The Rose of Sebastopol (40 page)

For a while I stitched peacefully, and as I had chosen a simple design of connected trebles the work grew rapidly. Besides, I had a secret companion; the one letter that Henry had written since I came here was tucked into my pocket—just a few lines telling me about his studies and asking me not to forget him, but enough to satisfy me. I took it out and read it for perhaps the fiftieth time, then worked on my crochet again.

My hand went still because I had heard a distinct rustling behind the arbor. Perhaps I shouldn’t be here on my own. Was it poachers? But all was quiet again.

I made a few more loops...another scratching of leaves. There was something behind me in the undergrowth and I couldn’t see what it was because of the arbor. If I came out, what monstrous thing might spring at me? And if I didn’t move, what would suddenly appear and snatch me away?

I sat absolutely still and the woods were still too, just the fluting call of a bird.

I worked a row of crossed trebles.

More rustling. The hook froze between my finger and thumb. Then I heard a snort above my head and there was Rosa’s face contorted with suppressed laughter, peering down at me between the leaves, and a few feet away, Max. As soon as I saw them they exploded with laughter and dropped down beside me.

“We’ve been watching you for ages,” said Rosa.

“Your fingers move so fast when you work that they become a blur,” said Max.

I tried to laugh but instead I cried, because I had been so frightened.

“Oh no, oh, Mariella, I’m so sorry,” cried Rosa. “Don’t be upset. You were irresistible. You looked so peaceful in there, like a little kernel in a nut.”

“Show me how you do it,” said Max suddenly, sitting right up close so that his knee overlapped mine. “I want to learn.”

My hands were still shaking and I shrank away, because I thought he was teasing me, but he seemed deadly serious. “Please.”

I worked a couple of chain stitches, very slowly, then gave him the hook and yarn. At first he only made knots and twists, but then I put my hands on his and guided them as they wound the yarn and thrust in the hook. His fingers were stained with sap but very deft and soon he was making stitch after stitch. It was very odd to see him so still with his dark head bent over something as unlikely as a bit of crochet and to have his sharp knee poking my ribs. When the hook slipped out and the yarn tangled I had to start him off again.

Meanwhile Rosa crawled against my other side, wrapped her arms round my waist, and rested her head on my shoulder, kissing me from time to time on my wet cheek. The woods were entirely benign, full of green and golden light and wonderful, shifting shadows. They were both very gentle until it was time to go back and Rosa took it into her head to stand at the top of the steep bank and race down so that Max could catch her just at the moment when she was about to tumble into the stream. I watched as her hair fanned out and she gathered speed, faster, faster, and crashed into him; he staggered back a few paces then set her safely on her feet.

“Now you, Mariella,” he shouted, holding out his arms. “Come on, you don’t have to go very fast.”

“If you like I’ll do it with you,” said Rosa.

“I can’t. I don’t want to. Don’t make me,” and to my shame I started to cry again as I looked down at them, Max with his shirt untucked and his eyes unusually kind, Rosa already halfway up the bank in her eagerness to help me.

The CRIMEA, 1855

 

 

 

A
fter five days of my being unnoticed
by the authorities at the hospital, my luck ran out and I received a visit from an untidy woman, possibly a soldier’s wife, who told me that the superintendent of nurses, Mrs. Shaw Stewart, wished to see me in her office.

By now my clothes had developed the same sad creases as everybody else’s, my hair hadn’t been washed for a week, and my caps were limp. Nevertheless I put on a bonnet and gloves before I set off, quaking, for my appointment.

The lady in question was seated at a desk in a hut very like our own except that it was furnished with just one bed, a small table, a couple of chairs, and a mountain of papers. When I knocked she kept on writing while I hovered by the door and rehearsed my excuses.

Mrs. Shaw Stewart was undoubtedly high-born; her black merino gown contrived to be elegant even in the heat, the skin on her broad brow was fine and white, and the slenderness of her hands was a sure sign, as Mrs. Hardcastle would have said, of pedigree. I intended to create a common bond by alluding to Lady Mendlesham-Connors but when Mrs. Shaw Stewart at last gestured to a chair, her first remark blew away any thought of polite conversation. “Rosa Barr was your cousin, I believe, and Dr. Thewell your fiancé. Of course I knew Miss Barr. She and I traveled out together with Miss Stanley. We were first at the hospital at Koulali and then we both came over here in January to work at the General Hospital. Actually, I was very fond of her and admired the spirit with which she undertook all her work.”

I was speechless. Mrs. Shaw Stewart continued: “Nothing can excuse Miss Barr’s behavior. Believe me, Miss Lingwood, we have been given a near-impossible job here in Balaklava: the doctors throw obstacles in my path as if we were engaged in a ridiculous game of chess rather than a shared mission to cure the sick; I am constantly having difficulty with the nuns who try to distribute their wretched tracts to all and sundry; dear Miss Nightingale nearly died here and was thrown upon my care when I hardly had a glass of clean water at my disposal, let alone accommodation for a great lady. The last thing any of us needed was for your Rosa Barr to behave as she did.”

“How did she behave? Mrs. Shaw Stewart, I long...”

“Before I came here I was trained in establishments in Germany and London. I know what discipline is. And I have my faith. But these other ladies—so-called, they’re not all—come out here driven by some kind of missionary zeal and Miss Nightingale and I are left with a clutch of hysterical women on our hands, and a thousand wounded soldiers, and doctors who won’t let us have so much as an egg or a spot of eau de cologne from the stores unless they sign half a dozen documents first. Your Rosa Barr wanted to be the personal savior of every soldier she came across. And I do mean
every
. She was forever arguing that our own soldiers shouldn’t be given priority over Russian prisoners if they were more in need of help. She wouldn’t stick to the rules. She couldn’t see why a lady’s reputation is compromised if she sits up alone all night in a ward full of men. There are
boundaries
, Miss Lingwood, and your cousin would recognize none of them. So what happened to her doesn’t surprise me though of course I’m full of sorrow. What it means for me is one less pair of hands and several difficult letters to write when we do finally learn the truth.”

“What do you think...?”

“I have no time for speculation but to be frank, in my experience certain girls who place themselves among thousands of men miles from home are bound to get into trouble. Your cousin Rosa put herself beyond anyone’s help the moment she went up to live in the camp and work among the men in the trenches. You see, she went out on a limb and lost all sense of what was right. I’m sorry, Miss Lingwood, I know that you are engaged to Dr. Henry Thewell. This must be particularly painful for you...But a liaison between one of her nurses and a member of the medical profession was what Miss Nightingale feared above all things. We have had to fight so much prejudice among the doctors and now this.”

“Mrs. Shaw Stewart, while she was still working for you, how did Rosa seem in...”

“She seemed, as we all seemed, utterly bewildered. First a famine, then a feast. First no beds, or half-beds, beds either without mattresses or legs, then so many beds they’re stacked in their hundreds, taking up space. One minute we have nothing to eat except salt beef and stale biscuit, the next we have so much butter and preserved venison and plum pudding that there is a danger the men will grow bilious. Which reminds me. Jam.”

“I...”

“Jam. A jar of raspberry jam was found to have been taken from the shelf in Mrs. Whitehead’s hut where you and your servant are staying.”

“Well, yes, I...”

“Miss Lingwood, two points. The first: every single item from the ‘gifts’ stores, sent by kind people from England, has to be accounted for or the entire system will collapse about our ears. We have already had to send two women home for pilfering. The second: every open jar constitutes a hazard. You left the jar half open under the bed. Fortunately it was found before the entire hut had become infested with cockroaches.”

“I’m sorry. I...”

“Which brings me to the final matter. I took on Nora McCormack because I remembered Rosa Barr speaking about her very favorably while we were nursing in Skutari together. She had learnt many excellent practices from watching this Mrs. McCormack at work. However, it was against my better judgment to allow a woman to come here without references, and of course I was punished for my lack of caution because she immediately got sick.”

I knew what was coming, I even considered interrupting again, but she held up her hand. “There is no place for you here, Miss Lingwood. I understand and to an extent applaud your concern for your cousin but you cannot stay. Everyone knows that a major offensive is imminent and in that case the hospital will soon be full of wounded and you will be nothing but a burden on us. I expect you to be gone in a week but in the meantime you can continue with your sewing. Everything in the Crimea falls apart so you will not be short of work.”

“Of course. Thank you. I shall be de—”

“Meanwhile I do not expect you to associate with the Roman Catholic nuns, should you come across them. Mrs. Whitehead, however, is sound. Church of England. Father a clergyman. Minor. And keep your distance from the convalescents or walking wounded. A man may be at death’s door but his thoughts will always be suspect.”

She picked up her pen, which I took to be a sign of dismissal. “By the way, Miss Lingwood, you might like to know...” She paused significantly while I waited by the door, listening to the distant pounding of guns and the clash of metal utensils in a nearby hut. “This is the hut in which Miss Nightingale stayed when she was ill. For weeks, in this very place, her life hung in the balance. That was the bed where she rested her head, and on the other side there was a little camp bed on which her devoted nurse, Mrs. Roberts, slept, whenever she was able. That is the table with folding legs, as you see, so that it can serve as a tray, at which Miss Nightingale wrote notes and letters, even in her delirium, such is her dedication. Every day a messenger came to the door to receive a report on her health so that he could take it back to the troops. At one point during her illness Lord Raglan himself came to visit her. Even the queen sent a message. Such is the esteem in which Miss Nightingale’s name is held by every soldier, of whatever rank, in the Crimea and by our dear friends at home. This is why, Miss Lingwood, at all times Miss Nightingale’s nurses must be above reproach: so many great men and women have staked their reputation on our success.”