Read The Rose of Sebastopol Online
Authors: Katharine McMahon
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Literary, #Historical
The Rose of Sebastopol (20 page)
Suddenly a door opened, male feet crossed the hall, and there was Father, rubbing his hands and ringing for Ruth to bring up the Madeira while Henry was embraced by Mother and given a tearful kiss by my aunt, and there was I, blushing and demure, receiving a little glass, smiling into Henry’s eyes, holding his hand for the first time in public.
We were duly toasted and I presented him with Rosa’s portrait of me, wrapped in waxed paper and tied with a blue ribbon. He unrolled it carefully and stared at it for a long time. “Are you sure I can have this?”
“Of course. Rosa gave it to me. She would be delighted if she knew you were taking it with you.”
“It’s a pity we couldn’t ask her first. She’s still not back then.”
“By all means wait . . .”
“No, no. I must pack. There is a great deal to do. I have been here too long already.”
Now that we were engaged I was allowed to put on my shawl and walk with him to the garden gate, in the dark. He put one arm round my waist and with the other reached for my hand. The wind gusted and the sky was so dark that I could hardly see his face. He spoke into my hair, above my ear. “I wanted to give you this ring of my mother’s. When I come back we’ll buy you something new, if you like, but in the meantime I wonder if you would wear it for me.”
A cold band slid over my finger and when I held it up close I saw the three glittering stones that had once been Aunt Eppie’s sole ornament. Henry kissed the ring then drew my hand through his arm and we walked on.
The garden was full of the ghosts of all that he and I had ever been to each other. I could track the progress of our love, the suspense of waiting for a visit, the self-conscious smiles and blushes, and after he’d gone my lonely revisiting of the places where we had sat together. Then, as we entered the wilderness I heard Rosa’s voice as she confronted him with folded arms and tears in her eyes—
But you can have no respect at all for me . . .
—the sudden crowding of the path, the jostling as we walked three abreast, the joy of reconciliation.
But you can have no respect at all for me . . .
—the sudden crowding of the path, the jostling as we walked three abreast, the joy of reconciliation.
By the time we reached the door in the wall I was crying so hard that I couldn’t hide it from him. “I don’t think I can bear you to go. You don’t know ... you don’t know ...”
“What don’t I know?” He kissed my face and held me in his arms. It was glorious and sweet to be so firmly possessed and yet the pain of what was happening made me brittle. “Hush, hush, my darling girl. You must bear up.”
“But after all this time, we’ve had only a few minutes. I feel as if I’ve wasted all these years, not being able to show you, tell you ... and now you are going away.”
“I’m only going away like all the other times. I want you to write to me every week if you will, and as soon as I come back we will be married. But please, Mariella, no more tears. This is not like you.” He pulled away and held me firmly by the upper arms. “It will be three months at most. Dearest love, we must get better at saying good-bye or we shall never be able to bear it.” He kissed my hand, unclenched my fingers, which were fastened tight round the key, took it from me, and opened the gate. “By the way, send Miss Barr my regards. Tell her I’m sorry to have missed her but that I couldn’t stay. Good-bye now, Mariella. Good-bye.”
“Henry,” I cried, but he was gone, his rapid footfall fading while the gate caught the wind and groaned on its hinges. “Henry.” He didn’t come back. I waited and waited but there was only the sound of the wind funneling down the lane, so I pulled shut the gate, crouched down, wrapped my arms round my knees, and tried to understand why, on this happiest of nights, my heart was breaking.
When Rosa came in later I was already in bed. “I went to say good night to Mother and she told me the news. Oh, darling girl, you must be so happy. I’m so glad for you. But why are you crying? ”
“He’s gone to the war. He’s proposed at last, after all this time, and now he’s going away.”
“But he’ll be safe. He’s not going to fight, after all.”
“You don’t know what it’s like. I’m forever having to say good-bye to him. You’re not in love with anyone so you don’t know what it feels like to be without the one person in the world who makes you truly happy . . .”
She released me and stood up. “No. Perhaps not. But, Mariella, try to be joyful, at least tonight. This is what you have been wanting all your life, isn’t it? Only the very few ever achieve that.” She stood over me for a moment longer. “I’ll leave you in peace then, shall I? I expect you would like to be alone tonight.”
Seventeen
W
e read in THE TIMES that less than
a fortnight after landing in the Crimean Peninsula the allied army in Russia had won a great victory at a village called Alma and that Sebastopol had fallen. Up to two thousand English soldiers had been killed or wounded but we all agreed that a short, sharp battle had been just what was needed to ensure a speedy victory and to show the Russians our mettle.
e read in THE TIMES that less than
a fortnight after landing in the Crimean Peninsula the allied army in Russia had won a great victory at a village called Alma and that Sebastopol had fallen. Up to two thousand English soldiers had been killed or wounded but we all agreed that a short, sharp battle had been just what was needed to ensure a speedy victory and to show the Russians our mettle.
Though Henry couldn’t possibly have reached the Crimea by September 20, I read and reread the war reports in the newspaper for mention of how the medical services had performed. A few days after the Battle of Alma there was a disturbing indication that things hadn’t gone quite as smoothly as they might have done:
When I was looking at the wounded men going off today, I could not see an English ambulance. Our men were sent to the sea, three miles distant, on jolting arabas or tedious litters. The French—I am tired of this disgraceful comparison—had well-appointed covered hospital vans, to hold ten or twelve men, drawn by fine mules....
What a pity, Mother said, that Henry hadn’t been there in time to put things right for the wounded. But at least the war was bound to end any moment now. He would soon reappear in the drawing room, for all the world as if he had been on a trip to Edinburgh or Oxford rather than Turkey.
I began sewing a trousseau. My allowance had been increased on my engagement, and I bought yards of cambric muslin to sew under-garments and nightgowns fit for the The Elms. Folders of paper patterns piled up in the morning room and at night when I closed my eyes all I could see was a froth of lace and broderie anglaise. Rosa used to unwrap my latest creation, hold it up to the light, marvel at my tucks and frills, and press her face to the cloth because she said she loved the scent of fabric fresh from the roll.
But it then turned out that the news reports had been very misleading, that although the allied forces had certainly won a battle, Sebastopol had by no means been taken, and in fact now our forces were digging in for a long siege which would probably last all winter. I had been faithfully filling my album with clippings from
The Times
, and on October 10, when I collected the previous day’s paper from Father’s study, I was confronted with the words:
The Times
, and on October 10, when I collected the previous day’s paper from Father’s study, I was confronted with the words:
Our victory was glorious ... but there has been a great want of proper medical attention; the wounded were left, some for two nights . . . on the field. The number of lives which have been sacrificed by the want of proper arrangements and neglect must be considerable.
“
The want of proper arrangements
...” Though I put the paper down hurriedly and took up my sewing, the words shrouded me like a wet cloak. Surely Henry wasn’t to blame. He was always right about everything so it wasn’t possible that he could have been wrong about this. Someone else must be responsible, the military men, probably, who according to Rosa planned things piecemeal, reacting to each new crisis as it arose. In the end I cut out the article but didn’t stick it in, thinking I would wait until the news was better so that the unpleasant words of October 9 didn’t spoil the album.
The want of proper arrangements
...” Though I put the paper down hurriedly and took up my sewing, the words shrouded me like a wet cloak. Surely Henry wasn’t to blame. He was always right about everything so it wasn’t possible that he could have been wrong about this. Someone else must be responsible, the military men, probably, who according to Rosa planned things piecemeal, reacting to each new crisis as it arose. In the end I cut out the article but didn’t stick it in, thinking I would wait until the news was better so that the unpleasant words of October 9 didn’t spoil the album.
But a couple of days later, on the twelfth, Father came in just as we were going to bed.
The Times
was folded on its tray waiting for him but he already knew what it contained. “This is very grave,” he said at once. “Has anyone told you the news? I’m afraid I can’t spare you,” and he read us the latest article:
The Times
was folded on its tray waiting for him but he already knew what it contained. “This is very grave,” he said at once. “Has anyone told you the news? I’m afraid I can’t spare you,” and he read us the latest article:
It is with feelings of surprise and anger that the public will learn that no sufficient preparations have been made for the proper care of the wounded. Not only are there not sufficient surgeons—that, it might be urged, was unavoidable; not only are there no dressers and nurses—that might be a defect of the system for which no-one is to blame; but what is there to be said when it is known that there is not even sufficient linen to make bandages for the wounded? The greatest commiseration prevails for the sufferings of the unhappy inmates of Scutari.... Not only are men kept, in some cases, for a week without the hand of a medical man coming near their wounds . . . but now, when they are placed in the spacious building, where we were led to believe that everything was ready which could ease their pain or facilitate their recovery, it is found that the commonest appliances of a workhouse sick-ward are wanting, and that the men must die through the medical staff of the British army having forgotten that old rags are necessary for the dressing of wounds...
Mother seized her pen as if she would immediately dash off a letter of protest, Aunt Isabella pushed her upper body out of the cushions and stared about the room, and Rosa sat with her head in her hands and her hair covering her face.
Finally Isabella said: “Yes, but this can’t be true. I thought your Dr. Thewell went out specifically to get everything ready.”
“It looks so bad,” said Father. “The country will feel it and the government will struggle to survive. The trouble is when a nation goes to war it does so on the assumption that it is going to win.”
“We are winning, I thought,” said Isabella.
“Not just the physical battles but the moral ones too. It’s hard for a nation to sustain a shock like this. The people will come to hate the war. Confidence will suffer and business will be affected. We’ll all feel it.”
Another silence. “But what about Henry?” I said.
Rosa lifted her head and gave me a strange, dreary look. “He couldn’t have known, he’d never been on a battlefield so he won’t have imagined thousands of casualties.”
“Well, what were the other military doctors thinking of? They knew what war was like.”
“I doubt it. One or two of them might have been present at a few spats in India maybe.”
“But you said there would be no casualties, Father,” I cried.
“
Few
. Few. I thought few casualties. It’s not my job to predict what’s going to happen in a war. Now don’t get upset. The Russians can’t hold out for long against the combined forces of British, French, and Turks, for goodness’ sake. And as for the medical matters, now the authorities have been alerted to the problem it can only be a matter of days before it’s all sorted out. Modern transport is very fast and our manufacturing trade is second to none. Before we know it those hospitals will be better stocked than any in the world. I’ll have a word with a couple of colleagues, see if we can get things moving forward.”
Few
. Few. I thought few casualties. It’s not my job to predict what’s going to happen in a war. Now don’t get upset. The Russians can’t hold out for long against the combined forces of British, French, and Turks, for goodness’ sake. And as for the medical matters, now the authorities have been alerted to the problem it can only be a matter of days before it’s all sorted out. Modern transport is very fast and our manufacturing trade is second to none. Before we know it those hospitals will be better stocked than any in the world. I’ll have a word with a couple of colleagues, see if we can get things moving forward.”
Mother laid down her pen and blotted her work. “We can help. I’ll speak to Mrs. Hardcastle. We can cut bandages. I have masses of sheets upstairs we never use. Together we can sort it out.”
Eighteen
B
y Monday, October
16
,
a sewing circle was established in the morning room at Fosse House. Even Isabella was included; the plight of the wounded soldiers in Russia seemed to have done more to improve her health than any amount of bed rest, and it turned out she could manage an adequate hem stitch and produce thirty or so linen arm supports a day. Mrs. Hardcastle, a leading member of the group, sat in her green satin, surprised brows shot up high under her cap, cutting triangular bandages. In fact, as she reminded us regularly, she and her husband had made a double sacrifice for the troops, first by all this work—Mr. Hardcastle managed a bank and was engaged in financial transactions to do with funding the military campaign—then by the fact that they had been planning a well-earned trip to Europe but had now to postpone their departure.
y Monday, October
16
,
a sewing circle was established in the morning room at Fosse House. Even Isabella was included; the plight of the wounded soldiers in Russia seemed to have done more to improve her health than any amount of bed rest, and it turned out she could manage an adequate hem stitch and produce thirty or so linen arm supports a day. Mrs. Hardcastle, a leading member of the group, sat in her green satin, surprised brows shot up high under her cap, cutting triangular bandages. In fact, as she reminded us regularly, she and her husband had made a double sacrifice for the troops, first by all this work—Mr. Hardcastle managed a bank and was engaged in financial transactions to do with funding the military campaign—then by the fact that they had been planning a well-earned trip to Europe but had now to postpone their departure.
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