Scorpion Sunset (38 page)

‘We will do everything we can to nurse Countess D'Souza with dignity, kindness, and respect, count.' Sister Luke went to the bed and picked up the countess's hand.

‘If you remain with the countess, Sister Luke, I will show Sister Smith over the house so she will know where everything is to be found.'

‘There is no need …'

‘A tour with Sister Smith now may save precious minutes later, Sister Luke.' He went to the door and held it open. ‘Sister Smith?'

Maud meekly followed him out of the room, down the stairs, and through a bewildering number of extravagantly and opulently furnished rooms.

‘You and Sister Luke are of course, free to go wherever you choose in the house when you are not actually caring for my wife.'

‘You have a beautiful home, Count D'Souza.'

‘Thank you for the compliment, but everything you see, the décor, the furniture, the ornaments, were all chosen by my wife. This is the main drawing room, and this is the library.'

They left the drawing room and entered a room lined with teak bookshelves each one laden with leather bound volumes. A painting of a woman Maud recognised as the countess hung over the fireplace. As in the hall, a deep pile Persian rug covered most the floor. The sofas and armchairs were upholstered in crimson leather.

The count went to the drinks tray on a side table and poured two cognacs. He handed Maud one.

‘This, as you see, is the library. It is my favourite room in the house. I like to relax here at midnight with a nightcap. You would be very welcome to join me if my wife is peaceful. Do not be concerned about leaving her. I have instructed the maids to ensure that two of them are in my wife's suite at all times to see to her needs – and her nurses'.'

‘Thank you for the invitation.' Maud watched him over the rim of her glass.

‘So,' he smiled. ‘I'll expect you here at midnight?'

‘Yes, sir.'

Turkish Prison Camp

December 1916

John drank the tea Rebeka had brought him before reluctantly climbing out of the hard, narrow bed, which had never looked so warm or appealing. He went to the washstand, and washed shaved, and dressed. When he picked up his hair brush he looked at the tin box next to it. It was where he kept all the letters he'd received during his captivity – including Maud's.

He'd received six letters from her since he'd been in the camp, less than a third of the number she'd sent him judging from the notation she'd put at the top of each one. He'd meant to but hadn't got around to answering any of them. He opened the tin and picked them out. Maud's were easy to find because he'd stowed them at the bottom of the pile.

He read the final paragraphs of the last letter he'd received from her, which was identical in in sentiment to her first and subsequent ones. But then, if what she said about never leaving the convent or the infirmary was true, what else could she possibly write about?

I gave birth to a boy last December. I asked Mrs Butler to place him in an American orphanage. I hope he will find adoptive parents who can give him a better life than I am able to …

He had thought long and hard about that sentence, especially after discovering Charles was the father of Maud's son. She had obviously told Charles he was the father, because he had recognised the boy in his will. Had Maud told Charles he was the father of her son before she'd abandoned the child? Had Charles doubted her? If so, it would explain his delay in acknowledging the child. But if Charles had been prepared to claim the child, why had Maud left the baby in the Lansing? Was it to hurt Charles, or had she hoped that she and the world, including Charles, would simply forget the boy's existence?

I am writing this so you realise that if you could bring yourself to consider taking me back, I would come unencumbered by further responsibilities.

Unencumbered by further responsibilities … as if the child was a stray dog or cat she'd picked up in the street and could walk away from without a second thought.

I have no idea whether you have divorced me or not, or intend to divorce me in the future. If you do, I beg you with all my heart to reconsider, John … I send all my love, your own very sorrowful Maud whose only hope is that you allow her a second chance to be the wife she should have been.

He set the letter aside. He should have replied to Maud, months ago when he'd received her first letter. Whether it was the kiss he'd exchanged with Rebeka, her diffidence and ridiculous assertion that she'd been ‘dishonoured' by what the Turks had done to her, or not, he was beset by a sudden urge to put an end to the pitiful remnants of his marriage to Maud as swiftly as he could.

He took Maud's last letter, refolded it so her return address was on the outside, and scribbled a note below her signature.

Dear Maud, our marriage is over. I will instigate divorce proceedings as soon as I can. John

He fastened the letter as best he could, slipped it into the pocket of his white coat, and dropped it into the mailbox when he reached the bottom of the stairs. As he headed for the kitchen he amused himself by picturing the Georgian house he'd so often dreamed of. Set in a quiet West Country village of old stone houses with pretty cottage gardens filled with harebells, bluebells, apple and cherry blossom – why did he always imagine his dream house in May time?

He pictured the door opening, his wife and children running down the lawns to greet him. That was the moment he realised he wanted a wife with the same simple tastes as his, a wife who wouldn't flirt with every man in sight. A wife who would love him, no matter what he did or what happened to him, until the end of his days …

Hasmik ran out of the kitchen, giggled, and held out her small arms to be picked up. He couldn't help smiling as he swung her on to his shoulders.

A wife – who would perhaps in time, even give him the children he wanted?

He walked to the end of the passage. ‘Back into the kitchen, young lady.' He lifted Hasmik down and pointed to the kitchen door. She ran off still giggling. He waited until she was in the kitchen before entering the examination room.

Crabbe was awake and talking to Dira.

‘You look better than you did when you arrived last night, Crabbe. I'm sorry if you're sore. I had to poke about inside you for quite some time. It wasn't very pretty in there.'

‘The way I feel I'm not sure I should be thanking you, but I will,' Crabbe's voice was weak, his skin pale and clammy. ‘Dira told me that unlike all the king's men, you put this poor Humpty Dumpty back together again.'

John checked Crabbe's temperature. ‘This Humpty Dumpty had better stop fighting Turks now they've taken his rifle away. We can't win, you know. Not now we're prisoners. Our war is over.'

‘I'm beginning to realise that.'

‘I'll get fresh drinking water for Major Crabbe, sir.'

‘Thank you, Dira.' John sat beside Crabbe.

‘This hospital …'

‘The Turks allow me to run it because I treat them and the locals as well as our men.'

‘It's in a camp?'

‘An officers' camp.'

‘You're lucky. The one I've come from for the ranks …' Crabbe stopped talking and breathed deeply in an attempt to control his pain. That in turn initiated a coughing fit. ‘They have it rough,' he whispered when he could speak again.

‘We know how rough. We heard about it last night from the men who came in with you.'

‘Some of the men we left behind are in an even worse state than us.'

‘So I gathered.'

‘We need to make an official protest.'

‘I delivered medical reports on you and the others to our colonel and the Turkish commandant after I operated on you. The colonel was framing a demand for an official enquiry into the Turkish treatment of our POWs by both the Allied and Ottoman commands when I left.'

‘It will be too late for most of the poor beggars in the camp I was in. I have to get back there …' Crabbe struggled to sit up as if he were getting ready to leave.

‘No you don't.' John pushed him back down. ‘Lie still and quiet and give your lungs a chance to heal. I dug around in them quite a bit.'

‘The ranks back in the camp …'

‘Have Captain Vincent looking after them. He's a good man and hopefully once our colonel's complaints reach the Turkish command that camp will be closed.'

‘How are the boys who came in with me?'

‘Exhausted, starved, sick with beriberi and dysentery. Three have syphilis.'

‘Bloody raping Turkish guards. The boys are too weak to fight back.' Crabbe looked at him. ‘What's this camp really like? Don't bother sugar-coating it. I intend to recover so I can go back and strangle the bastards who put me in this bed.'

‘Before I saw you I would have complained about this place. The food's monotonous, my fellow officers are bored witless, and we lack essentials, especially medical supplies. But since I've been here no one's been beaten, and although the food isn't great we get Red Cross parcels and even the occasional letter from home.'

‘So,' Crabbe managed a grin, ‘although you've nothing to really complain about you still gripe.'

‘You know me so well.'

The door opened and Mrs Gulbenkian bustled in carrying in a tray. ‘Dira said the patient might try some clear chicken broth.'

John rose and smiled. ‘As I'm only the doctor I wouldn't dream of arguing with Dira. Your English is improving, Mrs Gulbenkian.'

‘Rebeka's father taught me languages in school so all I had to do was – how does Dira say it – “brush up”.'

‘You've brushed up very well. Major Crabbe, meet Mrs Gulbenkian, she and her friend Rebeka are our Armenian nurses, so I'll leave you in her capable hands.'

‘We'll talk later?' Crabbe asked.

‘Of course, and courtesy of the Turks we have all the time in the world for conversation.'

British Relief Force

December 1916

‘That's Kut, sir?' Peter's adjutant Lieutenant Sweeney was taken aback. ‘That miserable dilapidated little village is Kut al Amara?'

‘That's it, the place we called home sweet home.' David ducked, although given that he was lying on the ground, and the country was a flat as a pancake, he couldn't go much lower.

Fortunately for him, and Peter's command, since the order for them to halt had been passed down, the Turkish shells were falling a hundred yards or more short of their intended targets and the bullets were even more off course than the shells.

‘You ever get tired of this.' David took advantage of the temporary respite in the advance, rolled on his back and pulled out his cigarettes.

‘The rain or the fighting?' Peter asked.

‘Both, but of the two the fighting irritates me more.'

‘I grew tired of it after my first battle in 1914. You?'

‘I was never enamoured with the thought of active service even before I saw it. The reality was worse than I expected, and that's saying a great deal.'

Peter took the cigarette David offered, lit it, and passed the match on to David. ‘What the hell are you doing in the army?'

‘Told you, second son of a second son.'

‘You studied medicine.'

‘Only because my uncle, who incidentally was the first son of a first son, told me that doctors didn't have to go to Sandhurst to get a commission. What he didn't tell me was that we still had to do a certain amount of boring military square-bashing.'

‘You're the laziest sod and worst soldier in this man's army,' Peter laughed.

‘Not when it comes to the hospitals.'

‘I'll grant you, when you finally do decide to go on duty you look after your patients.'

‘Cheeky blighter! That's like me saying when you do finally decide to lead your men into battle you pick up your gun.' David shivered. ‘I'm colder than a polar bear's arse. Not to mention wet through.'

‘At least you're wearing serge. Spare a thought for the men who are still in their summer khaki. Supplies can never get anything right.' Peter spotted a lieutenant slithering through the mud towards them. ‘Orders?' he asked.

‘Dig in and hold fast until morning, sir.'

‘Oh, thank you, high command, for the joys you bring.' David rolled his eyes.

‘Take no notice, Lieutenant, water has got into Major Knight's brain.'

‘And rusted it,' David said mournfully. ‘Is there no one who can tell me what we're doing here?'

Peter passed him his flask.

‘We're here just to get drunk.'

‘The drink is to silence you.' Peter called down to his second in command. ‘Dig in until morning, every man roll out his blanket.' He raised his voice. ‘Bearers, officers need their blankets.'

‘Dry blankets, if possible,' David added.

‘No point,' Peter took the sodden blanket his bearer handed him and rolled himself into it. ‘It'll be damp in no time once the rain gets to it.'

Chapter Twenty-six

Basra

December 1916

Georgiana waited until their driver had stopped the carriage, dismounted from the box, and was holding the horses steady before opening the door and helping Angela down on to the unpaved street.

‘I could have come here with Mariam and bought whatever you needed for the baby,' Georgiana admonished as Angela reached ground level.

‘I want to see the quality of the fabric they have for myself, both for baby gowns and Mariam's winter wardrobe.'

Mariam held out Angela's handbag, which she'd given to the child for safekeeping.

‘You are a darling, Mariam. I don't know what we'd do without you. Perhaps we can find a ready-made dress for you to wear to the church service on Christmas morning. If not we'll have to buy some material and get one made. But you have to choose the fabric yourself.'