tents, anxious about vapours. She stopped wandering out to chat with other women at the cookhouse or down by the river, keeping close to the area around their tent in the hope that they had chosen an area of healthy soil. But her precautions were in vain. One evening, Bill was unable to eat his dinner but rose unsteadily and lurched towards the latrine trench where they emptied their bedpans. Shortly afterwards they heard him throwing up. Adelaide’s face turned pale as she rushed to help him. His forehead was hot and his eyes glassy. The diagnosis seemed clear.
‘Should I take him to the hospital tent?’ she asked Charlie.
‘Don’t,’ was his advice. ‘No one who goes there comes out alive. I hear it’s best to nurse patients in isolation. Lucy and I will move out of the tent to give you space, and will leave supplies for you outside.’
Lucy’s throat was tight with fear – what if their patch of land was poisoned? What if Charlie caught the cholera? – but she was determined to be strong. ‘Don’t worry about anything but caring for your husband,’ she told Adelaide. ‘I’ll bring water and food, and will empty bedpans if you leave them outside. Tell me whatever you need and I’ll find it.’
Adelaide helped Bill to lie down in the tent and moistened a cloth to wipe his brow. ‘A cure,’ she said, her voice choked up. ‘I need a cure.’
Charlie and Lucy retrieved their bedding and slept under the stars, as they had done on the first night in Varna. They clung together, both terrified but unwilling to put their fears into words. Lucy decided she would write to her father asking if he knew any remedies and presumably he would then ask Dorothea’s advice. Perhaps she would send some miraculous medicine post-haste.
Next morning, Lucy called to Adelaide from outside the tent and was relieved to hear that Bill’s condition was not any worse. She set off to get fresh water, the legs of her drawers tied tight to deter leeches. While she was filling her bucket, she saw one of the Sisters of Charity who accompanied the French army and in her best French asked for advice on treating cholera.
‘The doctors give calomel for purging,’ the Sister told her, ‘but we believe it only increases the agony. Keep your friend’s temperature down with cool cloths and feed him tiny sips of water and chicken broth. May God be with you all.’ She made the sign of the cross.
Lucy took a bucket of fresh water back to their tent and called to Adelaide, telling her the advice she’d received and adding that she was setting out to beg for a chicken from one of the farmers. At the same time she would post the letter she had written.
‘Don’t take any risks on our account,’ Adelaide called. ‘Stay well clear of others. I couldn’t forgive myself if anything happened to you …’
Lucy had never made chicken broth before but with Adelaide calling instructions from inside the tent, she managed to produce a palatable brew and she left a large bowl of it by the tent flap, along with half a loaf of black bread.
For two days and two nights, neither Bill nor Adelaide emerged and there was little sound from inside the tent but Lucy could tell from the contents of the bedpans that the illness continued. She felt desperately lonely and scared during the day when Charlie went about his duties, and every evening she examined him for possible symptoms – was his brow slightly warm, his complexion pale? – but he seemed fine. Fatalities multiplied and coffins had to be constructed from any materials that could be found: Lucy saw one that read ‘Bass’s Superior Pale Ale’ on the side, which seemed horribly disrespectful to the dead. Was life really so cheap that a man could be full of life one day and buried in a beer crate the next?
On the third day of Bill’s illness, Charlie went hunting and brought back four quail. He plucked them then Lucy roasted them, following Adelaide’s method, and she was delighted to hear that Bill had managed to eat a small portion. He must be on the mend, and, thank God, Adelaide was showing no signs of having caught the disease.
Only when she and Charlie lay down to sleep that evening did Lucy dare to put into words the fearful thought that had been in her mind these last days, making her chest tight with nerves: ‘Promise me you won’t die out here,’ she whispered.
‘Of course I’m not going to die,’ he replied, stroking her hair back from her face. ‘I’m Lucky Charlie! I didn’t catch the cholera and I’ve got you for a wife.’
They made love for the first time since Bill had fallen ill, and Lucy clung to him, feeling the warmth of his skin, the beating of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest, all the signs that his body remained healthy. He stroked her hair and kissed her eyes, her nose, her neck. ‘You are extraordinary,’ he whispered. ‘Lord knows, I don’t deserve you but somehow I am lucky enough to have you in my arms and nothing could make me let you go.’ His voice cracked with emotion and Lucy had never loved him more; this must be what Adelaide meant when she said love deepens in times of adversity.
During the night she woke to hear Charlie mumbling in his sleep. She leaned in to listen and suddenly he grabbed her in a tight embrace and whispered ‘Susanna’ with such longing in his voice that her blood froze. The name had been clear, no question. Her insides twisted with jealousy. Who was Susanna and why did it sound as if Charlie felt so passionately about her? Was she a woman with whom he had been in love before he met her? If so, why had he not mentioned her? Perhaps he loved her still. She dismissed the thought – Charlie’s love for her seemed beyond question – but all the same she found it hard to get back to sleep.
Once Bill had recovered sufficiently to emerge from the tent and rest in the nearby shade or go for gentle strolls to regain his strength, Adelaide was able to keep Lucy company once more, and the women became closer than ever. They were chatting together when Mrs Williams came by to ask after Bill.
‘He is much better,’ Adelaide replied. ‘Thank you for your concern.’
‘The 8th has been hit bad,’ Mrs Williams told them. ‘We’ve lost several men, and poor Mrs Blaydes has perished.’
‘Mrs Blaydes? Oh no!’ Lucy was distraught to hear of the loss of someone she had known, albeit slightly. ‘And some of our men? Which ones?’
Mrs Williams rattled off a list of names, and tears filled Lucy’s eyes. ‘Their poor wives. What will they do now? I must visit them.’
Adelaide extended a restraining hand. ‘Perhaps you had best not visit. I’m sure Mrs Williams will extend your heartfelt sympathies and let you know if there are any services you can perform for them.’
‘Of course,’ Mrs Williams agreed, her head bent.
After she left, Lucy told Adelaide about her letter to her father and her secret hope that Dorothea would write with advice that would help all cholera sufferers in the camp.
Adelaide poked the fire with a stick to stir the embers. ‘My dear, if it is a painful subject then you needn’t answer, but I am curious to know more about the argument with your sister. Was it simply because of Charlie or were you never particularly close?’
Lucy tried to answer truthfully. ‘I think we were close once but it changed after my mother fell ill when I was seven years old. Dorothea appointed herself chief nurse and I was only allowed to see Mama when she said it was convenient. She often scolded me for making noise while Mama was trying to sleep and I suppose I began to resent her
