by May Woodward
‘Oh, yes, I know! When we were fighting alongside Drake, the Consetts were paddling our oars!’
‘It’s not that! I’m not convinced you love Amathia, or she you.’
‘Love? Oh, fiddlesticks, Auntie! I’m after glory and power, that’s all. The ear of a Peer! And I imagine she only wants to marry me for my ancient lineage or some such. I’d be very surprised if Amathia turned out to be the kind of wife who bathes my sore bunions of an evening. Nor can I see her weeping over my bloody corpse as Clemmie did her James. Practical people don’t marry for love, Lizzy.’
‘I think she’ll hurt you, Nephew!’
Richard shuffled his feet at that, feeling uncomfortable. He turned his eyes towards the shore. Waves were starting to crash against the sea wall, spewing up seven-foot high showers of spray.
He thought back to his interview with the Duke of Ardenne at Kingsmede when he’d asked for permission to address Lady Amathia. Richard had feared Consett might tell him a piffling baronet would not do for a duke’s child. But, no – Ardenne’s face had brightened. In fact, he’d shaken Richard’s whole body with his handclasp.
‘Take her, Somerlee, with my blessing! Anything I can do to help with the arrangements, dear chap, you’ve only to ask!’
Hmm… the duke had stopped short of offering to throw in his gilded Worcester dinner-service as an additional incentive. Well… just as long as Richard got what he was really seeking from the Consett connection… Meanwhile, though, Lysithea had not finished.
‘I don’t believe Amathia loves you, Richard. I don’t think she even respects you! Thinks you’re beneath her… daughter of a Peer of the Realm, and you a mere baronet.’
‘Aunt Lizzy, Amathia and I understand each other!’
‘Please be careful, Dickon. I don’t want to see you hurt. I don’t want to see Eardingstowe hurt – I’m a Somerlee born and bred too.’
Richard put an arm around Lysithea’s shoulder and walked with her a little way.
‘Come along, Auntie dear. This storm looks as if it’s going to be bad. Seems we’ll have to stay in Scutari, and do without our silk coverlets, for one night further at least.’
Both clutched their hats as they returned along the harbour-front towards the hospital.
Amathia witnessed the storm from the other side of the Black Sea. Her room was in the eaves of the farmhouse where she was staying, high on the headland. The distant golden domes and reddish roofs of Sebastopol were darkling under a bruising-purple sky.
By late afternoon, the wind was rattling the window glass. Rain even trespassed down the chimney flues and made the hearth flames hiss.
A typhoon which uprooted trees. She watched the dark shape of a cypress somersaulting across the harbour-front. From the branches of a thorn which grew below her window a nest was ripped away; before Amathia’s eyes, it was shredded into a thousand twigs which went scattering far and wide.
Over by the allied encampment, she discerned a train of three wagons with billowing tarpaulins; one almost got tugged off the track.
Could she make out the siege towers too in the dusk? Yes… sinister Gargantuas standing out blackly against the evening mountains, between the allied lines and the beleaguered city.
She knew the names of some: the closest Russian-held one – that was the Malakoff. Semi-circular, turret-like construction with ordnance on its platform. When its guns fired, the whole structure from platform to base lit up, and you could feel the vibration from the spot where she now looked on. It stood silent, now, as night fell.
The wagons which she could make out, though, were heading for the half-raised Lancaster battery which the British were building to attack another Russian post, known as the Great Redan.
Earlier that day, she’d had an audience with the Earl of Cardigan, the Somerlee boy’s regimental commander. Word would get around the camp, of course. The sad-eyed beauty searching for her kinsman. How fetching. Richard, she hoped, would get to hear.
‘I very much fear that Sir Richard is resigned to his brother’s loss,’ Amathia had said. She had dabbed an eye with a lace handkerchief. ‘We don’t believe anything will be gained, My Lord Earl, by your continued enquiries.’
‘Lady Amathia, the Eleventh Hussars will not abandon one of their own…’
‘Yes, we know you have been diligent, Lord Cardigan, and the Somerlee family is grateful. But Sir Richard fears that it is time to face up to the worst. Cornet Somerlee is clearly lying dead and unidentified in some lonely place, and, sadly, must probably remain so.’
‘Not necessarily!’ Cardigan protested. ‘He could be a prisoner, but unconscious and unknown to his captors due to some injury. Only today we had word of a band of Serbian mercenaries in the area who might well be those who were seen with the captive British officer! Tomorrow morning, I was intending to send one of my most trusted staff on a quest to learn more…’
‘Lord Cardigan! The family wish to begin to mourn! Those were Sir Richard’s words to me before he left for Scutari. And they cannot begin the grieving process if you persist in raising, and then dashing, their hopes!’
‘Ah! Yes… I take the point, Lady Amathia…’
‘These are Sir Richard’s express wishes, Lord Cardigan.’
‘Well… I suppose if that is the case…’
‘Lord Brandon Fanshawe,’ Amathia continued, ‘does not share Sir Richard’s feelings in this matter…’ More dabbing at the gushing waterworks – nice touch. One thing Cardigan could never, ever resist was a womanly face. ‘Might I suggest, therefore, My Lord, that you call off the search discreetly, without alerting Lord Fanshawe… ?’
So, wherever you are, Aubrey Somerlee, you will stay.
And anyway – is Aubrey’s lot now so very dire? Poor, sweet hussar. He is one of the Six Hundred who rode into the Valley of Death, who will be lauded in Valhalla for all time, immortalised like constellations of the ancient heroes. Of this boy-soldiers dream; would have yearned for when he played at battles in the gardens.
As she watched, a small sailboat smashed against the sea wall, sundering wreckage to the four winds. Rollers swelled like mountain crests and crashed upon the shore as if the whole Crystal Palace had tumbled in a million shards of glass.
Amathia lay down her head that night just as the chimneystack took off on an adventure of its own.
In the morning – among the upturned boats they would find amputated limbs which had been dumped in the harbour for want of better disposal.
In the trenches and flimsy awnings outside Sebastopol, men would freeze to death that winter because all the new tents being brought in had sunk along with the supply ships, and cavalry mounts would eat each others’ tails for their hay had gone to the deep.
By daylight, Amathia beheld the devastation.
The war ploughed on for eight months more.
A Mr Fenton arrived in the Crimea with his contraption and took what would be the first ever photographs from a war zone. From home also donated by a concerned public came knitted Balaclava hoods and Fortnum hampers, which were often the only rations the soldiery got; The Times dug in for a wearisome trench campaign against incompetence and bureaucracy.
Prince Menshikov mounted a surprise winter assault on the coastal fortress of Eupatoria. But Omar Pasha and the Turks held fast and righted their disgrace at Balaclava. This time it was the Russians who went scuttling in bloody retreat.
Far away in St Petersburg, Czar Nicholas heard of the rout, clutched his broken heart, and fell dead.
In June, the British attacked the Great Redan. Wave upon wave of infantry charged and tried to scale the V-shaped slopes of the humungous tower.
From the platform, the defenders poured molten lead… men were swept screaming, like so many ants as a kettle of bubbling water was emptied onto them. Thousands of their blackened and swollen cadavers lay bursting and popping on the pla
in beneath a pulsating sun. On the summit of the Redan waved Our Lady of Kazan’s banner.
This failure to capture the Russian stronghold was Raglan’s final act. The Field Marshal was said to have been carried off by dysentery, but – who knows? Maybe the The Times’s merciless onslaught did do for the old fellow in the end.
But while the British were lamenting their defeat – the French had seized the Malakoff. And were soon pouring into the city.
Within days, Sebastopol was a holocaust. Churches, houses, hospitals – all were alight. In the garrison, a young Russian lieutenant named Leo Tolstoy faced the falling firebombs of the enemy attack. He would one day recall all this in his great prose.
From afar, the township looked like a mushroom of smoke – popping and banging as armouries caught fire and exploded. The Russian fleet, too, was blown up; its ghostly masts would be seen rising from the waters for a hundred years.
The victors took many prizes – the greatest, perhaps, the bell from the Orthodox cathedral. It would cross a continent to find a new home in Windsor Castle, where it hangs still, and tolls for the passing of a monarch.
1857
Two years later
ELEVEN
Lord Aberdeen’s Government had fallen in the two years since Russia’s surrender; Viscount Palmerston was now in power. Meanwhile, the power-looms of Carswell’s cotton mill went on weaving, and its mules spun the Somerlees diurnally richer. The steam engine chug-chug-gurgled, and the chimney belched while India mutinied.
The baronet looked up as his butler announced his solicitor.
‘Flitcroft, Mr Boscawen and I would like a brandy,’ Richard said from behind his study desk. ‘How is Mrs Boscawen?’ he asked his visitor and listened politely to the reply until the butler had left the room. ‘I’ve just been reading about that gallant Dr Livingstone,’ Richard said, tapping the newspaper which lay open before him. ‘Stunning waterfall he’s discovered in darkest Africa. Stirred me, Mr Boscawen! I’ve a fancy for some intrepid exploration myself. Thought I might mount an expedition to find my constituency.’
Richard folded the newspaper, took up a letter and glanced through it.
‘Anything you wish to bring to my attention in your correspondence, sir?’ asked Mr Boscawen.
‘Well, I was wondering what to do about our Irish estate,’ the baronet said with an irked tut. ‘More bother than it’s worth, you know. Yet another letter here from the agent about troublesome tenants.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve actually been there, have you, sir?’
‘Of course not.’ Richard glanced up at the other man. ‘Not even sure where Kilara is exactly. Limerick, I believe. But it’s trouble – like that whole windswept isle! Good Lord, Boscawen, if they aren’t starving, they’re making a nuisance of themselves following that O’Donnell rebel! “Just evict ‘em, man!” I tell the agent. God! I’d like to be rid of this damned millstone around my neck. Not worth my worry! I’m not convinced the income I get from the rents makes it worthwhile.’
‘Would you like me to see about selling it, sir?’
‘Well… maybe someday, if it starts running at a loss.’
‘We’d get a better price selling the estate while it’s at least profitable!’
‘Yes, that’s true…’ Richard ran a hand through his hair. ‘Ah, but my father put a lot of work into the devilish place. It feels a bit traitorous to abandon it. For the moment it’s bringing in a profit – just. So, let’s leave it for now.’
Richard turned to a new problem. He lifted another sheaf from the bundle of correspondence on his desk.
‘Sad – this business with Uncle George. Shot to death by the rebel sepoys in the massacre on the bank of the Ganges! What a way to go!’
‘Daresay he would have wanted to die in India, Sir Richard. He’d been an army man all his life. Loved India. Pity it didn’t love him.’
‘George never married as you know, but he had a mistress. She was with him in Cawnpore throughout the siege. She got thrown down the well along with the rest of the captured women and children.’
‘Aye, very sad,’ said Mr Boscawen.
‘For Uncle George, I daresay. Not for India. I believe this mutiny affair has finally convinced the P.M. that the East India Company cannot run the place. Going to make India a Crown Protectorate, I believe. In everyone’s better interests if they do.
‘Well, anyway… this missive I have here is from the old chap’s solicitor!’ Richard peered short-sightedly at the letter to check the details. ‘George never changed his will after Aubrey vanished. Always held out hope his favourite nephew would come home one day. I didn’t realise George’s estate was worth quite so much, though. Ten thousand pounds George was sitting his comfortable backside on out in the swamps and monsoons. But should Aubrey predecease him and leave no heirs, well, the will clearly makes me the principal beneficiary instead.’
The solicitor read it through while savouring his fine brandy. Richard relaxed back in his chair, hands clasped over his stomach.
‘I assume you have no news or you’d have pre-empted me with it.’
Mr Boscawen shook his head.
‘It seems your brother has indeed disappeared without trace. All prisoners the Russians took at Balaclava have been accounted for and returned. No trace of Aubrey Somerlee. There was the story which Miss Clemence heard. So, I’ve followed this lead too – contacted the Turkish Embassy since our friends the Serbs are reluctant subjects of that august nation. No word there either.’
Richard drained his glass. He looked at the man sitting opposite.
‘Might we reasonably infer that Aubrey is not coming back?’ he said in a quiet voice.
‘I’ll not stop enquiring, of course.’ Boscawen sat up straight. ‘But,’ he said in sombre tones, ‘I’m becoming less hopeful as the months… years… pass. Three years now, is it not? The legacy which George Somerlee has left will, in the meantime, go to Aubrey. However, it will come to you when your brother is declared legally dead. But that will take some years yet.’
Richard rose. He went to the window overlooking the terrace and parterres.
Raindrops glistened on the rims of the marble flower-urns. Branches swayed, and grass rippled in a strong breeze. Three peahens and a cock were picking their way over the wet lawn. Beds of flowering convolvulus, coralberry and dendromecon led down to the shore of Jenny Greenteeth’s lair.
Richard’s gaze moved to St Laurey’s and the great tree. Heaven knew how old the yew was. Older than both chapel and house. At the May Day Festival that year, more than twenty villagers and estate-folk had joined hands to dance around its twisted girth. It shook sorry arms in the gale of Somerlee disasters; its dark green needles and red berries shone in Somerlee glory. He could only just picture the juvenile Aubrey climbing those formidable limbs. His brother’s face and form were fading from Richard’s memory.
None of what Boscawen was telling him made Richard easy. The law was such a tricky old thing. But then, so was Boscawen. A dangerous man, really. He was privy to much that Richard would prefer to keep quiet. He gave the notary a broad smile.
‘Would you and Mrs Boscawen care to come for dinner with Lady Amathia and me on Wednesday?’
Clemence breathed in the mossy scent of the trees as she moved among them and listened to the breeze soughing through the lofty leaves. They were all old friends: copper beech, grey alder, silver lime, sorrel with its starry white blossoms, violet willow, and the dark blaze of the flame tree. Sunlight winked in the overhead net of branches. Calls of woodcocks and doves roamed the glade. The ferns still dripped after the rain.
The waters of a half-moon-shaped pond gleamed ahead, half-hidden from Clemence’s view behind a palisade of tall sedge. An ornamental walkway known as the Tea Bridge crossed the small pool. Pink and orange petals from the waterside shrubbery fluttered to the surface. Two little grebes glide
d by, sundering into ripples the reflection of the miniature pagoda on the far shore.
The Paradise Garden this spot in the Eardingstowe grounds was known. In buzzing summertime. Or in owl-haunted snowdrifts. Never changing, only revolving with the wandering stars.
Yet something had gone from Eardingstowe. Innocence? Goodness?
The young woman halted beside the yellow wood tree. It had always been a favourite. She loved the perfume of the gold-dotted, white flowers, and held a bough to her nose.
The war was over now. Or so she believed. Sometimes in her thoughts it was hard to disentangle happening from nightmare.
Would she one day tell her grandchildren she’d met the celebrated Florence Nightingale, and looked on while the Light Brigade charged to its death? Maybe not… because the memories were already too clouded. Her illness… a rolling sea-vessel on the journey home… it was all just a blur of garish mises-en-scènes… with just an occasional nice image, like the sunshine lighting Fanny’s hair as it fluffed in the upland breeze.
She watched one of the water birds waddling ashore and start preening. The surface splashed as a frog jumped from the depths onto the bank.
Somewhere in her foggy past was that September day when the news came to Somerset that Sebastopol had fallen. Fireworks had lit the countryside for miles around. St Laurey’s tower had shone golden, then violet. A victory beacon had licked the black sky on the heights of Will’s Neck. Oh, yes – and Richard and the Consett woman had got married. A propitious time for one happy couple.
But the wedding ball at Eardingstowe…? Almost two years ago. A warm, starry night… the essence of mown grass blowing in through the French windows. An orchestra playing in the gallery overlooking the great hall, and the guests dancing. Bare-shouldered ladies wearing dizzy-coloured crinolines? Gentlemen in evening dress and regimental uniform? Convivial chatter all around, all around, all around.
And yet… someone had been sobbing. And voices… yes, she recalled those voices screaming, wailing… in her head… four corners of the hall, rafters, everywhere… The demon in the chamber crying to be let out?