Scorpion Sunset (36 page)

‘I'm sorry, sir. It was my fault. I shouldn't have …'

‘Shouldn't have what?' he broke in sharply.

‘Touched you, sir.'

‘Why not?'

‘Mrs Gulbenkian explained everything, sir. I can't expect any decent man to forget what the Turks did to me. I am dishonoured.'

‘Dishonoured!' he exclaimed. ‘You're not dishonoured. You saw the men who've just come in. You can see what the Turks have done them. Are they dishonoured because the Turks whipped, beat, and raped them?'

‘They are men. They were overpowered.'

‘And you are a woman. A brave survivor, who fought for your life when so many others would have given up.'

He cupped her face and kissed her gently on the lips. This time neither of them pulled away.

Chapter Twenty-four

The Convent of St Agnes and St Clare, India

December 1916

Maud knocked and waited outside the Mother Superior's office. A novice opened the door and showed her in. The senior nun was sitting behind her desk, a prayer book open in front of her.

Maud curtsied. ‘You sent for me, Mother Superior.'

‘I did, Maud. Please sit down.' Mother Superior closed the book, sat very upright, and looked Maud in the eye. ‘When you came here six months ago you told me that you were troubled and felt as though you'd reached a crossroads in your life with no obvious path before you.'

‘That is correct, Mother Superior.' Maud thought rapidly. Had she done anything recently to incur the Mother Superior's or any nun's displeasure? She'd hoped to remain in the convent until the end of the war when she was absolutely certain that John would come for her. How could he do otherwise after reading her letters?

She'd pictured the scene in her imagination many times. He would walk into the infirmary. A nun would point him in the direction of a ward. She'd be dressed in her nurse's uniform, ministering to a sick child. John would take one look at her and realise not only that she was a kind, experienced, and sympathetic nurse who'd lived out the war in the sanctified respectable atmosphere of the convent, but how much he loved her and had missed her in his life …

‘Is your mind any clearer now, Maud?'

‘Pardon, mother?' Lost in her daydream Maud hadn't heard Mother Superior's question.

‘Has God given you a sign as to the path you should take?'

‘No, mother.'

‘You have prayed for guidance?'

‘Yes, mother.'

Mother Superior clasped her hands in front of her on the desk, but she kept her gaze fixed on Maud. ‘A convent is a place for reflection, on life and on spirituality. It is primarily an institution where women who have chosen to dedicate their lives to God can live and work in harmony while seeking out ways on how best to serve Him. Some convents,' she inclined her head, ‘including this, also offer temporary refuge, hospitality, and respite from daily care to those who seek spiritual guidance. But no convent can provide a haven for those attempting to hide from themselves or the world, Maud.'

Maud was afraid of the reply but she had to ask the question. ‘You are unhappy with my work in the hospital?'

‘On the contrary, every nursing sister who has worked with you agrees that you are a dedicated and competent nurse.'

‘Then what is the problem, mother?'

‘The problem is your lack of spirituality. I have watched you during mass, Maud. Your thoughts clearly do not dwell on God but upon worldly matters.'

‘I told you when I came here, Mother Superior, that I do not wish to take a nun's vows. You know I am a confirmed Anglican.'

‘I never sought to convert you to the Catholic faith, Maud. But I expected – no, rather, hoped – that you would become closer to God. This has not happened because you have not sought his blessing.'

Maud's blood ran cold and she suspected that she hadn't escaped the gossips, even here. ‘You have heard rumours about me?'

‘Surely, Maud, you are aware that rumours can even permeate the walls of a convent. As I've already said, no convent can offer sanctuary to those attempting to hide from themselves or the result of their sins.'

‘I can explain …'

‘It is not for me to judge you. Only God can do that, and I have asked for his guidance in considering your situation. He has sent what may prove to be a solution to the lack of direction in your life. I was approached this morning by a man whose wife is close to death. I suggested he conveyed her to our infirmary but he refused because he wishes to spend as much time as possible with her before God takes her from this world. He asked if I could recommend day and night nurses to care for her. I thought of you. It would mean you moving out of the convent, into his home. Perhaps when you are once again surrounded by worldly objects your mind will turn to worldly things. Or possibly you will reject them and welcome God into your life. Either way, you won't be able to continue to hide from whatever demons drove you here. I will send Sister Luke with you. Should you have any problems of a religious or spiritual nature you may discuss them with her. One thing is certain, you won't be as protected outside this convent as you have been inside these walls. Your patient may even teach you to think of and calmly accept the inevitable end we all face. Every one of us, no matter who we are, needs to spend some time in our lives preparing to meet our maker. It is my hope that in caring for this terminally ill lady you will find time to reflect on your own life and future commitment.'

Maud realised there was no point in trying to argue her case for remaining in the convent. ‘I am expecting a letter …'

‘Should one arrive for you I will ask the gardener to deliver it to you.'

‘Does the patient have a contagious disease or a condition that requires special treatment aside from usual nursing?'

‘I wondered when you would ask about the countess.'

‘A countess?'

‘A Portuguese countess.' The inflection suggested a Portuguese countess was somewhat lower than any other nationality of aristocrat, but Mother Superior was a Catholic of English origin. ‘The countess was perfectly healthy until six months ago when she was diagnosed as suffering from cancer of the brain. I have spoken to the doctor who is monitoring her. It was he who suggested the count engage professional nurses to care for his wife. The countess has not woken for twenty-four hours and the doctor does not expect her to regain consciousness. There is no hope of recovery. It is merely a question of time. One week, perhaps two, or possibly even as long as a month. Do you envisage any problems in caring for a patient who cannot communicate their needs?'

‘No, Mother Superior.'

‘Should you find yourself unable to cope with the patient, send a message to me and I will relieve and replace you. Father Ignatius will call every day, but Sister Luke will be the senior nurse and I expect you to discuss any matters that concern you, including personal ones, with her first. Do you have any questions?'

Realising that the decision had already been made and was irreversible, Maud resisted the temptation to argue. ‘No, Mother Superior.'

‘You may go and pack. A carriage will be here in half an hour to convey you and Sister Luke to the count's residence. There is no need to change from your nurse's uniform. You will wear your nurse's cape and bonnet for the journey. Your patient is Countess D'Souza, her husband, Count D'Souza, is the Portuguese consul. I will expect you to conduct yourself not only as a nurse but as a representative of this convent at all times even when you are outside these walls.'

‘Yes, Mother Superior.'

‘I hope you find the peace that you are searching for, Maud. There is no need to return to your ward before leaving.'

Maud still sought reassurance. ‘You will send any letters on to me, Mother Superior?'

‘As I've already told you, any communication that arrives for you will be sent on to you the day we receive it.'

‘Thank you, Mother Superior.' Maud wondered why she was thanking the woman when she was so intent on sending her from the convent against her will.

She went to her room, took her Gladstone bag from the bottom of her wardrobe, and started packing. Not that she had much to pack. Her jewellery case, writing materials, and the few clothes and essentials she'd brought with her. She looked at the Bible the Mother Superior had given her and packed it, lest leaving it give the nuns yet another excuse to berate her for her lack of spirituality and religion.

She looked at the silver-framed photograph of John she'd picked up in the bungalow in Basra almost as an afterthought, and slipped it into her bag. The cell, with its neatly made bed and crucifix hanging above it, was suddenly as bare and impersonal as when she'd arrived.

Would she ever return to this room? Even if she had the opportunity, would she want to? She slipped on the nurse's cape and hat. As mirrors weren't allowed even in the convent guest bedrooms she had no way of knowing if it was on straight.

There was a tap at her door. She opened it.

Sister Luke was outside. ‘The carriage has arrived.'

‘I'm ready.' Maud took one last look around, picked up her bag and left.

Ibn Shalan's house, Basra

December 1916

Kalla and Michael sat next to Furja and Gutne, Mitkhal's wife, on a divan in the corner of Ibn Shalan's large reception room, watching Georgiana and Hasan. It was difficult to know which twin was most affected by the reunion. They'd been together for over two hours and Georgiana still couldn't stop looking at or talking to Hasan, who answered her questions slowly and with difficulty in his rusty English.

Michael sensed movement, glanced up, and saw Mitkhal beckoning to him from the doorway. He reached into his pocket, pulled out two Fry's Five Boys chocolate bars, gave them to his nieces Hari and Aza who'd been climbing over his lap, then walked outside to the open veranda with Mitkhal.

The overhanging balcony sheltered them from the worst of the rainstorm that was blowing in from the west but it did nothing to raise the temperature. Michael shivered and drew back close to the wall of the house.

‘I'm sorry I couldn't persuade HQ to give you all the guns you wanted this morning, Mitkhal.'

‘Five hundred is more than I hoped for, the first time of asking. This morning Ibn Shalan received an estimate of the number of Arab auxiliaries massing with the Turks below Kut al Amara. When your command also receives reports of their strength, they'll give us everything we asked for today – and more when we need it.'

Ibn Shalan walked out of the room and joined them. Michael salaamed.

‘You're going upstream tomorrow, Michael?'

‘Before dawn,' Michael confirmed.

‘More of my men will be following you shortly.'

‘Do you think we will take Baghdad this time?' Michael ventured.

Ibn Shalan smiled. ‘If your forces don't, it won't be for the want of trying. Or the result of a shortage of supplies, weapons, and men as it was before your forces were cornered at Kut. General Maude appears to have asked for and acquired everything he needs for success.'

‘You will be fighting with us, sir?' Michael enquired.

‘On one front or another,' Shalan replied ambiguously. ‘It's cold out here. Shall we go inside, gentlemen? There is still that small matter you were going to broach with Michael, Mitkhal.'

Michael was curious, but when it came to dealing with the Bedouin he had learned to be patient. They returned to the living room and Michael smiled at Georgiana who was making friends with their nieces while cuddling their baby nephew.

‘The small matter.' Mitkhal pointed to a young girl clinging to Gutne's skirts. Michael hadn't noticed her before, which was hardly surprising as she was sandwiched between the wall and Gutne. She was tiny, painfully thin, extremely nervous, and appeared to be no more than four or five years old, yet her eyes looked dark and older. As though they had witnessed horrors no child of her age should have seen.

Mitkhal saw Michael studying her. ‘She's an orphan, Michael. I hoped that you or Georgiana could help her.'

Georgiana heard her name mentioned, turned and saw the child. ‘Is she well?' she asked Mitkhal diplomatically while privately thinking the child appeared cowed and beaten.

Frightened by the attention she was attracting, the child moved even closer to Gutne. Mitkhal picked up a large cushion, set it between Michael and Georgiana, and sat close to them.

‘I was hoping one of you could help us by caring for the child until the end of the war when it may be possible to reunite her with the one remaining member of her family. However I should warn you, such a reunion is by no means certain.'

‘I'm going upstream in the morning,' Michael pointed out. ‘An army camp is no place for a child, especially just before an action.'

‘Are you taking Kalla?'

Michael frowned at Mitkhal.

Mitkhal laughed. ‘The walls are thin in Abdul's, everyone who frequents the building has heard you two arguing.'

‘The British will advance soon and I will be going with them. Kalla doesn't want me to leave her behind, but Kut and Nasiriyeh has taught us that anything can happen when a military engagement doesn't go to plan. Even camp followers can end up as casualties.'

‘What about you, Dr Downe?' Mitkhal asked. ‘Could you care for an orphan?'

‘I work full time in the Lansing Memorial hospital so I am in no position to look after a child.'

‘But you are living with Mrs Smythe who is already fostering Mrs Mason's baby.'

‘You are well informed, Mitkhal.'

‘I have also heard that Mrs Smythe is unwell and keeps to the house but she has servants and a nursemaid to see to her and the baby. This child can do many things around the house. She is quiet, tries very hard to please, and is in desperate need of a home and the love that should be given to every child.'