‘Do you think the Turks will allow John to keep the Armenian women with him once he reaches a prison camp?’
‘You know John, Georgie.’ Hasan’s daughters climbed back on to Michael’s lap and he delved into his pockets for more of the chocolate bars he’d bought in the British canteen at HQ earlier that day. ‘He can persuade anyone to do exactly what he wants, while convincing them it was their idea in the first place.’
‘We were hoping that one of you could care for Mariam until she can be reunited with her sister after the war.’
‘Much as I’d like to, I can’t, Mitkhal,’ Michael demurred.
‘I can certainly pay for her keep. I’ll talk to Mrs Smythe. If she can’t look after her perhaps she can stay in the mission house and I’ll visit her there.’
‘Thank you, Dr Downe.’
‘As you’re my twin’s foster brother you must call me Georgie, Mitkhal.’ She watched Michael take their twin nieces across the room and helped them share out the chocolate between them and Mariam. ‘War is so hard on everyone, men, women, and children,’ she murmured.
‘If we can survive, Georgie, it will be something.’ Hasan leaned over her and lifted his son from her arms. ‘Thank you for agreeing to take Mariam. I know she will be safe with you.’
Turkish Prison Camp
December 1916
John was deep in sleep, lost in his recurring dream of standing on board a ship that was heading out to sea. He felt the breeze blowing across his face. Then suddenly he jerked, lost his balance, and opened his eyes to see Rebeka standing next to his bed holding a tray.
He sat up rubbing his eyes. ‘What time is it?’
‘Seven in the evening, sir. You said you wanted to be woken …’
‘At four in the afternoon.’
‘I came in at four, sir, and couldn’t wake you. Dira said all the patients were fine and none needed attention so I should leave you sleep.’
‘Major Crabbe?’
‘Woke briefly at three o’clock. He drank water and went straight back to sleep. Dira is sitting with him.’
John momentarily forgot that he was naked and sat up in the bed. When he saw Rebeka staring at his chest he pulled the sheet to his chin.
‘Thank you for the tea.’
‘Take your time drinking it, sir. All the patients are comfortable.’
‘Rebeka?’
‘Sir?’
‘Is anyone out there?’ He pointed to the open door.
‘No, sir, Mrs Gulbenkian and Hasmik are in the kitchen. Can I get you anything else, sir?’
‘No, thank you. Stay, just a minute, please,’ he said when she went to the door.
‘Sir?’ She looked back at him in confusion.
‘This isn’t a good time for us to talk, not with me in bed and you in my bedroom, it’s against what my mother would call “all propriety”, but we never seem to be alone for a minute … You do know I’m married, don’t you?’
She hesitated before answering him, confirming his suspicions that the growing affection he felt for her wasn’t entirely one-sided.
‘No, sir, I didn’t.’
‘My wife and I … she left me and had another man’s child. If there wasn’t a war, I – we – would probably have been divorced by now.’
‘Why are you telling me this, sir?’
‘Because …’ He threw all caution to the wind. ‘I would find it very easy to fall in love with you.’
She turned aside so he couldn’t see her face. ‘Are you making fun of me, sir?’ she whispered.
‘No, Rebeka, I would never do that,’ he said seriously. ‘It’s just that I don’t want you to have any illusions about me.’
She looked up at him and her eyes widened in wonder. ‘You really think you could love me, sir?’
‘Could … to be truthful, Rebeka, I already do.’
Uncertain how to reply or what to make of his declaration, Rebeka froze, speechless.
‘If you’re horrified …’
‘No, sir. I don’t know anything about the love between a man and a woman. All I’ve known is what the Turks did to me. And – what I feel for you now, sir.’
‘I love you, Rebeka,’ John smiled, ‘and I’m delighted to hear that you feel something for me. There’s no need to say more at present, other than there has to be honesty between us, which is why I told you about my wife.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you think you could bring yourself call me John when we’re alone together?’
She nodded.
‘Thank you for the tea. I’ll be downstairs as soon as I’ve finished it.’
‘The kitchen sent over bully beef stew tonight. There’s some left. I could cook you rice to go with it.’
‘That sounds good, Rebeka. I’ll eat after I’ve done the rounds. Have you eaten?’
‘Not yet, sir. I’ve been too busy helping the orderlies with the new patients.’
‘Perhaps we can eat together,’ he suggested.
She smiled. ‘I’d like that – John.’
Chapter Twenty-five
Count D’Souza’s Residence and Portuguese Consulate, India December 1916
An Indian butler dressed in dark blue, gold-braided livery ushered Maud and Sister Luke into a magnificent marbled hall. A footman, attired in similar livery with a marked absence of gold braid, took their bags and spirited them away. Maud felt most peculiar. She had lived in the Spartan surroundings of the convent for only six months, yet it had been long enough for her to accept unadorned whitewashed walls and stone floors as normal. In contrast, she found the luxury of her present surroundings overwhelming.
The gilding on the mirrors and furniture glowed, a deep dark tarnished gold. Her feet sank into the thick pile of the crimson and blue Persian rug centred on the marbled floor. The paintings on the wall, some portraits, some landscapes, shimmered in opulent shades of crimson, cerulean blue and jade, fostering an overall effect of glittering, glamorous splendour.
‘I’d forgotten people could live like this,’ Sister Luke whispered.
‘Sisters?’ the butler indicated the stairs. ‘If you would please follow me?’
They walked up the massive curved marbled staircase and on to a marbled gallery.
The butler led them down a corridor to a door at the far end. He opened it and showed them in. ‘This is the suite of rooms the count ordered prepared for you, sisters.’ He walked across the room and opened three doors. ‘Two bedrooms, a bathroom, and this, as you can see is your sitting room. Your keys.’ He set them on a table. ‘Should you require anything, at any time of the day or night, please ring the bell.’ He pointed to a bell pull next to the fireplace. ‘There is always a servant on duty in the hall and in the kitchens. The count is with your patient the countess, at present. I will wait outside to escort you to them.’
‘Thank you.’ The butler left and closed the door softly behind him. Maud looked into the bedrooms. The servant had placed her bag on a luggage trestle in one of the rooms. She went in, removed her hat and cape, and stowed both in the wardrobe. She poured water into the basin on the washstand, washed her hands and face, tipped the water into the slop pail, and looked at herself in the mirror.
It was the first opportunity she’d had since entering the convent to study her image in a larger reflective surface than the back of a spoon.
Her skin had always been pale but now, probably because of lack of exposure to the sun, it was deathly white. Her hair needed washing and curling. She hid most of it beneath her nursing sisters’ veil.
‘Maud?’ Sister Luke knocked her door. ‘Are you ready? We shouldn’t keep the count waiting.’
‘Coming.’ On impulse Maud opened her bag, dug into her toilet bag, and found her bottle of perfume, which she’d kept closed since she’d left Basra. She dabbed a few drops on her neck and behind her ears. The scent kindled memories, of starlit Indian evenings spent on verandas, balls, parties, dinner parties – and John.
‘Maud, the b
utler is waiting.’
Maud opened the door. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t find my veil.’
Sister Luke sniffed long and hard to show Maud that she smelled and disapproved of the perfume.
The sounds and atmosphere of the house closed around them as they walked down the corridor. The heavy scent of hothouse roses emanated from vases set in niches in the corridors overpowering a mixture of strong cigar smoke and incense. Maud could distinguish the subdued murmurs of distant conversations, hints of music – a radio or gramophone? The clink of glassware and silverware vied with the echo of unseen footsteps somewhere ahead. The butler finally stopped outside the door nearest to the staircase. He knocked quietly, waited for a command, and opened it.
A tall, distinguished, grey-haired man walked across an exquisitely decorated and furnished morning room to greet them.
‘Sisters, how kind of you to answer our call for help.’ His English was excellent, carefully enunciated and barely accented. ‘I am Count D’Souza.’
‘Sister Luke.’ The nun gave a small curtsy.
‘Maud Smith.’ Maud offered him her hand. He took it and lifted it to his lips.
‘You are not a nun, Sister Smith?’
‘No, Count D’Souza. I am a nursing sister but not a nun.’ Maud returned his cool appraising stare. There was a glint in his eye and an expression on his face she had seen many times before in other men.
‘Please, allow me to introduce you to my wife. Her maid is with her at the moment but she requires more nursing care than the servants can give her.’
He crossed the room and opened a door at the far end. The bedroom was even more splendid, extravagant, and feminine than the morning room with white and grey silk hangings and pearl marbled walls and floor.
The count introduced them to his wife as if the countess were conscious. ‘Countess, may I present Sister Luke and Sister Smith. Sisters, my wife, Countess D’Souza.’
Maud looked down at the figure in the bed. The countess was beautiful, with regular features and full generous lips. Her hair had been recently brushed and shone, long and black. Maud imagined her eyes as dark as hair.
‘You have been acquainted with my wife’s condition, sisters?’
‘We have, sir.’ Sister Luke pushed herself forward, standing in front of Maud to assume the mantle of senior nurse.
‘The doctors can do nothing for her. My only concern is to ensure that the countess remain as comfortable as possible. I am a busy man and cannot afford to neglect my duties, which is why I now work as much as is reasonably feasible in the morning room next door. Unfortunately it is not always practical. We have been married for fifteen wonderful years. It would be of great comfort to me to know that she is being looked after while I have to leave this room and occasionally the house.’
‘We will do everything we can to nurse Countess D’Souza with dignity, kindness, and respect, count.’ Sister Luke went to the bed and picked up the countess’s hand.
‘If you remain with the countess, Sister Luke, I will show Sister Smith over the house so she will know where everything is to be found.’
‘There is no need …’
‘A tour with Sister Smith now may save precious minutes later, Sister Luke.’ He went to the door and held it open. ‘Sister Smith?’
Maud meekly followed him out of the room, down the stairs, and through a bewildering number of extravagantly and opulently furnished rooms.
‘You and Sister Luke are of course, free to go wherever you choose in the house when you are not actually caring for my wife.’
‘You have a beautiful home, Count D’Souza.’
‘Thank you for the compliment, but everything you see, the décor, the furniture, the ornaments, were all chosen by my wife. This is the main drawing room, and this is the library.’
They left the drawing room and entered a room lined with teak bookshelves each one laden with leather bound volumes. A painting of a woman Maud recognised as the countess hung over the fireplace. As in the hall, a deep pile Persian rug covered most the floor. The sofas and armchairs were upholstered in crimson leather.
The count went to the drinks tray on a side table and poured two cognacs. He handed Maud one.
‘This, as you see, is the library. It is my favourite room in the house. I like to relax here at midnight with a nightcap. You would be very welcome to join me if my wife is peaceful. Do not be concerned about leaving her. I have instructed the maids to ensure that two of them are in my wife’s suite at all times to see to her needs – and her nurses’.’
‘Thank you for the invitation.’ Maud watched him over the rim of her glass.
‘So,’ he smiled. ‘I’ll expect you here at midnight?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Turkish Prison Camp
December 1916
John drank the tea Rebeka had brought him before reluctantly climbing out of the hard, narrow bed, which had never looked so warm or appealing. He went to the washstand, and washed shaved, and dressed. When he picked up his hair brush he looked at the tin box next to it. It was where he kept all the letters he’d received during his captivity – including Maud’s.
He’d received six letters from her since he’d been in the camp, less than a third of the number she’d sent him judging from the notation she’d put at the top of each one. He’d meant to but hadn’t got around to answering any of them. He opened the tin and picked them out. Maud’s were easy to find because he’d stowed them at the bottom of the pile.
He read the final paragraphs of the last letter he’d received from her, which was identical in in sentiment to her first and subsequent ones. But then, if what she said about never leaving the convent or the infirmary was true, what else could she possibly write about?
I gave birth to a boy last December. I asked Mrs Butler to place him in an American orphanage. I hope he will find adoptive parents who can give him a better life than I am able to …
He had thought long and hard about that sentence, especially after discovering Charles was the father of Maud’s son. She had obviously told Charles he was the father, because he had recognised the boy in his will. Had Maud told Charles he was the father of her son before she’d abandoned the child? Had Charles doubted her? If so, it would explain his delay in acknowledging the child. But if Charles had been prepared to claim the child, why had Maud left the baby in the Lansing? Was it to hurt Charles, or had she hoped that she and the world, including Charles, would simply forget the boy’s existence?
I am writing this so you realise that if you could bring yourself to consider taking me back, I would come unencumbered by further responsibilities.
Unencumbered by further responsibilities … as if the child was a stray dog or cat she’d picked up in the street and could walk away from without a second thought.
I have no idea whether you have divorced me or not, or intend to divorce me in the future. If you do, I beg you with all my heart to reconsider, John … I send all my love, your own very sorrowful Maud whose only hope is that you allow her a second chance to be the wife she should have been.
He set the letter aside. He should have replied to Maud, months ago when he’d received her first letter. Whether it was the kiss he’d exchanged with Rebeka, her diffidence and ridiculous assertion that she’d been ‘dishonoured’ by what the Turks had done to her, or not, he was beset by a sudden urge to put an end to the pitiful remnants of his marriage to Maud as swiftly as he could.
He took Maud’s last letter, refolded it so her return address was on the outside, and scribbled a note below her signature.
Dear Maud, our marriage is over. I will instigate divorce proceedings as soon as I can. John
He fastened the letter as best he could, slipped it into the pocket of his white coat, and dropped it into the mailbox when he reached the bottom of the stairs. As he headed for the kitchen he amused himself by picturing the Georgian house he’d so often dreamed of. Set in a quiet West Country village of old stone houses with pretty cot
tage gardens filled with harebells, bluebells, apple and cherry blossom – why did he always imagine his dream house in May time?
He pictured the door opening, his wife and children running down the lawns to greet him. That was the moment he realised he wanted a wife with the same simple tastes as his, a wife who wouldn’t flirt with every man in sight. A wife who would love him, no matter what he did or what happened to him, until the end of his days …
Hasmik ran out of the kitchen, giggled, and held out her small arms to be picked up. He couldn’t help smiling as he swung her on to his shoulders.
A wife – who would perhaps in time, even give him the children he wanted?
He walked to the end of the passage. ‘Back into the kitchen, young lady.’ He lifted Hasmik down and pointed to the kitchen door. She ran off still giggling. He waited until she was in the kitchen before entering the examination room.
Crabbe was awake and talking to Dira.
‘You look better than you did when you arrived last night, Crabbe. I’m sorry if you’re sore. I had to poke about inside you for quite some time. It wasn’t very pretty in there.’
‘The way I feel I’m not sure I should be thanking you, but I will,’ Crabbe’s voice was weak, his skin pale and clammy. ‘Dira told me that unlike all the king’s men, you put this poor Humpty Dumpty back together again.’
John checked Crabbe’s temperature. ‘This Humpty Dumpty had better stop fighting Turks now they’ve taken his rifle away. We can’t win, you know. Not now we’re prisoners. Our war is over.’
‘I’m beginning to realise that.’
‘I’ll get fresh drinking water for Major Crabbe, sir.’
‘Thank you, Dira.’ John sat beside Crabbe.
‘This hospital …’
‘The Turks allow me to run it because I treat them and the locals as well as our men.’
‘It’s in a camp?’
‘An officers’ camp.’
‘You’re lucky. The one I’ve come from for the ranks …’ Crabbe stopped talking and breathed deeply in an attempt to control his pain. That in turn initiated a coughing fit. ‘They have it rough,’ he whispered when he could speak again.
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