No Place For A Lady: A sweeping wartime romance full of courage and passion. Gill Paul

while Charlie spent the night down below, sponging the horses’ nostrils with vinegar in an attempt to calm them. At one stage there was a terrible cracking sound, like an explosion, and for a moment Lucy feared they had been attacked by the Russians. She wrapped the silk bedspread around her, rubbing it against her lip for comfort as she used to do as a child when she fled to her mother’s bed after a nightmare. If only Charlie would come soon. There were a few terrifying hours before the worst was over, but as soon as dawn broke with a pale pink shimmer, the storm passed and the ship stopped rolling.

      Charlie returned with some awful news: ‘The mizzen top and the main top mast broke at the height of the storm and crushed a man’s leg as they fell to deck.’

      She was shocked. ‘Will he be all right?’

      He shook his head. ‘He’ll lose the leg, for sure. Two of our horses – Moondance and Greystokes – perished. I couldn’t settle them and the poor creatures raved themselves to death.’

      ‘Is Merlin all right?’

      ‘Yes, thank goodness. Biscay is always rough but this is the worst storm I’ve experienced and it followed us right down the coast of Spain and Portugal. At least we’re through it now.’

      Spain and Portugal: names Lucy had previously only seen on her father’s globe. She knew that Columbus had sailed from Portugal and imagined it as being very exotic. ‘Will they be able to mend the ship?’

      ‘Yes, the carpenters are hard at work.’ He noticed Lucy’s anxious expression and pulled her in for a hug. ‘Everything will be fine, my love. And you have been extraordinarily strong in the face of adversity. I knew you would be.’

      She was thrilled with the compliment. ‘You must be exhausted. Why not lie down and rest awhile?’

      ‘I think I will. Come lie with me.’

      Lucy held him close until he fell asleep and then she rose, dressed quietly and slipped up on deck to gaze out at the millpond sea glittering in the early morning light. The ship was close enough to shore for land to be visible and she shivered at the thought they were getting ever-nearer to the mysterious Turkish lands.

      ‘What is that huge black rock?’ she asked a passing sailor, and he told her ‘The Rock of Gibraltar, Ma’am.’

      She stood watching as they pulled up beneath it then came to a halt, becalmed in the Straits. The Rock’s sheer slopes towered high above the ship’s main mast, like an ominous shadow against the sky.

      On the 8th May, the Shooting Star docked at Valletta in Malta and all were allowed to go ashore. Adelaide had fully recovered and she and Lucy, along with Charlie and Bill, descended the gangway to the dock, the ladies sheltering beneath parasols from the heat of the sun. ‘What larks!’ Lucy cried, scarcely able to contain her excitement as she set foot on foreign soil. Locals flocked around trying to sell them hand-coloured cards, china knick-knacks and bonnets made out of scratchy straw. They sat in a café near the dock sipping tea and watching fishermen drag boxes of fresh fish up the slope. One man was pounding a freshly caught octopus against a rock – to tenderise its meat, Charlie said – and Lucy flinched at the blows. They dined well in a local hostelry, with fresh fish in a cream sauce, tender lamb chops, and delicate little custard puddings. A fiddler played in the corner and once they had eaten Charlie persuaded the waiters to clear some tables so there was room for dancing, which he led in high-kicking style, pulling Lucy up to join him in a lively polka. Bottles of jewel-coloured liqueurs were produced, made from fruits Lucy had never heard of: prickly pear, pomegranate and carob. The ladies tried delicate sips but found them over-strong.

      They were joined by Major Dodds, who challenged Charlie to drink a shot of each spirit behind the bar and said he would do the same. Their aim was explained to the bartender who lined up glasses in a row, which they supped in carnival style. A game of cribbage was initiated and Lucy could tell from Charlie’s excited whoops that he was winning.

      ‘They call him Lucky Charlie,’ Adelaide told her. ‘No matter what the game, he seems to have a knack with cards.’

      Lucy hadn’t known that her husband liked gambling. Dorothea was very disapproving of gamblers and would have considered it a black mark against him, but Adelaide didn’t seem to see any harm in it. Lucy was learning more about her husband all the time. It wasn’t just his funny dancing style, and the fact that he was said to be lucky; she had never realised how popular he was with his fellows and it was heart-warming to watch. She had no regrets about coming away with him; she just wished it had been possible for her older sister to share her joy.

      The next day she wrote to her father. Charlie had asked her not to write before they set sail in case Dorothea made one last attempt to stop them, but she missed her papa and now they were on their way she could see no harm in it.

      ‘The soldiers’ and officers’ wives are one happy family,’ she wrote, ‘linked by a warm camaraderie and eagerness to explore our new surroundings. We are enjoying the foreign aspects of Malta, with its fragrant flowers trailing up the walls of houses and twining round balconies, the dark-eyed children who follow us in the street, and the uncannily bright blue of sea and sky sparkling in sunlight.’ She sucked the end of her pen then continued: ‘I hope that you are in good health, Papa, and that your back is not troubling you. I will write again when I can, but do not worry if you don’t hear for a while as we may not be able to post our letters when in the field.’ She signed the letter ‘Your loving daughter’. She didn’t ask after Dorothea, still cross whenever she thought of her meddling. Her sister had believed she was behaving as a mother to Lucy, but in fact their real mother, the irrepressibly gay woman who had died when Lucy was thirteen, would have been wildly enthusiastic about this trip. Lucy imagined her crying, ‘My darling, what fun! Be sure to write and describe all the details. And bring me back a Russkie’s helmet!’

      Before they set sail from Malta, Lucy was astonished to hear that five out of the thirteen Hussars’ wives had asked to be sent home to England. The rigours of the voyage had been too much for them and they did not want to continue further. She remonstrated with one woman.

      ‘Won’t you stay to support our brave troops? Think how much comfort it would bring your husband to have you with him. Please say you will reconsider.’

      The woman shook her head, a little shamefaced but determined. ‘It’s too hard on the ship. You have a nice cabin but we’ve been stuck in that awful dormitory listening to the sounds of each other vomiting, and breathing smells the like of which I hope never to come across again, while being tossed around in an old wooden bucket.’

      ‘But the war will not last long. With the British and French joining the Ottomans, it is three armies against one. The Russians can’t possibly hold out.’

      ‘All the same, I can’t take the risk, Ma’am. I have four children. I have to get myself back to them in one piece.’

      Lucy bit her lip, thinking of the sobbing women in Plymouth Dock who would have given anything to be there. It was incomprehensible to her that someone could decide to leave just as the adventure was commencing. Granted, the voyage had been unpleasant but now they were all together, exploring the island by day and throwing impromptu parties every night, she was filled with excitement at the prospect of the coming months. She was doing her duty to her country and to her new husband; who would have thought it would turn out to be such fun?

       Chapter Five

      After Malta, the Shooting Star sailed into another storm, so violent the ship keeled onto its side and the horses were hurled off their feet. It passed quickly, leaving a fierce heat like the inside of a bread oven, and an overpowering stench that resembled (and possibly was) rotting sewage. Lucy spent much of her time leaning out of her porthole to catch the breeze, gazing at the hazy contours of the islands and coastlines they passed and the fishing boats painted in vivid blues and turquoises like the colours of the sea.

      At cooler