That had been a cruel death. Her mother had been in hideous pain as the cancer gnawed through her insides. She could keep nothing down, not even the laudanum that could have offered some relief, and her opium enema seemed to do little good. Towards the end the disease had been in her spine, making it impossible to find a comfortable position whether sitting or lying. She was terrified, yet strove to muffle her cries of agony in the blankets so as not to waken thirteen-year-old Lucy, who was asleep in her bedroom down the corridor. Dorothea could see the fear etched in her mother’s eyes, could hear her whispered pleas for help, and was powerless to do more than hold her hand, moisten her lips and soothe her with whispered endearments. The doctor came and went, leaving further useless supplies of laudanum; their vicar came to pray. Her father couldn’t bear it and retreated to his study, leaving Dorothea to witness the final throes of the awful death struggle on her own. It was an experience that scarred her, something that would never leave her. Her mother’s last breath when it came was a blessed release from acute torture and the expression caught at the moment of death was one of horror. Thankfully Lucy had not witnessed any of it. By the time she came to see the body the following morning, their mother’s features had settled into a peaceful repose. Lucy complained of not being called to say goodbye but Dorothea knew she was too young for such a distressing sight.
Mr Peters, by contrast, had a peaceful death, the best he could have hoped for. Dorothea sat with his body for half an hour watching the tightening of his features, the blanching of his complexion, then she helped the orderly to wash and prepare him for the undertaker. It was five-thirty in the evening when she walked out into the street in her dark wool cloak and climbed into a Hansom cab the hospital porter had called to take her back to Russell Square.
Covent Garden was abuzz with costermongers dismantling their fruit and veg stalls under the metal and glass awning, and flower girls with a few remaining pink, white and yellow blooms in their baskets. Some ladies of the night hovered on street corners, hoping for an early piece of business. Nothing shocked Dorothea after her work in the hospital. She had seen all types pass through its doors.
Back in her bedroom, she started to change for dinner but she was too agitated to fiddle with all the buttons on her gown. Instead she sat at her dresser to compose a letter to Lucy. She told her she was sorry for her actions, that she hoped her marriage would be a very happy one. She was sad to have missed the ceremony but perhaps once they were reconciled she could host a celebration for them … Suddenly Dorothea dropped the pen and a great sob tore from her chest. She gasped and tried to control herself but emotion took hold and she shook with intense grief.
‘Please God, don’t let any harm come to Lucy,’ she prayed, squeezing her eyes tight shut. ‘I’ve let her down and I will never forgive myself if anything bad happens to her.’
She laid her head on the dresser and fell asleep, waking an hour later when the bell rang for dinner to find her tears had soaked the writing paper and blurred the ink.
24th April 1854
Plymouth Dockyard was teeming with people bustling between precarious stacks of luggage. Tall-masted ships stretched as far as the eye could see. The noise of ships’ horns sounding, street traders crying their wares, and the anxious chatter of bystanders was overwhelming. Lucy worried that they would never find their way but when Charlie hailed a porter and asked him to take them to the Shooting Star, the man seemed confident about finding it. He loaded a trolley with their steamer trunk, all their bags stuffed to bursting, and their large tin bath, and set off. Charlie clutched Lucy’s arm tightly and hurried them through the throng in pursuit of their luggage.
Before long, he spotted some comrades in royal blue and gold Hussars uniform and hailed them, pulling Lucy forwards to introduce her. She shook hands with several gentlemen and was pleased to note their appreciative glances. She had dressed with care in a wide-skirted soft wool gown with cascading ruffles in the skirt, and a warm fitted jacket, both of a deep blue very similar to that of the Hussars’ colours. A prettily trimmed bonnet framed her face.
‘I think you have new admirers,’ Charlie winked, squeezing her hand.
As they approached the ship, she noticed several women sobbing, with young children clinging to their skirts, and asked Charlie what ailed them.
‘These are the soldiers’ wives who can’t come along,’ he told her. ‘There was a ballot and only a few won a place. You’re lucky to be the wife of an officer, as we can all bring our wives, if our commanders agree.’
‘What will become of them while their husbands are away?’ She felt alarmed for their plight. She had no idea what would have happened to her if she hadn’t been allowed to accompany Charlie because his wages were not sufficient, after stoppages for uniform and so forth, for him to have supported her in lodgings like the boarding house where they had been living in Warwick for the last three months. She suspected from the haste with which he insisted they leave that he owed money to the landlady there. If a captain couldn’t manage, how could the soldiers, who earned so much less?
‘I expect their families will look after them,’ Charlie said, as if the question hadn’t occurred to him.
Some called out – ‘Miss, can you help us?’ ‘Need a lady’s maid, Miss?’ – and Lucy cast her eyes down, feeling guilty that she had a place while they did not.
They walked up the gangway onto the ship and followed their porter down to the officers’ deck, where Charlie located their cabin. Lucy swallowed her surprise at how small it was, barely six paces wide and ten long, with a bunk so narrow they would be crushed tight together. There was hardly any hanging space for her gowns, and only one tiny mirror above the washbowl.
‘This is one of the better cabins I’ve seen on a military ship,’ Charlie remarked cheerfully. ‘It’s very well appointed.’
Lucy kept her thoughts to herself. ‘I’ll just unpack a few things, dearest, to make it a little more homely.’
‘In that case, I’ll go and check on the horses on the deck below.’ He kissed her full on the lips and grasped one of her breasts with a wink before he left.
Lucy felt her cheeks flush and she hummed as she arranged their possessions. She liked having someone to look after, loved the intimacy of sharing a bed and eating meals with Charlie. ‘You see, Dorothea?’ she thought. ‘You were wrong!’
Before long, she heard women’s voices in the corridor and popped her head out. The first woman she saw introduced herself as Mrs Fanny Duberly, wife of the 8th Hussars’ Quartermaster. She seemed rather superior in attitude, and moved off after only the briefest ‘hallo’ but not before Lucy had noted that her gown was plain grey worsted and not remotely fashionable. The other woman, Adelaide Cresswell, had a kind face and shook Lucy’s hand warmly.
‘Charlie is a good friend of my husband Bill, so you and I must also be friends, my dear.’
‘Yes, please,’ Lucy cried. ‘I would love that. We women must stick together. I need your advice on how I can support my husband. We are so recently wed I don’t yet know what is expected of an officer’s wife.’
Adelaide smiled and squeezed her hand. ‘I was overjoyed to hear about your marriage. Charlie is a very lucky man. Look how pretty you are! Such lovely china blue eyes.’ She glanced past Lucy into their cabin. ‘Goodness, you’ve brought rather a lot of luggage.’
Lucy looked at the pile. ‘In truth, it was hard knowing what to bring. I’ve had to leave many of my possessions