No Place For A Lady. Gill Paul

       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.’