.’
‘You were never man enough to do that, Dickon, even when I was naughty enough to deserve it.’
‘Listen to me, Clemmie Somerlee! Apart from Fanny being my dearest friend in the world, he’s a guest under Eardingstowe’s roof! He deserves your respect and courtesy for that alone.’
‘Dickon, I was just teasing! Giving as good as I’ve got. If your friend is too sensitive to appreciate that, then I’m sorry.’
‘You’re spoilt rotten, missy, you know that?’ Richard paced aside. He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I always thought Mater and Pater indulged you, second favourite only after their rosy Aubrey. By the time they passed on, it was too late for me to correct their wrongdoing.’
Clemence pulled her brush through her loose hair. How did Robyn do it every night without hurting? Ah, it pained. Or was she yanking in anger?
‘I know why you’re really upset, Dickon.’ She tugged at a stubborn ghost of a ringlet. ‘You haven’t forgiven me for not marrying Fanny, have you?’
‘That’s your loss, foolish girl!’ Richard snapped.
‘Has it occurred to you that I didn’t marry Lord Brandon Fanshawe because I don’t love him, but I do love Captain Swynton?’
‘It occurs to me that you love defying me,’ he said.
To Clemence it felt like a slap.
‘How dare you!’ She flung down the brush and swung to face him. ‘James is wonderful, truly lovely. Kind, gentle, adores me, thinks more highly of me than do you, Dickon, says he’d go to war to defend me. And I think he’s the darlingest man in the world!’
Richard raised his hands in mock defence.
‘I’m not gainsaying you, Clemence.’
‘Oh, I think you are, brother dear! I didn’t marry the man of your choice and you’re angry.’
‘Who would blame me? Indulged you, you wayward missy, that’s what I did. Should have played the martinet of fairy tales – locked you in your room and forced you to wed Fanny. Soft, that’s what I am. Or rather…’ A glint came into Richard’s eye as he peered around at her. ‘Locked you out of your room.’
Now that did hurt. Clemence turned to the mirror, hunching her shoulders so that he could not see her pained expression.
‘Now, I’m not a cruel man, Clemmie, but I know the worst punishment I could inflict on you – and, by God, right now you merit it.’ He stood behind her, hands either side of her elbows as they rested on the dressing-table top, peering over her shoulder at her reflection in the glass. ‘That mean governess was right after all, as I recall. Locking you out of the house was the kick up your dainty rear you needed. They heard your screams down at Kilve Beach, you know.’
‘You wouldn’t do that…would you?’ Clemence gripped the chair back.
‘Believe me, I thought about it. But, no,’ he said. ‘What I might have done has no bearing now. You’re engaged to that booby, and unless the Czar obliges me by dispatching him to the happy hunting ground, I’m stuck with him.’
He sank into the dressing-room chair, head in hands.
‘Clemence, forgive me, that was a cruel thing to say. And I just said I’m not a cruel man!’
‘You’re the first Somerlee in five hundred years who is not, then,’ said Clemence.
He relaxed into a weak smile. Clemence rose and stepped to his side. She laid a hand on his shoulder.
‘I’m sorry if you consider I was uncivil, Dickon. I was truly only teasing. But I will apologise to Fanny if you wish.’
He peered out from between the fingers which were stretched across his face.
‘You’re not as sorry as I am for what I just said to you. It’s unforgivable.’
‘Dickon, I understand. I goaded you. I was at fault.’ She perched upon the wing of the chair, and then kissed the top of his head. ‘I’m worried, Dickon, if you want the truth. The man I love is going off to war! Shall I be a widow before I’m even a bride?’
She took his hand in hers. He was almost twice her weight, twelve years older, and had been father and protector to her and her younger siblings since their parents’ deaths. And yet he seemed so fragile right then, and watery-eyed after his paroxysm.
‘And I’m worried for you, too…’ She laid an arm around his shoulders and hugged him. She thought of the girl Richard seemed set on marrying. In her mind she saw Amathia, slapping the beggar-woman. The waif could hide behind her pillar. Where would a man wed to Amathia take refuge?
Five months since the Czar’s host had annihilated the Turkish navy in Sinope, Britain’s fighting youth set off.
Soon a war fleet was growling along the coastline of the Crimea – a balmy, Black Sea peninsula where the imperial court and Russia’s wealthy came for pleasure. Before the summer of 1854 was out, a tranquil waterway called the River Alma would become a Styx bearing away the dead.
THREE
It looked like winking fireflies were dappling the ruddy twilight.
The flamelets and smoky spires spread over the plateau as far as the shadowy peaks on the skyline. They were the lights of bivouac fires which the troopers had lit close to each cluster of tents.
This vast army which was camped in the Crimean uplands came from three allied nations. Over to the west were gathered the French. The girl made out their faraway Tricoleurs flapping in the breeze. In the other direction, she could see the Turks at sundown prayer. It was the eerie sound of their muezzin which had brought her over to take a look.
Clemence stood alone, outside the gate of the farmhouse where her party was staying. From the rising, sandy ground you could overlook much of the encampment. Five infantrymen were gathered around the nearest cooking cauldron down to her left. One skinny, wiry fellow was playing a jig on a fiddle.
She breathed in the scents of juniper, cypress and strawberry tree. From the mountains came the cry of wolves. Wheels creaked, a mule’s hooves thudded, and men’s voices chattered as a wagon grumbled up the mud track from the village. She could hear Aunt Lizzy and the others laughing over their picnic on the farther side of the dunes. Clemence’s fiancé James’s loud chortle.
Her attention was drawn to the camp. A horseman was thudding a path in her direction. A scarlet cloak was billowing around his shoulders.
‘Clemmie…’ she heard Lizzy call.
‘One moment, Aunt. There’s a rider coming. I’ll speak to him…’
Clemence drew her shawl tighter around her arms. It was now mid-October and the evening air was turning chilly. She had heard that season followed season within only a few days on this exposed peninsula. Only a few days ago it had still sweltered, and today had been warm until now.
The rider halted his snorting horse beside her. The darkling sun was behind him and made his features dusky. But she recognised one of the Field Marshal’s staff officers. The man touched the brow of his forage cap by way of greeting.
‘Miss Somerlee! Enjoying the evening air, are ye now?’
‘Good evening, Captain Nolan. Yes, and the view of the bay! Inspiring, isn’t it?’
From the plateau, the land sloped steeply down to the sea five hundred feet below. Down there on the shore, clusters of pinprick lights marked the little harbour of Balaclava. Further along the coast glowed the golden domes of the great port of Sebastopol’s Orthodox churches and cathedral. The war fleet was formed up in a semicircle facing the city’s waterfront. At nightfall, the ships looked like black boar poised to pounce.
‘But don’t let me keep you,’ Clemence quickly told the officer. ‘I am sure you must have better to do.’
‘As a matter of fact, no, I don’t.’ Captain Louis Edward Nolan leaned down towards he
r with a creak of leather saddle. Clemence could make out his peering, grey-blue eyes. ‘No doubt Lord Raglan will find something for me to do. Tucking the men up in bed perhaps.’
‘We, my aunt and I that is, have lately been on Lord Fanshawe’s yacht in Sebastopol harbour,’ Clemence said in high-pitched discomfort. It wasn’t for her to say, of course. But it didn’t seem right somehow for him to be criticising the Field Marshal to a civilian. But her brother Aubrey did it. So did her fiancé Captain Swynton… ‘Lord F is a dandy fop of whom I am sure you disapprove, Captain Nolan. We were watching the naval engagement. It was, em… most thrilling.’
‘Well, I’m sure glad someone’s impressed!’
Clemence regarded the Irishman.
‘You sound disgruntled, Captain.’
‘Begging your pardon, Miss Somerlee, but you did not have the pleasure of four months kicking about in Varna while the Allied high command squabbled over where to head next. We lost more men to cholera than Wellington lost to Boney’s bullets.
‘Then we hear that Czar Nicholas has aborted his invasion of Turkey’s territories – which was the whole reason for the expedition in the first place! So, what do we do,’ Nolan said, ‘play cribbage with the French and go home? No. Came to duff the Russkies up, we did. Let’s give ‘em a kick up the arse while we’re here, for jolly, what?’
‘I’m sorry, Captain, I don’t understand.’
Nolan grinned.
‘The French are as keen to geld Nicky as we are. So, we thought – let’s snatch that charming port Sebastopol! Nicky’s gateway to Turkey and mastery of the Black Sea. And ‘tis the will of the people, is it not, who cheered us all off? Never mind that the people don’t know their arses from their elbows.’
Clemence didn’t understand some of his words, but she got the gist.
‘So, we can all go home when Sebastopol is captured?’
‘Tis the idea… we think! But to tell you truth, Miss Somerlee, I’m not sure anything’s decided. Now everyone’s seeing action but the cavalry! The Russians who survived the battle of the River Alma fled for Sebastopol. Wouldn’t it have made sense for the cavalry to go after them? Put an end to this? If you’re in stalemate… it’s my belief that you can win a war with a do-or-die cavalry charge.’
‘Oh! Gosh…’ said Clemence.
‘What if it is a charge head first into the darkness and unknown? At least we’re free… Do you know old Raglan keeps forgetting we’re fighting the Russkies not the Frenchies? I heard him say’ – Nolan assumed a plummy accent – ‘“Plenty of time to engage the Frenchies when we reach more apposite ground. Couldn’t risk the cavalry on terrain such as this, what?” And that pompous General Airey reaches over and says: “The Russians, My Lord! The Frenchies are on our side this time.” By Boney! Wouldn’t I like to be there when he and General Saint-Arnaud get together to discuss allied strategy! I’ll bet he drops a clanger or two.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard a few gaffes from Lord Raglan, too.’ Clemence grimaced. ‘We saw the bombardment from the yacht, Captain,’ she continued. ‘Quite a rude awakening! My betrothed Captain Swynton and I had dined aboard HMS Queen as guests of the captain. We met the mascot: a delightful tortoise named Timmy.’ Her faint smile faded. ‘Well… two mornings later we saw parts of the harbour on fire… could hear the screams from within the city… We felt it was time to leave.
‘Just now,’ she went on, her gaze focussing on the distant mountain peaks, ‘I was listening to that strange rattling sound the wind makes up here and thinking of winter. What hardships will the troops have to face, and what horrors the men in Sebastopol?’ She remembered she was talking to a seasoned campaigner who had drunk from Afghan mountain streams and fought through Indian monsoons, and so she shut up.
Nolan’s eyes flicked over her. She recognised in his look the restlessness of a fanatic.
‘How long will you and the countess be staying?’
‘Long enough to be useful, I trust. I’m sure there’s something I could do for the troops.’
Nolan’s brow shot up.
‘Well, there must be some way we could help,’ said Clemence. ‘Even if it was just letter-writing for those troopers who do not have reading and penmanship.’
‘Just about most of them, then!’ said Nolan. ‘You know, I met a fellow this morning with a black sock over his face. He said it was a hood he’d invented to protect against the hilltop wind. So enthusiastic he was! Said he’d call his little invention a “balaclava.” Then he fell over the tent-rope, and I told him putting in two eye holes might improve it somewhat. Well, I must be going.’ Nolan turned his mount with impressive grace. Clemence had heard someone say he was supposed to be the best horseman in the army. ‘Oh, Miss Somerlee—’ he spoke over his shoulder. ‘We’ve heard Prince Menshikov’ll be here by dawn. I’d not be getting comfortable if I were you.’
She watched as he went, his horse’s hooves kicking up sand.
Captain Swynton came to find her.
‘Dashed unpleasant fellow, that – Nolan,’ her fiancé said, looking after the departing rider. ‘Thinks he should be in command of the whole bally army. Thinks Raglan couldn’t command a tea-party. Although,’ privately in her ear, ‘suppose he has a point there! But, really, I ask you! Who would entrust the fate of Britain’s empire to a bog-dwelling Irishman?’
‘Well!’ said Clemence. ‘Wellington didn’t look as if he’d ever seen a bog let alone lived in one.’
‘No, that’s true. Can’t think why they didn’t appoint Wellington to lead the army on this campaign.’
‘It might have something to do with the fact that he died two years ago.’
Captain Swynton rocked with laughter.
‘So he did. Ah, how we miss that old ogre! He’d have roared the Russian bear back on the Siberian wind.’
Clemence cast James a quick glance. She thought he was looking better fed than ever. A sudden vision she had of James unhorsed, and puffing an escape with a face like a beetroot oozing juice, evil-eyed Cossacks in easily-gaining pursuit.
And then the thought of Brandon Fanshawe crept behind her shut eyes. His lips curling into a smile. Coppery-gold hair glowing in candlelight. Laughing at her mediocre piano-playing. Perched on the gunwale of the Oriflamme, peering at Sebastopol across the bay through opera-glasses, the nankeen of his peg-tops stretched taught.
‘Come along, James – you’re missing your food. That won’t do.’ She took his arm and went over the brow at a fast pace.
Brandon Fanshawe was sitting there beneath the branches of a cypress tree, one leg stretched out before him. With him were Aunt Lizzy and Clemence’s brother Cornet Aubrey Somerlee.
The group had a picnic spread on the ground, supper laid out on a snowy-white cloth. Lysithea perched on a faldstool beneath a parasol. Clemence settled in the sandy turf between her and Aubrey. Down beside Brandon flopped James.
‘Who was that you were talking to?’ said Aubrey Somerlee as he went on picking away at the crust of a small veal pie.
‘That staff officer of Lord Raglan’s, Captain Nolan,’ said Clemence.
‘Oh, him… trouble, he is,’ Aubrey replied.
‘Looks like the Russians are coming according to what Captain Nolan has just told Miss Somerlee,’ James pointed out.
‘Aye, well, we’ve heard that before too,’ said Aubrey. ‘I’ll believe it when it happens.’
‘Exactement, my dear Aubs,’ said James. ‘It shan’t spoil our fine dinner, what? Bring us more of those delicious Kherson watermelons we had last night, Wade, there’s a good fellow,’ he called to his manservant.
Aubrey gave Clemence a quick smile over the pie. He was dark in colouring, unlike the other Somerlee siblings who were fair, and devilish handsome.
There were only two years in age between him and Clemence. She’d always felt closer to him than to any of the rest. To a litt
le girl, Dickon and Ivo had seemed elderly and aloof; she had nothing in common with her sister Bella; and the younger ones were just babies; so, it had always been Clemmie and Aubrey, Aubrey and Clemmie.
‘Well, you came a good deal more prepared than the high command, Captain Swynton,’ said Brandon Fanshawe, munching away. ‘Did you see the landing at Calamita Bay? Frenetic! Soldiers didn’t know where they were supposed to be going. Nor did the horses. Or, from what I saw of him, Field Marshal the Lord Raglan! I came prepared, all right,’ he went on. ‘Wrote ahead and arranged for a Crim-Tartar horse-coper to have some mounts waiting for me.’
‘I note you are not in regimentals yourself, Lord Fanshawe – leaving others to do the fighting while you look smugly on!’ Clemence said.
He tipped his hat to her with that infuriating smile.
Clemence grabbed a drinking vessel and poured herself wine, slopping a drop or two. And to think she’d have to endure his odious presence for as long as this stupid war lasted. The Russians must wonder what stink was this which the English had brought – ha!
‘Not a bad spread, considering!’ said James. ‘What a pity we cannot get French chefs out here.’
‘I agree, Captain. I’ve always found the French best at everything,’ said Lysithea.
‘Particularly when they’re led by a Corsican, eh, Countess?’
‘Do try a garlic tomato, Captain,’ Lysithea said without a blink at this nudge on her shady past, handing James the plate.
‘Quel fine lamb and caper sauce, this, by the way,’ said Aubrey. ‘I was thinking of dining down in Balaclava with the chaps from the mess. Glad I accepted your invitation instead, James.’
‘I’m sure the ladies of Balaclava are not, Aubrey,’ said the countess.
‘Oh, you do Aubrey an injustice, Aunt!’ said Clemence. ‘I witnessed his and Dora’s tender leave-taking in Portsmouth. I had to wipe my eye! I feel sure he’ll be true to her.’