The Rose of Sebastopol (22 page)

The carpet-bag woman emerged, looking very pleased with herself, and in went the laundry maid. Rosa struck up a conversation with the elderly ladies, who had devoted their lives to private nursing and had even met dear Mrs. Fry, had we heard of her? but had never been in a hospital. I could tell that Rosa was torn between anxiety that they had seventy-odd years of experience between them and relief that they must surely be much too old for the hospital in Skutari.

But when at last we were shown into a formal parlor, where four ladies, each wearing an austere morning gown and plain cap, were seated at a round table covered by a green cloth, it dawned on me that we were for once in a situation where social contacts, youth, enthusiasm, and beauty were of no value, and that all the anguish of the previous night had been wasted, because Rosa was doomed to disappointment. There was a distinct atmosphere of suppressed impatience and I sensed that the ladies, having glanced at us, had largely withdrawn their attention.

Lady Canning, whom I had met at various charitable functions, said: “Miss Lingwood. What a delightful surprise. How is your dear mother? You’ve surely not come to volunteer your services.”

“No. But my cousin, Miss Barr, would like to be among Miss Nightingale’s nurses.”

The distinguished eyebrows shot up into the frill of her cap. One of the other ladies sighed.

Rosa sat in the vacant place at the table and a lady introduced as Lady Cranworth entered her details in a book. “What is your age?”

“I’m twenty-four.”

“Then you are too young,” said a Miss Stanley at once. She was the youngest of them all, perhaps in her thirties, with a prominent nose and bulging eyes.

“Surely youth is needed to endure the hardships ahead. I know that we shall have to work long hours and that there will be none of the usual comforts. I don’t mind any of that and I’ve never had a day’s illness in my life. You could write to the doctor at Stukeley and he will vouch for me, and tell you that . . .”

“You are too young and too attractive, my dear,” said Lady Cranworth. “Have you any idea of the kind of peril that you would face being amidst so many common men, most of them deprived of female company for months on end? Have you ever been in a hospital ward? ”

“I have ...”

“You would be eaten alive, Miss Barr. We are sending, at great expense, a party of nurses to relieve the suffering of thousands of sick men. It is imperative, for the sake of Miss Nightingale’s reputation as much as for the wounded soldiers, that the expedition should be a success. Even if you had experience running a ward in one of the great teaching hospitals, and I doubt that is the case, you would be rendered unsuitable by the beauty of your face and your youthfulness. Miss Nightingale is adamant about the type of lady she is not prepared to take. You would be seduced within a week and then we would have the worry and expense of caring for you and shipping you home. I’m sorry to speak so bluntly but there are of course other ways in which you and your cousin might consider supporting us. We are in great need of money, and of bed linen ...”

“Please,” said Rosa. “You tell me I am too young and attractive. Well, I do know how to manage myself among men, because I was brought up with two stepbrothers. Could I not speak to Miss Nightingale in person? She is a family friend and I know that she is herself a very attractive woman ...”

Here she had made a bad mistake. “Miss Nightingale is thirty-four and has the backing of the Foreign Office itself. Miss Barr, your going to the Crimea is out of the question.”

No further notes were made. Miss Stanley sprang to her feet and opened the door. “Good luck, my dear, in whatever enterprise you finally choose. I’m sure that with your great spirit you will succeed in doing magnificent things.”

There were now six or seven women in the entrance hall, who stared at us avidly as we walked past, heads high, and stepped out into the square.

LONDON, 1854

 

 

 

T
wo more battles were fought,
Balaklava and Inkerman. The names became part of our daily conversation, evoking feelings of both pride and horror. We wanted a glorious, clean finish to the war, like at Waterloo, but instead, despite repeated assertions by the papers that on both occasions we had heroically repulsed the enemy, we made no real headway. The Russians were still firmly entrenched inside their city of Sebastopol and though our armies were camped outside the town the siege was incomplete, so supplies of weapons and food could still get through. Henry would certainly not be back by Christmas.

The only glimmer of hope was Miss Nightingale’s party of nurses, whose progress through France was documented every inch of the way by a fascinated press. Poor Rosa read every detail, as if deliberately to torment herself. A great deal rested on the shoulders of those nurses, who had become the one romantic spark in an increasingly bleak account of the war and provided an endless source of conversation for our sewing circle. In Mrs. Hardcastle’s opinion the inclusion of Roman Catholic nuns was a disaster for all concerned. “What proper Englishman would wish to be nursed by a Roman Catholic? ” she demanded. “Irishwomen, at that, probably. If I can call them women.”

“Perhaps they are the best-qualified nurses we have,” said Mother in the falsely jovial voice she used when risking an argument with Mrs. Hardcastle. “Our own Nora McCormack, dear Isabella’s Irish nurse, is excellent.”

“The exception to prove the rule. You’re fortunate if she isn’t a secret drinker. When Mr. Hardcastle was struck down with his gout again last winter I hired a fine nurse, as you know. Sober and honest to a fault. From Devon. She could have gone to the war. I wonder if she thought of it.”

“The nuns will be well-schooled and obedient, at least.”

“Obedient to their own,” said Mrs. Hardcastle. “To the pope in Rome. That’s who they obey. And what he’s after is souls. I’m surprised Miss Nightingale has fallen for such an obvious plot. The Catholics will stop at nothing to convert everyone in sight.”

Rosa was never part of our sewing circle, because she was engaged on a mission only I knew about. She redoubled her efforts to be accepted as a nurse until her outpouring of letters rivaled even my mother’s. She wrote to the War Office, to Miss Nightingale’s family, to our member of parliament, and our local vicar, detailing every scrap of nursing she had ever done at Stukeley. To the ladies of the committee who had rejected her she protested:
“ Your greatest charge against me seemed to be that I was too young. I may be young, but I am determined. This was no whim on my part. I know what I am doing. I have compiled a list of my credentials as a nurse and I believe few women can have done more
...”

One evening she came into my room holding a bundle of clothes, shut the door, and gazed at me, eyes ablaze.

“Mariella. You won’t believe it. I have news. Oh, Mariella, watch.” She dragged at the buttons of her gown with trembling fingers, pulled it off, and stood in her narrow petticoats and chemise. Then she put on a hideous dress made of flecked gray tweed, far too wide at the waist and shoulders and ending three inches above her ankles, and a plain white cap. The ensemble, which would have made me look like a washerwoman, transformed her into some lovely maid in a Dutch painting.

“It’s the nurse’s uniform that I am to wear when I travel out to Constantinople. I am actually going on the first of December. I’ve done it. The War Office has decided that because the nation has been so enthusiastic about Miss Nightingale and her nurses, they must send out more. Miss Stanley is to lead the party. She is Miss Nightingale’s closest friend and she remembered me, she says, for my
great spirit
, whatever that means. Today I went to Belgrave Square and received these clothes and a lecture from Mr. Sidney Herbert. He said: ‘If you behave yourselves well, there will be provision for you. If not, it will be the ruin of you.’ ” She laughed delightedly: “
Ruin
. I should so like to be
ruined
at Skutari Hospital. Do you think it will happen? Oh, Ella, please, please be happy for me.”

I tried to smile and I murmured that of course I was glad for her. But actually I felt more desolate than if she had actually left a month ago with Miss Nightingale. I had steeled myself for her going, I had made myself be brave, but then the danger passed and I had believed myself safe.

The days that followed were full of tears, mostly Isabella’s. The rest of us had little time for private sorrow. The government was in a great rush to send more nurses out to Turkey, because the news was that soldiers were dying by the hundreds in understaffed hospitals. A disastrous hurricane had struck supply ships in Balaklava Harbor and thousands of winter coats, boots, and food supplies had been lost, which meant that our troops were now suffering from the frost-bite as well as sickness associated with poor diet and dirty water.

We were in a frenzy of packing, although Rosa was allowed to take only a small trunk and would be forced to wear her uniform on the journey as a clear sign to everyone else onboard that she belonged to Miss Stanley’s party. We had to go shopping for galoshes and a thick cloak, and I sat up far into the night sewing replacement linings for her bodices, muslin under-sleeves and half-sleeves, dark petticoats, woolen blouses, and plain, high-necked nightgowns so that if necessary she could wear layer upon layer of clothes to protect her from the cold.

I tried not to dwell on what my life would be like without her, but couldn’t help thinking in the midst of each routine action—as I watched her plunge her face into the basin of warm water in the morning, press a towel to her skin with her near-translucent hands, fiercely brush and braid her hair, as we ran down to breakfast together—this will be the last time. Tomorrow she will be gone and yet I can’t capture this. I can’t bottle it or sew it and frame it. Tomorrow there will be no more Rosa.

Father, Mother, and I accompanied her to London Bridge, where she was to take the train to Folkestone. Aunt Isabella, prostrated by the prospect of her daughter’s departure, was unable to raise her head from the pillow.