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.’
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