Blossom of War

by May Woodward

  ‘Oh! My Lady! Have you hurt yourself?’

  ‘Just get on with my hair, Vickery! You’re late as it is. And I’m due at Lord Tewksbury’s by six!’

  Yes, marry Dickon, even if he was only a baronet, why not? And let Brandon see what he had rejected flaunted in his face. Aye, for this could she endure having to rusticate in the wilds of Somerset.

  What of Richard’s sister, though, who was going to get everything one day? Well, Aunt Lizzy’s inheritance, anyway. What would Clemence do with Lysithea’s fortune? Build a shelter for orphaned rabbits?

  Amathia sent the brooch scuttling across the dressing-table surface.

  She’d once overheard a snippet of gossip in a drawing-room. Clemmie Somerlee is not quite right in the head…

  Where was the carriage? Drat that coachman. Amathia stalked the lawn of Kingsmede, her family home, while she waited for her transport.

  She gazed beyond the boundary of the park. The mist was thick today, and you could barely make out the Sussex downs. Just round, darker humps against the greyness. Over that way lay Woodmancote, seat of the Fanshawes for generations.

  Kingsmede, on the other hand, was so new one of the wings hadn’t been finished. Never would be, probably. Amathia cast a critical eye over the house. She watched a vixen slinking from the unfinished section where it must have made its nest.

  All those slaves her grandfather had traded for what – this red-brick, turreted monstrosity of a domicile she was ashamed of? And what little of his fortune was left she could picture trickling like sand through the fingers of her only brother. The present duke, Amathia’s father, had been eking out a comfortable lifestyle by borrowing against his father’s goodly name.

  Her stomach rumbled. She wouldn’t be eating until eight. And then it would be mouse-sized portions at a society dinner-party. She glanced towards the service wing. Might she pilfer something from the kitchens?

  Remembering something made her smile. Feeling peckish one night, she had snuck to the pantry, and availed herself of a veal pie and blancmange. When she’d heard that some wretched scullery maid had taken the blame when the theft was discovered, and lost her situation without a character, naturally that blancmange had not tasted so good after all.

  But Amathia had got over it and had come to see the funny side.

  ‘What mischief are you plotting, Mathy? I know that look on your face.’

  Amathia’s eyes snapped up to the terrace. She had not observed her brother sneaking up or heard his footsteps. He stood at the head of the steps, leaning upon his cane, right leg crossed over the other.

  ‘If you must know, Philo, I was scheming to marry you to a rich heiress.’

  ‘Oh, tol-lol, sissy dear. What’ll you do? Lock the poor minx in a tower and force her?’

  Maybe it would come to that, and all. Amathia eyed him. Lord Philoctetes Dunkerley, as he was styled until he ascended into the rarefied air of dukedom, was twenty years old. Two months returned from his Grand Tour, he was regarded by the mamas with marriageable daughters as one of the catches of the season. Some girls might find him personable she supposed. What a shame Clemmie Somerlee was already promised to that nonentity of a hussar.

  At last, she saw the coach entering the forecourt from the mews.

  ‘If you’re not coming to Lord Tewksbury’s’, Philo,’ she said as she swept past him up the steps to the terrace, ‘go back indoors, dearest one. The damp air isn’t good for your delicate chest.’

  ‘Oh, ha! ha!’ sneered the young lord.

  The horse was mercifully dead. Wide-open brown eyes stared into equine Heaven.

  Clemence clasped a hand to her mouth at sight of the injuries. A sudden squall of wind blew back the beast’s black forelock and showered her face with dust.

  What had brought Clemence down to this broken place? Didn’t remember descending the path… Brandon had been calling her back, hadn’t he? Oh, Heaven… what am I doing… where am I going… is this a dream? Aubrey, where are you…

  Both armies had by now withdrawn from the churned valley floor, of that much she was confident. But what else would she find?

  Mounds of the crumpled were scattered everywhere – beasts and men.

  One man lay with his leg trapped beneath a dead charger. Something yellowish was oozing from a gash in the soldier’s abdominal regions, all over his blue and gold coatee. The tasselled end of his scarlet sash was fluttering in the wind.

  Another’s head had split like a pumpkin which had dropped onto the floor and smashed, spilling out its juice and goodness. A look of surprise was lighting the man’s eyes as he gazed open-mouthed into the clouds.

  Clemence knelt in the turf beside the fallen horse. She stroked his nose.

  ‘I hope you’re running on the sands of Paradise,’ she whispered. These were the true victims of war – the horses. Troopers… well, what had they understood of territorial expansionism in the Black Sea region? They were fighting in the army because it was preferable to starving in the slums whence they came. But still, humans had a choice. Horses did not.

  Aubrey, oh, dear God, where are you?

  Dear Father in Heaven. All I’m thinking of is Aubrey, Aubrey! My brother is not the only one in need. See the suffering all around.

  She unfastened the dead cavalry mount’s saddle and tugged off the shabraque from beneath. The saddlecloth was still damp with beast-blood. Embroidered on one corner was the insignia of the Seventeenth Lancers.

  ‘I’m sorry, beauty.’ She stroked the donor again. ‘This might save a life.’

  Close by, she stumbled upon a dragoon who was yet alive. The sound of his groaning had led her to him.

  She gasped as she glimpsed his injuries close to. That hole which exposed part of his skull must have been from grape or shrapnel shot out of a shell. His brass helmet was half-dislodged to show it. The black horsehair plume was saturated with his blood.

  But there was a bleeding gash in his chest, too. If she could bind his wounds to staunch the haemorrhage… he might survive until he reached the field hospital.

  She stepped softly over to the young soldier. He screeched.

  ‘Be easy… sir!’ She hadn’t a clue what rank he was. Something like twenty-five years old, she thought.

  Clemence could feel her heartbeat speeding up. Her knees seemed unstable. But she managed to reach out a hand to touch his face.

  ‘Sorry if I startled you…’ She tried to smile. ‘I’m making some bandages. Keep still.’

  She tore the saddle-blanket into strips. Three times she fumbled. Almost dropped it from fingers she could not keep from trembling. How qualified was she to do something like this? Once, under Nanny’s direction, she had bandaged the hand of the boot-boy when he had cut himself!

  Those jagged sighs the injured dragoon was letting out were not just an outlet for pain; her man was trying to speak.

  ‘Who are you, miss?’ She could just make out the croaky words.

  ‘My name’s Clemence Somerlee. My betrothed is out here somewhere…’

  ‘Sorry I shrieked, miss, when you appeared.’ A spurt of blood gurgled from his lips. He blew a bubble out of it. ‘It’s just… I thought you were… well… an angel…’

  ‘Hush! I’m going to bandage your chest.’

  He remained silent as she got to work. Those must be the life-threatening injuries tended now. How wobbly were the legs beneath her as she rose. She wiped her brow with a smeary hand.

  Clemence stepped back to look over the whole valley. The sun was brighter and hotter now, but the wind no less strong. Her ringlets blew across her vision. What hysteria could have led her to venture down here? Lizzy… where was her aunt?

  The contentious earthworks on the summit of the Causeway could not be seen from the battlefield; far away where the river shone, the Russians must be caring for their own wounded; but b
etween them all lay a valley of death strewn with men and horses. Here – a disembodied head with a rictus death-grin. There – half an arm, from the same sundered man she supposed, with the white-gloved hand clutching a sword. Here – a lifeless Cornet Maynard who had been a recent dinner guest. A bayonet was rammed into the sod, the blue and white tassel of the Eleventh Hussars flapping from the hilt.

  ‘Miss Somerlee!’

  She looked to see who called her. That dragoon staggering towards her, arm around the shoulder of a bewildered, injured Cossack – she knew him. A friend of her brother’s.

  ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’

  ‘Major Pewsy-Hart.’ The man was bandaged across the skull, his face pink, shiny and damp, but seemingly able-bodied. ‘I was trying to find my brother, and Captain Swynton. Then I stumbled across this poor man. I thought I could help,’ she said. She clasped and wrung her hands. ‘Major, have you seen James, or Aubrey, or heard of them?’

  ‘Miss Somerlee, we all have our concerns right now! Mine is this chappie,’ he nodded to the semiconscious Russian in his charge. ‘He’s a prisoner but bleeding badly. I’m seeking a surgeon. I saw you bandage that other chap …’ He eyed her hopefully.

  ‘Of course, Major.’ Oh God, where will I find the courage to do this? But don’t show you’re afraid. Don’t let him see how much you’re shaking. ‘Lay the poor man flat. Find something to use as a bandage. A dead man’s sash perhaps. Or a shabraque. That’s what I used for the other fellow. I need to get him to a surgeon also.’

  She shut her eyes and said a quick prayer before she could bring herself to peep beneath the Cossack’s furs. From the longish shape of the chest lesion, she guessed he’d been struck by a bayonet, and it was the major source of blood loss. Might have been worse…

  ‘Do you know any Russian, Major?’ Clemence looked up at him. ‘Me neither.’ When the Cossack opened frightened eyes, she smiled and stroked his brow.

  ‘Major?’ she asked as she tore the sash he had brought her. ‘Is this a silly question? But who won here today?’

  Pewsy-Hart turned his eyes skywards and laughed.

  ‘Well, Miss Somerlee, we stormed the Don Cossack battery and took many of their guns. Is that not a victory?’

  ‘I thought you’d all been shot to ribbons!’

  ‘Well, one thing about cannon-fire, Miss Somerlee, is that is doesn’t have a brain! You can dodge it, if you’ve the sense to see what direction it’s being fired in. Myself and the chap who was with me – well, we got in close to one of the howitzers, and bunged it up so it couldn’t fire anymore.’ He gave a low whistle. ‘Must have saved a few lives doing that.’

  ‘You know the charge was a mistake, Major? I was nearby when Lord Raglan gave the order to Nolan. You were only meant to stop the Russians taking the guns from the fortresses on the Causeway! Not charge their entire army! They’ve cut the Light Brigade to pieces.’

  Pewsy-Hart hung his head.

  ‘Miss Somerlee, we have been to Hell and back. And no-one will take this victory from us.’ He gazed into the sky. ‘Cannon-fire everywhere, all around you… slant-eyed faces… slicing swords… bayonets with the sunlight flashing from the steel of the blades… the waters of the Styx flowing in your veins… Ah, I declare they’ll be singing of this day a hundred years from now.’

  The thud of many galloping hooves was coming near. Clemence and the man turned to look. Seven loose horses raced towards them over the brow. A mixture of hussar and dragoon shabraques… and one with Russian colours. They had gone native – running together as a primeval herd.

  Pewsy-Hart gave chase and caught one by the trailing reins. He brought it under control. He helped the first injured man Clemence had tended into the saddle, then mounted behind him.

  ‘I’ll take this one to the sawbones, then return,’ he called over his shoulder as he set off.

  By the time he came back, she had bound the wound of the prisoner. Pewsy-Hart took him too.

  ‘I’ll have to leave you to make your own way, Miss Somerlee. On the other side of the pass you’ll find a canvas awning which they’re using as an improvised first aid point.’ He pointed in the direction of the south valley. ‘They’re treating the injured there before dispatching them on to the field hospitals. Sorry I’m not being a gentleman,’ he added with a sour grin, ‘but I cannot waste time with this fellow.’

  Clemence was left to pick a path through the gruesome battlefield.

  She saw the surgeon’s tent close by the spot in the ruined vines where the Heavy Brigade had fought. How gentle, now, sounded the ditch-water. A broken rifle, caught in the rocks, disrupted the flow. A dusty forage cap crowned the bush beside the small bridge. In the distance, a firearm could be heard still discharging – someone emptying his gun-carriage. Somewhere, too, the Lord’s Prayer was being chanted.

  Five men who had perished in an explosion – from the location, most probably the one which had blown up the arsenal and given Lord Fanshawe and Mr Mapplewell such a thrill – spread out from a central point like petals from the corona of a flower. There had not been time for horror to strike their features: each was frozen in his final deed – one man clutching his rifle in the act of reloading.

  ‘Good Lord! Is that you, Miss Somerlee?’

  The voice startled her. She had not heeded the approaching hoof beats.

  A mounted figure sat there. The gold aglets on the Field Marshal’s shoulders glinted in the sunshine. Two staff officers accompanied him.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here, child?’ Lord Raglan said.

  What am I doing here? That’s a good question. Raglan seems more astonished than cross, though.

  ‘I apologise if I shouldn’t be here. I just… just wondered if there was something I could do to assist… I found a man alive. Brought him here. Needs help…’

  ‘Well, your concern does you credit.’ Raglan’s tone softened. ‘This is the first aid tent. If you tell one of the orderlies, they’ll treat him. But then you must return to your quarters, child. This really isn’t any place for you, my dear.’ He was about to turn his horse and ride away.

  ‘What were our losses, My Lord?’ she asked.

  ‘Early estimates from the sawbones – perhaps as few as two or three thousand. The Frenchies of course have had a catastrophe.’

  ‘You mean the Russkies, My Lord,’ said an aide.

  ‘Ah well, Johnny Foreigners are all the same to me! But are you enjoying your stay in the Crimea otherwise, Miss Somerlee?’

  ‘Quite a thrill, My Lord, thank you.’

  She’d detected polite contempt in his voice. Go home and play with your dollies, girlie.

  He’s right, isn’t he? she thought as she watched the Field Marshal continue on his way. What might a fragile English rose do for good in this Hell of man’s making? Can I do aught to stop it? Or even help…?

  SIX

  A barouche drew up in the forecourt of Lord Tewksbury’s country house.

  Amathia looked on from behind the drawn-back curtain of her dressing-room. She could make out painted on the side door the coat-of-arms depicting a yew tree surmounted by four quatrefoils.

  Out stepped the Baronet of Eardingstowe. A light mizzle was in the air, and he put on his top hat. He paused at the base of the steps which led up to the porch and looked up at the façade of the mansion. She got the impression he was marshalling his courage.

  Amathia let fall the drape so that he would not see her yet. She was, after all, in her déshabille.

  ‘Vickery, lay out the lilac bombazine,’ Amathia called to her useless maid. ‘No! The gold satin, I think. And no creases this time, if you please. A single crease and you’re out without a character, understood?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  Amathia took one last peep at her suitor down below. Somerlee was by now mounting the steps. She did a little twir
l as she stepped away from the window and over to the toilet-table. Wasn’t that what girls in love were supposed to do? Look all dreamy and floaty?

  She sat before the glass and cupped her face.

  What was happening out in the Crimea, she wondered? Poor old Major Maudant of the Royal Welch Fusiliers, who had danced with her three times, and taken her in to dinner at Lady Quarmby’s ball. She’d not taken much notice of him – then. Didn’t have money or property. But maybe she should have. Kate Scobie-Settles was getting on Amathia’s damn nerves, gushing on about her captain who’d distinguished himself at the Battle of the Alma.

  Amathia dangled first one necklace then another from her fingers.

  ‘Vickery! I don’t see the blue pearls. Did you omit to pack them?’

  ‘I’m sorry, madam. You didn’t say you wanted them.’

  Amathia tutted. She let the inferior stones drop with a clatter.

  No, war heroes were all very well to boast of at the dinner-table. Maybe they made decent lovers, too, perhaps… she wouldn’t know. But unless your man had land and income… there was no future. Scobie-Settles would not be so smug when Amathia was inviting the ton to her kettledrums, and Scobie-Settles was fobbing her mantuamaker off with promises to settle her bills next year.

  Amathia tilted her head to one side, gazing into the looking-glass. She thought of Sir Dickon Somerlee – that fair, solid country gentleman, ever-so-slightly unsure of himself.

  What had her father, the duke said?

  ‘They’ve negro, slave ancestry on one side, you know – the Somerlees. Oh, mostly it’s regarded as an eccentricity. Somerlee’s great-grandfather, something of a rebel corsair they say, rescued this negro girl from a slave ship, and then married the creature and made her mistress of Eardingstowe! The Black Beauty, toast of Georgian society and all that! All very dashing stuff, straight out of a storybook.

  ‘But taints like that aren’t to be lightly dismissed! Polluted blood runs in the veins for generations,’ he added, pursing his lips. ‘As for old Somerlee, the present baronet’s father, he married the daughter of a cotton-master. Well, old Joshua Carswell – rich as Croesus and common as muck – went in bliss to the cotton-fields in the sky believing his girl had married into the aristocracy…’