GILL PAUL

NO PLACE FOR A LADY

Copyright

Published by Avon

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2015

Copyright © Gill Paul 2015

Cover Design © Lisa Horton 2015

Gill Paul asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008102128

Ebook Edition © May 2015 ISBN: 9780008102135

Version: 2018-06-05

Dedication

For my brother Gray and sister Fo, who mean the world to me.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map 1

Map 2

Prologue

PART ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

PART TWO

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

PART THREE

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

PART FOUR

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

PART FIVE

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

PART SIX

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

PART SEVEN

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

PART EIGHT

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Historical Note

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Enjoyed this book? Read on for the start of Gill Paul’s new novel, Another Woman’s Husband.

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Map 1

Map 2

Prologue

25th October 1854

Mrs Lucy Harvington stands shivering on a hilltop near the coast of Crimea, watching armies massed for battle below, waiting to find out if her husband will die today. Charlie is somewhere in the group to the far left: she has overheard Lord Raglan pointing out the Light Brigade when giving an order and she peers in the direction he indicated to see indistinct figures on horseback, cold sunlight glinting on the steel of their bayonets. All around she can see lines of men standing poised, waiting for the order to rush forward and try to kill each other – men who are sons, nephews, husbands and fathers, even grandfathers. She can hear the impatient whinny of horses and the squawk of a bird high above. It sounds like a warning.

Suddenly it seems incomprehensible that she should find herself in such a situation. In less than a year her entire fortune has turned on its head: she’s gone from being a young lady of just seventeen years who lived at home with her father and older sister, to being the wife of an army captain who has followed her husband to war in a remote, inhospitable land. She still can’t quite believe the change in her circumstances. In London she has a wide circle of friends and is used to attending balls and soirées wearing fashionable new gowns and the latest hairstyles. Now she has been wearing the same gown for almost a week without the opportunity to wash, her cloak is smeared in mud and her hair hangs in matted coils. She spends most of her time alone while Charlie is out in the field. She is cold, her clothes are damp – they never seem to dry completely – and she is very, very scared.

But her fate has been sealed since that first unforgettable meeting with Charlie Harvington, the beginning of a chain of circumstances that had led her to this godforsaken hillside.

It was a dull November day in 1853, when London was thick with sooty fog and the stench of the Thames. Lucy had called upon the Pendleburys, old friends of her parents, in the hope of seeing their son Henry, whom she knew was home on leave from the army. They’d enjoyed a brief flirtation during his last leave and she was curious to see where it might lead. Unfortunately, Henry was absent and she had to make conversation with his mother and father, a rather staid couple. Once they had run through the usual topics – the weather, plans for the festive season, health of respective family members – Lucy offered to play the pianoforte and sing for them, simply to pass the time until she could decently make her excuses and leave.

She picked a Mozart lied that suited her first soprano voice. Her singing teacher was critical of her pronunciation of the German lyrics, but she was fond of the pretty melody. As she was singing, she heard the drawing-room door open and glanced up to see Henry Pendlebury standing in the doorway with a friend, a very handsome friend, kitted out in a royal blue tunic with gold braid draped over the chest, who was staring directly at her. The attention made her sing a little more sweetly, play a little more precisely, while she felt herself flush at the unexpected audience.

When she finished, all clapped heartily and Lucy bowed her head.

‘Please don’t stop. I could listen to you forever,’ the stranger said. It appeared he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Henry Pendlebury laughed. ‘Miss Gray, meet my army colleague, Captain Charlie Harvington. Charlie, this is Miss Lucy Gray.’

Charlie came forward to take her hand. He raised it to his lips, kissed it, then fell dramatically to his knees. ‘I declare in front of all witnesses here present that I volunteer to be Miss Gray’s willing slave and do her bidding for as long as she will tolerate me. Please, Miss Gray, tell me some service I might perform for you. I ask nothing in return but the honour of being allowed to remain in the presence of such breathtaking beauty.’

Lucy laughed, startled by his unconventional forwardness. ‘Very well. I should like a cup of tea to wet my throat after its exertion.’

There was a pot of tea on a tray by the fire and Charlie bounded over to fetch her a cup, enquiring carefully about her taste for cream and sugar.

‘Now I should like you to bring my shawl,’ she said, enjoying the game with this lively stranger. She noticed a disapproving look pass between Mr and Mrs Pendlebury and knew she was pushing the boundaries of propriety but couldn’t help herself.

Charlie fetched her shawl and as he held it towards her their eyes met. His were a startling blue, an unusual combination with his chestnut hair. He was smiling, but behind the smile she could sense something sad about him. She felt a tug at her heart and knew in an instant, all joking aside, that she was going to fall in love with him, and he with her. It was as simple as that.

When she rose to leave, as the hour was approaching when she must change for dinner, Charlie escorted her to her carriage and asked if he might call on her the following morning.

‘What about me?’ Henry called from the front door. ‘Am I to be forgotten so readily, Miss Gray?’

‘You must come too,’ she insisted. ‘Of course you must.’

But it was Charlie she had eyes for now. It was what the French called a coup de foudre, a deep-rooted, certain knowledge that they belonged together.

Now, eleven months later, she is standing on a hilltop in the Crimean peninsula, and realising she might never see Charlie alive again. She could even be killed herself, or taken prisoner by the Russians – and she’s not sure which would be worse.

There is a bright flash down below, then a deafening explosion shakes the ground and she sinks to her knees in terror. ‘Dear God,’ she prays silently. ‘Please save Charlie and please save me. I want to go home again. I want us to go back where we belong.’

PART ONE

Chapter One

11th January 1854

Dorothea Gray watched as Henderson walked slowly round the dining table dispensing devilled kidneys with a clatter of cutlery on a silver serving dish. Her sister Lucy waved him away but Dorothea accepted a modest portion, while their father licked his lips and directed the butler to heap his plate with spoonful after spoonful. The meaty, tangy smell mingled with that of freshly baked rolls and a certain mustiness that permeated the dining room, a mysterious odour no amount of spring-cleaning could shift. The girls’ father lifted The Times, neatly folded into quarters, intending to peruse the front page as he ate, but was interrupted by Lucy, who lobbed a question across the breakfast table with studied casualness.

‘Papa, would it be acceptable if Captain Harvington comes to call on you around eleven this morning? There’s something he wishes to discuss with you.’

Dorothea looked up, instantly suspicious.

‘What’s that? Captain Harvington? Do I know him?’ He frowned and peered over the rim of his glasses.

‘Of the 8th Hussars. You’ve met him several times, Papa. He joined us for dinner the evening before last. Remember he made you laugh with his witty impression of Lord Aberdeen?’

Still her father couldn’t recollect the man and he screwed up his eyes with the effort.

Dorothea interrupted: ‘What might Captain Harvington wish to see Father about?’ As soon as she said the words, the answer came to her: ‘You’re not planning on getting engaged, are you? You’ve only known each other a matter of weeks. Besides, he may have to go to war soon if the Russians don’t withdraw from the Turkish territories on the Danube.’

Lucy tilted her chin defiantly. ‘No, we’re not bothering to get engaged; we plan to marry straight away so that I can sail with him if he has to go to the Turkish lands. He says officers are allowed to take their wives along.’

Dorothea gasped and put down her fork. ‘But that’s ridiculous! What gentleman would ask his wife to go to war with him? It’s an appalling idea.’ She glanced at her father but he was savouring a bite of kidney, oblivious to the storm brewing between his daughters.

‘We love each other with all our hearts. It’s been nine whole weeks since we met and both of us agree we’ve never felt as sure of anything in our entire lives.’ Lucy spoke passionately and in her words Dorothea could hear echoes of the romance novels she loved, full of chaste young girls and brooding heroes.

‘What do Captain Harvington’s family think of this idea? Surely they’ll see that it’s silly to rush into marriage while war looms? Everyone says it’s inevitable after the Russians destroyed those Turkish ships at Sinope last November. Why not wait till he comes back? It’s bound to be over quickly. The Russians are no match for us, especially when we are in alliance with the French. It would make much more sense to wait.’ Dorothea cast around for further arguments that would carry weight with her flighty younger sister. ‘We could plan a beautiful ceremony and there would be time to invite all the family members we haven’t seen for years. You could have a dress especially made, and use Mother’s Chantilly lace veil. Think of it, Lucy; a proper wedding, not something rushed and over-hasty …’ She tailed off at the determined glint in Lucy’s eyes.

‘Our minds are made up, Dorothea. Fortunately it’s not up to you. It’s between Papa and Charlie.’ She turned to her father. ‘Papa, you will listen favourably to his request, won’t you? We are so much in love and he needs me to go with him and care for him. Besides, you don’t want to be stuck with two old maids on your hands, do you?’ She looked pointedly at her sister, unmarried at the age of thirty-one, who tutted at the rudeness of her jibe.

‘What’s that you say?’ their father asked, exasperated that his poor hearing meant he had missed much of their conversation. ‘What must I do?’

Lucy spoke slowly and clearly: ‘Captain Harvington will come to see you at eleven. When you speak with him, just remember that I love him very much and want to be his bride.’

After breakfast, Dorothea followed her father down the hall to his study, where he liked to spend the morning snoozing over his newspaper. She waited till he was settled in his comfy leather armchair, with a view over the leafless trees of Russell Square, before speaking.

‘Papa, I hope you agree that Lucy’s ridiculous scheme to get married and go to war with the troops would be disastrous.’

‘Quite.’ Her father nodded in agreement.

Dorothea wasn’t convinced that he understood the gravity of the situation, so she continued: ‘She and Captain Harvington are both good-natured, happy-go-lucky characters, but neither has a practical bone in their bodies. And Lucy is far too young and giddy for marriage.’

‘Yes, indeed.’ He opened the newspaper.

‘You have to stop them, Papa. I know it puts you in an awkward position, but I have a suggestion. Don’t refuse permission outright, but play for time by telling them they can marry on Captain Harvington’s return from war. Doubtless Lucy’s head will have been turned by some other charming fellow by then and the marriage won’t go ahead. Only a couple of months ago she was smitten with Henry Pendlebury, and before that it was Alexander Gwynn Jones. Make them wait and I’m sure this one won’t last.’

‘I expect you’re right. Remind me: what is it that I am to do?’

Dorothea explained again, speaking slowly and clearly until it seemed the message had got through. The carriage clock on the mantel chimed ten, meaning she would be late for her work unless she got a move on. She was a member of the ladies’ committee at a small charitable hospital in Pimlico and counted herself fortunate to have an occupation, unlike most ladies of her social class who spent their days sitting idly at home or calling upon friends for tea and gossip. If Chalmers had the carriage ready and traffic was not too heavy around Covent Garden, there was still a chance she could make it on time.

‘Thank you, Father.’ She leaned in to kiss his brow and he murmured his goodbyes before opening the newspaper and closing his eyes.

Looking back, Dorothea couldn’t put her finger on a time when her father’s mental acuity had begun to decline. In her youth he had run a thriving bespoke furniture business and was clearly an astute businessman who had earned enough to buy a large house and employ five members of staff, as well as keeping a carriage. Russell Square was not a fashionable area of London but it was convenient for the City, and therefore popular with merchants such as her father. He’d often been away from home during her childhood, but when he was there he used to regale his girls with tales of explorers such as Christopher Columbus and Captain Cook, a subject that held endless fascination for him. There was a globe in his study on which he showed them the countries to which these pioneers had sailed, some of them right on the other side of the sphere. But since he sold the business – there being no son to inherit – it seemed his brain had shrunk. When had that been? Maybe six or seven years ago, she thought. A couple of years before his wife – Lucy and Dorothea’s mother – had lost her long battle with illness. Were these events linked, she wondered? It was hard to remember why he’d made the decision to stop working although still only in his early fifties. Maybe it was grief, or perhaps he already felt his abilities lessening and had bowed to the inevitable. Either way, the man who shuffled around the house, snoozing his days away and rarely receiving company, was a pale shadow of the fine gentleman he had once been.

When Dorothea returned, exhausted, from her work at the hospital, Lucy was sewing by the fireside in the drawing room with a half-smile on her lips.

Dorothea chose a chair closest to the flames so as to warm her frozen fingers.

‘Did Captain Harvington call today?’

‘Yes.’ Lucy looked demure.

‘Did he accept Father’s decision?’

‘He certainly did.’ Lucy beamed in triumph, the smile lighting up her face. ‘And he’s delighted. We plan to be wed as soon as we can arrange it after the reading of the banns.’

‘Father consented?’ Dorothea felt a kick in the pit of her stomach.

‘Please be happy for me,’ Lucy entreated. ‘I know you are opposed to the match, but you can’t deny you like Charlie. Everyone likes him! We’re so happy together.’ She threw down her sewing and clenched her fists in excitement.

Dorothea was momentarily lost for words. ‘I’m not opposed to the match, Lucy. It’s just too soon. You scarcely know each other.’

Lucy leapt from her chair and came to kneel at Dorothea’s feet, head tilted, her clear blue eyes peering up, her pretty lips pursed with the same endearing expression that must have swayed their father earlier. It always made Dorothea want to kiss the flawless skin of her little sister’s cheek and stroke that soft strawberry-blonde hair. Lucy’s was a beauty that turned heads in the street and made it hard not to stare.

‘Oh, but you’re wrong! It’s because you’ve never experienced that glorious feeling of falling in love and finding you already know everything about the other person because you are so perfectly matched. We laugh at the same things, cry at the same things, think the same way about simply everything … You’re soon going to learn to love Charlie as I do. I know you will.’

Dorothea stood abruptly and stepped over her sister’s legs, ignoring the disappointment that clouded her expression. ‘Forgive me,’ she murmured. ‘I really must change for dinner. We’ll talk more later.’

As she climbed the stairs with leaden feet, one thought was foremost in Dorothea’s mind: the marriage must be prevented, one way or another. She was the only responsible guardian the girl possessed, since she could patently wrap their father around her little finger. It was up to Dorothea to take action and she felt the weight of the responsibility keenly. If Lucy wouldn’t listen to her, who else could she appeal to?

Chapter Two

The following morning, Dorothea left early and asked Chalmers to take her via Lincoln’s Inn, where a gentleman of her acquaintance was a barrister in chambers. Mr William Goodland was the brother of her friend Emily and around a year ago he had begun to call on them for tea every Sunday afternoon. He would ask after their father’s health and Dorothea’s work, comment on the weather, then Dorothea would struggle to maintain a conversation of sorts until he wished her good day and left after barely an hour.

Behind his back, Lucy made fun of him for his bushy side-whiskers and social awkwardness, and was rather good at imitating his tedious conversation: ‘These scones seem to me the perfect combination of lightness and sweetness. It is quite some time since I have encountered such a sublime scone. You must compliment your cook on their sublimity.’

‘Don’t be so cruel, Lucy,’ Dorothea had chided, unable to suppress a smile. ‘We can’t all have your conversational skills.’

Dorothea was unsure of the purpose for Mr Goodland’s regular visits. Did he feel protective towards them as two women living under the roof of a father whose mental capacities were failing? Or did he consider himself a potential suitor for one of them? If so, he had never made his intentions clear. However, she had decided to seek his advice about the legal position regarding Lucy’s proposed marriage.

‘She is still two weeks shy of eighteen,’ she explained to him now, ‘and I consider myself to be in loco parentis. Is there anything I can do?’

Mr Goodland pursed his lips. ‘I’m afraid, Miss Gray, that if your father has given his consent, upon reaching her eighteenth birthday your sister may legally marry; unless there are any grounds for objecting, perhaps because of a prior engagement by either party. What impressions have you formed of this young man?’

Dorothea frowned. ‘He seems very affable but Lucy is young and I am concerned by the speed with which they have made their decision.’

‘Do you know much of the family?’

‘Nothing at all. I believe they live in Dean Hall, Northampton, but there have been no introductions as yet.’

‘Perhaps it would be worth writing to introduce yourself and to ascertain their views on this – may I say – precipitate courtship. If they support Captain Harvington, they can perhaps bring some financial pressure to bear and urge him to behave with less impetuosity.’

‘Yes, that seems a sensible idea.’ Dorothea was glad of the suggestion, which seemed likely to help.

‘As for going to war, I can’t believe the army would give permission for such a young girl to accompany them. Perhaps Captain Harvington has not told his superior officers quite how tender in years she is. If I might make a suggestion, you could write to his company – the 8th Hussars, was it not? – and make your objections plain.’

Dorothea hesitated. ‘I don’t want Lucy to hate me for my interference. She is such a passionate girl and feels things so strongly … I don’t suppose I could ask you to write to them discreetly, as a friend of the family?’

He sat up straight, puffing his chest out: ‘Indeed, I would be delighted to perform this service, Miss Gray. Do not concern yourself overmuch; I’m sure common sense will prevail.’

That evening, Dorothea wrote to Charlie’s parents telling them of her fears for her sister if she went to war, and asking them to consider putting a restraining hand on their son’s shoulder. Perhaps, she suggested, the families should meet to discuss what was best for the headstrong pair.

She gave the letter to Henderson to post straight away. There was no time to waste. With any luck Lucy would never find out it was she who had curtailed their nuptial plans – but even if she did, Dorothea didn’t doubt she was acting for the right reasons.

A reply came from Mr Harvington of Dean Hall three days later and it struck alarm into Dorothea’s heart.

‘We have washed our hands of our erstwhile son Charles,’ the letter read, ‘and we sincerely advise you to prevent your sister from marrying him. He is a scoundrel of low morals, a wastrel who will never be sufficiently practical to look after a wife, and all in all a man who is not to be trusted.’ Mr Harvington added that although they had bought Charlie his commission as a captain, he could expect no further support from his family but was quite alone in the world, with no one to blame but himself.

Dorothea read the letter several times, agonising over what to do next, and finally she decided she had no option but to show it to Lucy. She knocked on the door of her sister’s room, and opened it to find Lucy engaged in brushing out her waist-length hair in front of her dressing table. It was a cosy room, with heavy drapes and a fire in the grate. Candles flickered by the bedside and on the dresser, making shadows dance on the walls.

‘I wrote to introduce myself to Captain Harvington’s family,’ Dorothea confessed after a moment’s hesitation, ‘since we must soon be kin. This reply has recently arrived.’

Lucy grabbed the letter and her cheeks reddened as she perused it. When she reached the end she screwed the paper into a ball and flung it across the room. ‘You had no right to contact them!’ she hissed. ‘I could have told you his family hate him! He explained to me all about it. They disinherited him over some stupid argument five years ago which was not his fault in any way and it is a source of great sadness to him. How dare you go behind my back and write to them!’

It was just the reaction Dorothea had feared but she tried to stay calm and reasonable. ‘Of course I had the right. It is a serious matter if Captain Harvington has no family backing. I’m surprised Father didn’t ask about his prospects. You are too young to know what it means to marry for love to a man without a secure income; you’d have six months of happiness followed by a lifetime of worry and petty resentments.’

Lucy was intractable. ‘Charlie will make his own money. Major Dodds speaks highly of his prospects in the army and he’s extremely well liked in the regiment. Extremely.’ She swept her hairbrush off the dressing table, her temper clearly building by the minute.

‘He can’t advance up the ranks without family money to buy another commission. You know that, Lucy-loo.’ Dorothea used the childhood pet name and reached out to touch her sister’s shoulder in a conciliatory gesture but Lucy batted her hand away.

‘This is my one chance to be happy and I will not have you spoil it. You’re jealous and bitter and I hate you!’ Tears sprang to her eyes. ‘I wish Mama were here. She would love Charlie as I do, and she’d be happy for me.’ Lucy turned her back but Dorothea could tell that she was crying.

She paused: their mother had been very similar in character to Lucy – lively, gregarious, but hopelessly impractical. No doubt she would have reacted with frenzied excitement to the marriage announcement and would already be planning dress fittings and floral arrangements. But that didn’t make it the right thing to do.

Dorothea tried another tack: ‘Have you thought about the danger you would be in overseas, with Russian guns aimed at your living quarters, wherever they might be? There would be none of the amenities you take for granted. Imagine – no running water, no clean, pressed clothing, no meals served at a dining table or servants to serve them. Lucy, do you even know where the Turkish lands are? They are fifteen hundred miles distant, across rough seas. And once there, perils lurk all around: vapours that rise from the land and cause fatal disease; snakes and scorpions that kill with one bite; not to mention the horrors of battle. It would not be some nursery game of soldiers.’ She stopped, wanting to comfort the sobbing Lucy, but the set of her sister’s shoulders did not invite affection.

Lucy’s words were muffled by tears. ‘Don’t you think I’ve considered all that myself? Charlie will protect me now. I’ve had a lifetime of being patronised by you and I’m fed up with it.’

Dorothea tried once more: ‘I’m not saying that you shouldn’t ever marry Captain Harvington. I’m just saying wait till after the war …’

‘Don’t you understand that I can’t be happy for a single moment without him?’

Dorothea sighed. ‘You know I have to show Father this letter, don’t you? He will have to rethink his decision once he knows Captain Harvington’s precarious situation.’

‘I see you are determined to ruin my happiness. Well, get out of my room. Just leave me alone.’ Lucy was shouting now, completely beside herself.

Dorothea paused in the doorway, but could think of nothing more to add and so she closed the door softly behind her. She could only hope that her father would see sense and, if not, that Mr Goodland’s letter would have the desired effect and Major Dodds would talk some sense into Charlie. It seemed Lucy wouldn’t listen to any point of view that didn’t agree with her own.

The next afternoon, Dorothea returned from her work at the Pimlico hospital to find an agitated Henderson waiting by the door.

‘Apologies, Miss Dorothea, but I didn’t know how to contact you. Captain Harvington came around noon with a coach and four and Miss Lucy asked me to carry down her trunk and help the driver to load it on board. Your father did not seem to appreciate …’ He paused, trying to find a tactful way of expressing himself.

‘My father didn’t try to stop them, you mean. Did she leave a letter?’

Henderson handed her an envelope and Dorothea hurried into the drawing room, threw herself into an armchair, and tore it open. Lucy’s normally pretty handwriting scrawled all over the page with rage emanating from every line. ‘I will never forgive you for trying to stop my marriage,’ she wrote. ‘Never. I am going to stay in lodgings with Charlie and as soon as I turn eighteen we will be wed without your presence since we are to be denied your blessing. I’m sorry that your jealousy led you to try and ruin our happiness but our feelings for each other are so strong that was never a possibility.’ At the end, she wrote the most hateful words of all: ‘I want nothing more to do with you. Charlie is my family now.’

Dorothea buried her face in her hands and curled forward into a ball. ‘Oh God, no. What have I done?’ She wanted to cry but all that came out was a keening sound. How could everything have gone so badly wrong? She’d only acted as she did because she loved Lucy more than any other human being on the planet. Now she had caused her to run off into goodness knows what kind of danger. Anything could happen. Her good name would be ruined, and her very life might be at risk. All she could hope was that war could be avoided, or that Major Dodds would forbid Lucy from accompanying the troops. While Charlie was away, she would surely have to come home again and that would give Dorothea a chance to repair the damage she had caused. Oh please, let that be the case.

An agonising four weeks later, Mr Woodland received a curt reply from Major Dodds and he called round that evening to share it with Dorothea. It read that Lucy and Charlie had been married on 20th February in Warwickshire and that the Major had been honoured to act as Charlie’s best man. The regiment was still waiting to hear if they would sail for the Turkish lands – the decision was in the hands of politicians – but in the event they did, he would be happy for Mrs Lucy Harvington to accompany her husband.

‘Your sister is a foolish young girl,’ Mr Woodland began. ‘I shall reply to Major Dodds in the sternest terms insisting …’

‘No, don’t.’ Dorothea rose to her feet, suddenly finding his pomposity unbearable. Whatever he had written to Major Dodds had clearly exacerbated the problem. Had he been more tactful in his letter, she was sure the reply would not have been so abrupt and unhelpful. ‘You must forgive me, but I find myself quite overcome. I must be alone. Perhaps …’ Tears were not far away and she was unable to finish the sentence. She turned and fled from the room.

‘Of course,’ Mr Woodland said. ‘I’ll see myself out.’ Though by then there was no one to hear.

Chapter Three

During the winter months of 1853–1854, Dorothea had a particular favourite patient at the Pimlico hospital. Edward Peters had been a soldier at the Battle of Waterloo almost forty years before but had since fallen on hard times. He had no children and no family members came to visit but Dorothea enjoyed the company of this softly spoken old man whose health was slowly but surely failing. Every day she brought him her father’s copy of The Times from the previous day because he liked to keep up with the news. He had trouble reading because his spectacles were not strong enough (she guessed he couldn’t afford another pair), so she would sit and read aloud the articles that interested him most, namely those about the impending war in the Turkish territories – which were, naturally, of great concern to her as well. Mr Peters interjected his own comments as she read, fiercely critical of government procrastination: ‘All this time we could be preparing for action and instead the politicians sit chin-wagging. They’re yellow, I say.’

‘We’ve given them an ultimatum and with any luck the Russians will comply,’ Dorothea argued.

But they didn’t, and on 28th March news broke that Britain and France had jointly declared war on Russia in support of the Turks.

Mr Peters was excited: ‘About time,’ he exclaimed. ‘Now we’ll stop those Russians invading their neighbours.’ Dorothea could tell he wished he himself were going to fight, a young man once more.

‘My sister’s husband is a Captain in the 8th Hussars and bound to be sent to fight. She is hoping to accompany him.’ She asked the question that was foremost in her mind: ‘Do you think she will be safe?’

‘Who can say? Wives have accompanied troops to battle for centuries past, and they had their uses in cooking and doing laundry for the men. But times are changing and it’s damn foolishness that they still take them now the new longer-range guns are in use. Commanders’ attention is diverted from the battlefield to providing suitable accommodation for ladies, and extra food is needed. I always thought it was madness.’ He coughed with the effort of this speech. ‘The 8th Hussars, you say? Part of the Light Brigade. Safer than the Heavy Brigade, at least. The Heavies lead the attacks but the Light are mostly used for reconnaissance. Who are your brother-in-law’s family?’

‘The Harvingtons of Northampton.’

‘Are they a military family?’

‘I’m afraid I do not know. I haven’t made their acquaintance.’ Dorothea coloured. ‘I regret to say the marriage was somewhat hasty, arranged so that my sister might go with the army and remain at her husband’s side.’

‘You must be very concerned,’ Mr Peters said in a hoarse whisper.

‘I am.’ Dorothea blinked back a tear. ‘I’m terrified for Lucy but I cannot write to her as I don’t know where they are lodging.’

‘If you write on the envelope “Care of Captain Harvington, 8th Hussars” and send it to the regimental headquarters, they’ll pass it on …’ he rasped, then a tickle caught in his throat and he began to cough with a nasty hacking sound. He closed his eyes as his ribcage heaved with the effort. His lungs often became congested, causing him to choke and struggle for breath but he never complained. Dorothea thumped his back to dislodge the phlegm and held a bowl for him to spit into, noting that his sputum was an unhealthy greenish-yellow in colour. Earlier she’d noticed that his feet were turning black from lack of circulation. She hoped the principal physician would look in on him later.

When the hacking cough had at last subsided, Dorothea saw that Mr Peters’ lips had a bluish tinge and his skin was pale. He seemed to summon every effort to say one more thing to Dorothea. ‘If you’ll excuse me saying, Sister, it’s best to make peace while you still can,’ he whispered, then closed his eyes to rest. Every coughing fit drained his remaining strength.

‘Would you like me to fetch a vicar, or a priest?’ Dorothea asked, wondering if that’s what he was hinting, but he shook his head vehemently. In earlier conversations he had expressed a low opinion of religion but she often found patients changed their minds as death approached.

The physician who came to examine Mr Peters later told Dorothea that he thought the end was near. ‘Can you contact his family?’ he asked.

‘There are no close relatives, I’m afraid. I asked him who I should contact if his condition worsened but he said there was no one.’

Perhaps that will be my situation one day, Dorothea mused – especially if this terrible rift with Lucy is not healed. At thirty-one, she was too old to marry and have children. The thought filled her with sadness, but she comforted herself that at least she had her work. She loved being useful to her patients and knew she was good at easing their suffering and making them feel they were not alone. Hospitals were terrifying places, where you were surrounded by strangers, with doctors whisking in to perform painful procedures before disappearing again. Dorothea tried to make patients feel she was a friend, someone on their side, and their heartfelt thanks were gratifying.

She decided to spend the day sitting with Mr Peters, whose breathing was now tortured and shallow. He clearly didn’t have long to go and she couldn’t let him pass away on his own. She made herself a cup of tea and pulled up a chair by his bed, then wiped his brow and offered him a sip of water but he shook his head. Each breath was an effort and before long he drifted into sleep. There was a rattling in his throat, the noise some called the death rattle, caused, she knew, by saliva gathering once he could no longer swallow. She kept wetting his lips so they didn’t crack and holding a cool cloth on his brow. Although he was unconscious she hoped he could sense her presence.

At four-thirty he opened his eyes one last time, choking from the fluid in his lungs. His hands were freezing cold and she could smell the sharp chemical scent she often noted right at the end. Dorothea slipped the pillow from beneath his head because death would come quicker if he was lying flat. ‘Goodbye,’ she whispered. ‘You are a good man and I’ll miss our conversations.’ She squeezed his shoulder as he took one last virtually undetectable breath, just as she had done five years earlier on the night her mother died.

That had been a cruel death. Her mother had been in hideous pain as the cancer gnawed through her insides. She could keep nothing down, not even the laudanum that could have offered some relief, and her opium enema seemed to do little good. Towards the end the disease had been in her spine, making it impossible to find a comfortable position whether sitting or lying. She was terrified, yet strove to muffle her cries of agony in the blankets so as not to waken thirteen-year-old Lucy, who was asleep in her bedroom down the corridor. Dorothea could see the fear etched in her mother’s eyes, could hear her whispered pleas for help, and was powerless to do more than hold her hand, moisten her lips and soothe her with whispered endearments. The doctor came and went, leaving further useless supplies of laudanum; their vicar came to pray. Her father couldn’t bear it and retreated to his study, leaving Dorothea to witness the final throes of the awful death struggle on her own. It was an experience that scarred her, something that would never leave her. Her mother’s last breath when it came was a blessed release from acute torture and the expression caught at the moment of death was one of horror. Thankfully Lucy had not witnessed any of it. By the time she came to see the body the following morning, their mother’s features had settled into a peaceful repose. Lucy complained of not being called to say goodbye but Dorothea knew she was too young for such a distressing sight.

Mr Peters, by contrast, had a peaceful death, the best he could have hoped for. Dorothea sat with his body for half an hour watching the tightening of his features, the blanching of his complexion, then she helped the orderly to wash and prepare him for the undertaker. It was five-thirty in the evening when she walked out into the street in her dark wool cloak and climbed into a Hansom cab the hospital porter had called to take her back to Russell Square.

Covent Garden was abuzz with costermongers dismantling their fruit and veg stalls under the metal and glass awning, and flower girls with a few remaining pink, white and yellow blooms in their baskets. Some ladies of the night hovered on street corners, hoping for an early piece of business. Nothing shocked Dorothea after her work in the hospital. She had seen all types pass through its doors.

Back in her bedroom, she started to change for dinner but she was too agitated to fiddle with all the buttons on her gown. Instead she sat at her dresser to compose a letter to Lucy. She told her she was sorry for her actions, that she hoped her marriage would be a very happy one. She was sad to have missed the ceremony but perhaps once they were reconciled she could host a celebration for them … Suddenly Dorothea dropped the pen and a great sob tore from her chest. She gasped and tried to control herself but emotion took hold and she shook with intense grief.

‘Please God, don’t let any harm come to Lucy,’ she prayed, squeezing her eyes tight shut. ‘I’ve let her down and I will never forgive myself if anything bad happens to her.’

She laid her head on the dresser and fell asleep, waking an hour later when the bell rang for dinner to find her tears had soaked the writing paper and blurred the ink.

PART TWO

Chapter Four

24th April 1854

Plymouth Dockyard was teeming with people bustling between precarious stacks of luggage. Tall-masted ships stretched as far as the eye could see. The noise of ships’ horns sounding, street traders crying their wares, and the anxious chatter of bystanders was overwhelming. Lucy worried that they would never find their way but when Charlie hailed a porter and asked him to take them to the Shooting Star, the man seemed confident about finding it. He loaded a trolley with their steamer trunk, all their bags stuffed to bursting, and their large tin bath, and set off. Charlie clutched Lucy’s arm tightly and hurried them through the throng in pursuit of their luggage.

Before long, he spotted some comrades in royal blue and gold Hussars uniform and hailed them, pulling Lucy forwards to introduce her. She shook hands with several gentlemen and was pleased to note their appreciative glances. She had dressed with care in a wide-skirted soft wool gown with cascading ruffles in the skirt, and a warm fitted jacket, both of a deep blue very similar to that of the Hussars’ colours. A prettily trimmed bonnet framed her face.

‘I think you have new admirers,’ Charlie winked, squeezing her hand.

As they approached the ship, she noticed several women sobbing, with young children clinging to their skirts, and asked Charlie what ailed them.

‘These are the soldiers’ wives who can’t come along,’ he told her. ‘There was a ballot and only a few won a place. You’re lucky to be the wife of an officer, as we can all bring our wives, if our commanders agree.’

‘What will become of them while their husbands are away?’ She felt alarmed for their plight. She had no idea what would have happened to her if she hadn’t been allowed to accompany Charlie because his wages were not sufficient, after stoppages for uniform and so forth, for him to have supported her in lodgings like the boarding house where they had been living in Warwick for the last three months. She suspected from the haste with which he insisted they leave that he owed money to the landlady there. If a captain couldn’t manage, how could the soldiers, who earned so much less?

‘I expect their families will look after them,’ Charlie said, as if the question hadn’t occurred to him.

Some called out – ‘Miss, can you help us?’ ‘Need a lady’s maid, Miss?’ – and Lucy cast her eyes down, feeling guilty that she had a place while they did not.

They walked up the gangway onto the ship and followed their porter down to the officers’ deck, where Charlie located their cabin. Lucy swallowed her surprise at how small it was, barely six paces wide and ten long, with a bunk so narrow they would be crushed tight together. There was hardly any hanging space for her gowns, and only one tiny mirror above the washbowl.

‘This is one of the better cabins I’ve seen on a military ship,’ Charlie remarked cheerfully. ‘It’s very well appointed.’

Lucy kept her thoughts to herself. ‘I’ll just unpack a few things, dearest, to make it a little more homely.’

‘In that case, I’ll go and check on the horses on the deck below.’ He kissed her full on the lips and grasped one of her breasts with a wink before he left.

Lucy felt her cheeks flush and she hummed as she arranged their possessions. She liked having someone to look after, loved the intimacy of sharing a bed and eating meals with Charlie. ‘You see, Dorothea?’ she thought. ‘You were wrong!’

Before long, she heard women’s voices in the corridor and popped her head out. The first woman she saw introduced herself as Mrs Fanny Duberly, wife of the 8th Hussars’ Quartermaster. She seemed rather superior in attitude, and moved off after only the briefest ‘hallo’ but not before Lucy had noted that her gown was plain grey worsted and not remotely fashionable. The other woman, Adelaide Cresswell, had a kind face and shook Lucy’s hand warmly.

‘Charlie is a good friend of my husband Bill, so you and I must also be friends, my dear.’

‘Yes, please,’ Lucy cried. ‘I would love that. We women must stick together. I need your advice on how I can support my husband. We are so recently wed I don’t yet know what is expected of an officer’s wife.’

Adelaide smiled and squeezed her hand. ‘I was overjoyed to hear about your marriage. Charlie is a very lucky man. Look how pretty you are! Such lovely china blue eyes.’ She glanced past Lucy into their cabin. ‘Goodness, you’ve brought rather a lot of luggage.’

Lucy looked at the pile. ‘In truth, it was hard knowing what to bring. I’ve had to leave many of my possessions in store,’ she explained. ‘Charlie told me I would need summer clothes, but I also tried to think of items we might need if we have to sleep in a tent.’ She couldn’t contemplate quite how she would manage to change her gowns and perform her toilette in such a cramped space but she was prepared to give it a try if that’s what being an army wife entailed. As well as the tin bath, she had brought some soft feather pillows and a pale gold silk bedspread that used to be her mother’s, so they would have some home comforts.

‘Of course you did – and I’m sure they’ll come in very useful. It’s just that we may have to carry our own luggage at times and your trunk looks rather heavy …’ Seeing Lucy’s alarmed expression, Adelaide added quickly: ‘I expect Charlie will find someone to help you. Now, I was on my way below deck to introduce myself to the women travelling with Bill’s company, the 11th Hussars. Perhaps you would like to come and meet the wives of Charlie’s men? There’s plenty of time as the ship won’t leave harbour till after dinner.’

Lucy’s eyes widened. ‘I’d love to!’ It hadn’t occurred to her that Charlie had men beneath him, men who obeyed his commands, but she supposed as a captain that he must. She was anxious to give the right impression and decided she would follow Adelaide’s lead.

Two decks below their own, there was a strong smell of rotting vegetation, which Adelaide told her came from the bilge. The soldiers’ wives were in a shared dormitory and Adelaide greeted them, explaining who she and Lucy were, and saying that they would be happy to offer assistance if any was required. The women looked doubtfully at Lucy, who was by far the youngest of the thirteen wives accompanying the 8th Hussars. Most were rough, sturdy women, with ruddy faces and cheap gowns; none looked a day under thirty.

‘What an exquisite shawl,’ Lucy commented to one woman, who was wearing a gaudy, paisley-patterned garment round her shoulders. ‘Are your beds comfortable? Ours is so narrow I think my husband will knock me to the floor if he turns in his sleep.’

‘Make sure you sleep by the wall so he’s the one that falls out,’ one suggested, and Lucy agreed that would be the sensible course. She asked about children left behind, about where the women normally lived, about their husbands’ names and duties, and she felt by the time she and Adelaide left that she had made a good first impression.

‘We will all be good friends after this adventure. I am sure of it,’ she called back.

That evening she and Charlie shared a table in the officers’ dining hall with the Cresswells. Lucy had changed into a blue and purple silk taffeta evening gown with smocked bodice, and dressed her own hair in the absence of any apparent ladies’ maids, but she noticed that Adelaide wore the same plain serge gown as earlier. Looking around, all the officers’ wives were in day dress; it seemed dinner was not a dressy occasion.

‘Why didn’t you warn me not to wear evening dress?’ she whispered to Charlie, feeling embarrassed.

He grinned. ‘I love to see you all dressed up. You are by far the most beautiful woman on the ship and I’m so proud to be with you.’

The food was plain cooking: soup, stew, pudding, with not even a fish course. The conversation was lively, though, with the men talking of war, and the belligerent stance of the Russian Tsar Nicholas I who dreamed of creating a huge empire in the East from the remains of the tottering Ottoman Empire.

‘Do you have children?’ Lucy asked Adelaide, and realised she had touched a raw nerve when tears sprang to Adelaide’s eyes, which she blinked away before replying.

‘We have a little girl called Martha, who is four, and a boy, Archie, who’s just three. I’m sorry …’ She closed her eyes briefly to regain control. ‘It was a wrench leaving them behind, although they are with my mother and will receive the best of care. I decided that Bill needed me more. I want to make sure he has a clean uniform and decent food as well as a woman’s comfort while he is out fighting for us.’

‘Well, of course,’ Lucy agreed. ‘All the same, I can imagine how difficult it must have been to leave your little darlings.’ Adelaide must be in her twenties to have such young children, she guessed; she looked older, her face tanned and lined by the sun.

After dinner, Lucy and Charlie strolled out on deck to watch as the Shooting Star pulled out of harbour then promptly came to a halt while they waited for the wind to change. She felt a thrill run through her: it was the first time she had left English soil. She felt so lucky to be there, with the man she loved. In their cabin, Charlie poured glasses of some rum he had brought along and they toasted the voyage: ‘We’re on our way!’ He raised his glass and she did the same. ‘This is where the adventure begins! And I am the happiest man alive that you are here by my side.’ He gazed at her and despite his words she could see the sadness in his eyes. She knew his loneliness after being cast off by his family still haunted him, although it had happened five years earlier. ‘If you had been unable to come, I swear I would have deserted from the army. I couldn’t bear to be without you now, Lucy.’

His words caught in his throat and Lucy knew how deeply they were felt. It was part of what made her love him so wholeheartedly: the sense that beneath his confident manner there was a vulnerable man who needed her in a way she had never been needed before.

‘I know, darling, and I couldn’t be without you either.’ She stroked his dear face with the tips of her fingers.

‘We are so lucky to have found each other,’ he breathed. ‘Before I met you, I was nothing, a hollow shell of a man. I had no family, just some friends who enjoy me larking around: “Good old Charlie, he’s always up for some fun.” But with you I can be myself and know you love me no matter what.’

‘I will always love you …’ she began to say but Charlie silenced her by covering her mouth with kisses so tender that her heart almost stopped. They fell onto the bed and while they made love she marvelled at his passion; she loved the way he lost himself completely in her, loved the amazing secret of married love into which she had now been initiated.

He fell asleep straight afterwards with his arm wrapped around her neck. She would have to wake him later because both were still half-clothed: her petticoats were twisted beneath her while he still wore his dress shirt, but she would let him rest awhile.

When she opened her eyes the next morning, Lucy could sense from a gentle rolling motion that the ship was on the move and she felt a quiver of excitement. That rolling became less gentle as the day progressed, and she had to press a hand to the corridor wall for support as she and Adelaide made their way to luncheon. Charlie’s day was spent trying to settle the horses, who neighed and whinnied, terrified of their enclosure in this rocking vessel, so Lucy and Adelaide strolled the deck gazing at the grey-green seas that surrounded them and took meals together. They went down to visit the soldiers’ wives again and Lucy was astonished to find some standing around in drawers and stays without a hint of modesty but she chatted as before, asking if their food was adequate and whether they saw more of their husbands than she was seeing of hers. She joked that Captain Harvington seemed to care more about the horses than his new wife, but in fact she loved the caring way he spoke of those magnificent creatures, particularly his own horse, Merlin, and his determination that he would do all he could to see they survived the journey unscathed.

On the second day, as they entered the Bay of Biscay, the sea became choppy. Loose objects fell from shelves and a little flower vase of Lucy’s was smashed on the cabin floor, startling her. After dressing, she made her way to Adelaide’s cabin to find her friend vomiting into a bedpan, her face bleached of colour and eyes sunken in their sockets. Lucy gave her a handkerchief to wipe her mouth, then went to find a steward who would empty the bedpan and bring a fresh pitcher of water.

‘All the other ladies are sick as well, Ma’am,’ the steward told her. ‘You must have a strong constitution.’

Sure enough, she heard retching sounds from Mrs Duberly’s cabin, although the quartermaster’s wife came to dinner that evening and remarked to Lucy she thought it a poor show that Adelaide didn’t make the effort to join them.

In fact, for the next three days poor Adelaide couldn’t keep down more than a few sips of water and Lucy was concerned for her. There was no doctor on board but the steward found a supply of Tarrant’s Seltzer so Lucy fed Adelaide teaspoonfuls of it, trying to keep her spirits up by telling her that the rough weather must pass soon; everyone said it must. She herself remained miraculously immune to the seasickness, and was able to go down to the soldiers’ wives and dispense fizzing glasses of seltzer to them too. It was good to feel useful, and as Adelaide began to recover Lucy sat and read to her, growing fonder by the day of her sweet nature. She was the kind of woman who would never hear bad of another; a woman whose outlook was sunny even while she was feeling so ill.

On their fourth night at sea there was a horrendous storm. Waves crashed against the side of the ship, lightning crackled and lit up the entire sky, and the frightened whinnying of horses filled the air. Lucy couldn’t sleep a wink but sat petrified by their porthole, watching the violence of the storm outside, while Charlie spent the night down below, sponging the horses’ nostrils with vinegar in an attempt to calm them. At one stage there was a terrible cracking sound, like an explosion, and for a moment Lucy feared they had been attacked by the Russians. She wrapped the silk bedspread around her, rubbing it against her lip for comfort as she used to do as a child when she fled to her mother’s bed after a nightmare. If only Charlie would come soon. There were a few terrifying hours before the worst was over, but as soon as dawn broke with a pale pink shimmer, the storm passed and the ship stopped rolling.

Charlie returned with some awful news: ‘The mizzen top and the main top mast broke at the height of the storm and crushed a man’s leg as they fell to deck.’

She was shocked. ‘Will he be all right?’

He shook his head. ‘He’ll lose the leg, for sure. Two of our horses – Moondance and Greystokes – perished. I couldn’t settle them and the poor creatures raved themselves to death.’

‘Is Merlin all right?’

‘Yes, thank goodness. Biscay is always rough but this is the worst storm I’ve experienced and it followed us right down the coast of Spain and Portugal. At least we’re through it now.’

Spain and Portugal: names Lucy had previously only seen on her father’s globe. She knew that Columbus had sailed from Portugal and imagined it as being very exotic. ‘Will they be able to mend the ship?’

‘Yes, the carpenters are hard at work.’ He noticed Lucy’s anxious expression and pulled her in for a hug. ‘Everything will be fine, my love. And you have been extraordinarily strong in the face of adversity. I knew you would be.’

She was thrilled with the compliment. ‘You must be exhausted. Why not lie down and rest awhile?’

‘I think I will. Come lie with me.’

Lucy held him close until he fell asleep and then she rose, dressed quietly and slipped up on deck to gaze out at the millpond sea glittering in the early morning light. The ship was close enough to shore for land to be visible and she shivered at the thought they were getting ever-nearer to the mysterious Turkish lands.

‘What is that huge black rock?’ she asked a passing sailor, and he told her ‘The Rock of Gibraltar, Ma’am.’

She stood watching as they pulled up beneath it then came to a halt, becalmed in the Straits. The Rock’s sheer slopes towered high above the ship’s main mast, like an ominous shadow against the sky.

On the 8th May, the Shooting Star docked at Valletta in Malta and all were allowed to go ashore. Adelaide had fully recovered and she and Lucy, along with Charlie and Bill, descended the gangway to the dock, the ladies sheltering beneath parasols from the heat of the sun. ‘What larks!’ Lucy cried, scarcely able to contain her excitement as she set foot on foreign soil. Locals flocked around trying to sell them hand-coloured cards, china knick-knacks and bonnets made out of scratchy straw. They sat in a café near the dock sipping tea and watching fishermen drag boxes of fresh fish up the slope. One man was pounding a freshly caught octopus against a rock – to tenderise its meat, Charlie said – and Lucy flinched at the blows. They dined well in a local hostelry, with fresh fish in a cream sauce, tender lamb chops, and delicate little custard puddings. A fiddler played in the corner and once they had eaten Charlie persuaded the waiters to clear some tables so there was room for dancing, which he led in high-kicking style, pulling Lucy up to join him in a lively polka. Bottles of jewel-coloured liqueurs were produced, made from fruits Lucy had never heard of: prickly pear, pomegranate and carob. The ladies tried delicate sips but found them over-strong.

They were joined by Major Dodds, who challenged Charlie to drink a shot of each spirit behind the bar and said he would do the same. Their aim was explained to the bartender who lined up glasses in a row, which they supped in carnival style. A game of cribbage was initiated and Lucy could tell from Charlie’s excited whoops that he was winning.

‘They call him Lucky Charlie,’ Adelaide told her. ‘No matter what the game, he seems to have a knack with cards.’

Lucy hadn’t known that her husband liked gambling. Dorothea was very disapproving of gamblers and would have considered it a black mark against him, but Adelaide didn’t seem to see any harm in it. Lucy was learning more about her husband all the time. It wasn’t just his funny dancing style, and the fact that he was said to be lucky; she had never realised how popular he was with his fellows and it was heart-warming to watch. She had no regrets about coming away with him; she just wished it had been possible for her older sister to share her joy.

The next day she wrote to her father. Charlie had asked her not to write before they set sail in case Dorothea made one last attempt to stop them, but she missed her papa and now they were on their way she could see no harm in it.

‘The soldiers’ and officers’ wives are one happy family,’ she wrote, ‘linked by a warm camaraderie and eagerness to explore our new surroundings. We are enjoying the foreign aspects of Malta, with its fragrant flowers trailing up the walls of houses and twining round balconies, the dark-eyed children who follow us in the street, and the uncannily bright blue of sea and sky sparkling in sunlight.’ She sucked the end of her pen then continued: ‘I hope that you are in good health, Papa, and that your back is not troubling you. I will write again when I can, but do not worry if you don’t hear for a while as we may not be able to post our letters when in the field.’ She signed the letter ‘Your loving daughter’. She didn’t ask after Dorothea, still cross whenever she thought of her meddling. Her sister had believed she was behaving as a mother to Lucy, but in fact their real mother, the irrepressibly gay woman who had died when Lucy was thirteen, would have been wildly enthusiastic about this trip. Lucy imagined her crying, ‘My darling, what fun! Be sure to write and describe all the details. And bring me back a Russkie’s helmet!’

Before they set sail from Malta, Lucy was astonished to hear that five out of the thirteen Hussars’ wives had asked to be sent home to England. The rigours of the voyage had been too much for them and they did not want to continue further. She remonstrated with one woman.

‘Won’t you stay to support our brave troops? Think how much comfort it would bring your husband to have you with him. Please say you will reconsider.’

The woman shook her head, a little shamefaced but determined. ‘It’s too hard on the ship. You have a nice cabin but we’ve been stuck in that awful dormitory listening to the sounds of each other vomiting, and breathing smells the like of which I hope never to come across again, while being tossed around in an old wooden bucket.’

‘But the war will not last long. With the British and French joining the Ottomans, it is three armies against one. The Russians can’t possibly hold out.’

‘All the same, I can’t take the risk, Ma’am. I have four children. I have to get myself back to them in one piece.’

Lucy bit her lip, thinking of the sobbing women in Plymouth Dock who would have given anything to be there. It was incomprehensible to her that someone could decide to leave just as the adventure was commencing. Granted, the voyage had been unpleasant but now they were all together, exploring the island by day and throwing impromptu parties every night, she was filled with excitement at the prospect of the coming months. She was doing her duty to her country and to her new husband; who would have thought it would turn out to be such fun?

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