Blood On Their Petticoats

By Geraldine Humphries

This is a story of human frailty, fortitude and love, intermingling to offer a taste of an age long gone. It embodies the problems the nurses and Florence Nightingale encountered in the Crimea and the highs and lows in the Scutari hospitals, also the unselfish sacrifices a woman can make when truly concerned about another’s happiness. Whilst the brave soldiers endure hell in military hospitals, Seventeen year old Isobel Spry leaves her rural upper class life to journey to Scutari and into a Crimean War situation to follow her lover. En route she meets Meriel who is escaping her father’s wrath. Whilst in the Barrack Hospital they work closely together, from sitting making stump pillows and scrubbing floors to crying over the futile deaths of patients. Together they confront the harsh realities of war, encountering disease, mutilation and death in all their most appalling and horrifying forms, and where homesickness and tiredness are occupational hazards. Anguish comes in the form of Lottie Wilkins who is a general troublemaker from the London rookeries and who attempts to separate the friends with lies. There is a contrast of backgrounds and personalities, from the refined, educated ladies to the coarseness of the nurses, and the alleged proselytism by the nuns. Love can blossom amid despair, but lies can destroy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geraldine Humphries
• Release date: Jul 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310477980

Geraldine Humphries

I disliked school, which I regret, but I found history,geography and English interesting, although I had difficulty writing stories and poems. My passion has always been sport, becoming a Midland champion in two swimming strokes; then I discovered fencing, which gave me the opportunity to travel abroad representing Great Britain until illness prevented me from realizing my dream. I didn't start writing until I was in my fifties, and it's always been the historical stories which have interested me. My research is thorough, cross-checking through diaries and letters, not just the internet, consequently, writing is slow.I live in the West Midlands and am a companion to four cats - I think!

Book preview

Blood on their Petticoats

Geraldine Humphries

Copyright © 2009 by Geraldine Humphries

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Geraldine Humphries 2009

The right of Geraldine Humphries to be identified as author of

this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All Rights Reserved

No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication

may be made without written permission.

No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,

copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions

of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).

Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to

this publication may be liable to criminal

prosecution and civil claims for damage.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is

available from the British Library.

ISBN: 9781310477980

This is a work of fiction.

Some names, characters, places and incidents in this book are based on fact; however the plot originates from the writer’s imagination.

The Crimean War was fought through political greed, and during the darkness of this situation, folk from many different walks of life found themselves desirous to thwart the rapacious enemy. Standing shoulder to shoulder they demonstrated their courage and determination to apply themselves to tasks never before encountered. Characters developed, good and bad intermingled. It tells of how life was affected by the calamity of a war, which, for many, was fought in an unknown land, far from home, and how lies can torment but love will always prevail.

Prologue

Although the transformation caused by the Industrial Revolution was already allowing Britain to see some dramatic changes in economy and society, the tiny village of Lippiscote with its 327 residents, remained unchanged. Nestling neatly within the rural County of Shropshire it was dominated by agriculture and consequently untouched by the prosperity that was affecting the towns and cities. The residents were unaware of the huge increase in the number of people who were employed in the manufacturing industry, making Britain the world centre for finance and trade. For these agrestic people, their world, which was ruled by the seasons, was restricted to where their forefathers had lived and the nearest market town which was a comfortable thirty minutes ride away. Little did they realize how their lives would change with the coming of the steam engine.

The majority of the inhabitants were unhappy when they heard that the Shrewsbury and Birmingham Railway was intending to lay tracks at the perimeter of their community, enabling a railway train to transport passengers, parcels and light goods between the two towns. They were told that the twenty-nine and a half miles of track would create employment which in turn would generate affluence, reduce travelling times, lower transport costs, consume raw materials, stimulate investment and improve communication; it would also link the existing London to Birmingham railway with the Liverpool and Manchester line which was also already in operation. This new mode of transport would pass through the peaceful countryside at the unimaginable and hazardous speed of around sixty miles per hour.

Even though travelling would be faster and more comfortable, widening the horizons from local to national and linking the edges of England to the centres, the villagers could not understand why this engineering masterpiece had to invade their country. Who would wish to go to the cities anyway? Everything they needed was either produced in the village or available within a short horseback ride.

A whistle, a piercing scream and a nerve shattering screech of metal grinding upon metal rent the peaceful air and travelled for several hundreds of yards before fading into the quiet of the countryside. One minute later the tranquil village was in panic, with people running towards the newly constructed railway line; on their faces were visible expressions of fear.

Caught amid this mayhem were a young girl and a gentlewoman, who immediately turned their gig and followed the anxious crowd.

What has happened? the lady asked a man who was attempting to unroll his shirt sleeves whilst rushing towards the railway cutting.

Don’t rightly know, m’lady…, he answered politely doffing his cap. But it’s nothin’ good and it is time for the Shrewsbury train. And without adjusting his stride he continued with his dress by buttoning his waistcoat.

On reaching the densely foliaged railway bank, the hissing of a steam engine was clearly audible, together with the wailing of the women already at the side of the rails.

Stay here my dear while I see if there is anything I can do, Gertrude Spry said as she hitched her skirt and alighted from the carriage.

Can I not come too? her twelve-year-old companion appealed.

No, Isobel, Gertrude said decisively as she tied the reins to the nearest tree. You must stay here, and with the help of a villager she held her skirts high and began to move, with difficulty, down the steep, wooded and muddy embankment.

After a couple of minutes of watching most of the populace vanish down the slope, the impatient youngster climbed from the gig and tentatively walked to the edge of the cutting. Looking down through the trees she could see a large group of people crowded around the rear of the seething stationary engine, and glimpsing her aunt, she saw her move through the gathering and bend over what appeared to be a bundle of ragged clothes.

They’re always being told not to play on the tracks, but y’know what these young whippersnappers are like, they take no notice. That wench won’t never forget, not now. I always said something terrible would happen when that monster was a’comin, and now it has.

Please, Mr. Haskins can you tell me what has happened? Isobel asked the passing villager.

Mornin’, Miss Isobel. It’s young Fanny Dunn; she’s had her legs….

Jabez ‒ shush, came a sharp reprimand from his trailing wife. The man looked abashed.

Fanny has had a nasty accident, Miss Isobel. A doctor and your aunt are seeing to her, the reprover gently responded as she approached the gig.

How is she?

She’s very poorly, Mrs. Haskins answered sadly.

Isobel started to move down the bank.

No, Miss Isobel, you must stay here, it’s not for your eyes, the woman said caringly as she reached for the girl’s hand. Really you should not see… your aunt will do what she can for young Fanny.

But its Fanny… I must go to her, Isobel wailed, tears rolling down her pale cheeks.

Truly, Miss Isobel, don’t take on so, there’s nothing you can do. She’s in good hands and you’ll be better off here.

Isobel paused, taking another look down towards the crowded tracks and then back at the gentle face of Mrs. Haskins, who managed a sober smile. Then reaching forward she clasped the proffered hand.

I think you’d better come home with us; just until your aunt is ready to take you back to the manor.

The youngster looked concerned.

Don’t worry, miss, wipe your tears and Jabez will go and tell her where you are… won’t you Jabez? she said to her husband, gesturing with her eyes and nodding her head towards the embankment. After a few seconds, the man indicated his understanding, and with a reciprocal nod, started down the steep incline.

As the kind woman and Isobel walked towards the Haskins’ cottage the gig driven by Jabez galloped passed.

Miss Gertrude needs some ice from the manor ice house… quickly, he called over his shoulder.

What does she want ice for? Isobel asked her chaperone.

I don’t know, dear… I suppose it must be something to do with the injury, Mrs. Haskins replied thoughtfully.

When the muddied, bloodied and dishevelled Gertrude arrived to collect her niece three hours later, she refused the offered seat and refreshment and hastily related how she had assisted the doctor, who luckily happened to be travelling by rail to a new surgery in Shrewsbury, and that poor Fanny had lost both her legs. Apparently, she and a group of other children had been playing on the railway line and as the Wolverhampton to Shrewsbury train approached they ran away, but unfortunately, her foot became trapped under the rail. Even though several of the youngsters tried to pull her free it was to no avail; the distraught driver said he did not see her in time, and could not stop soon enough.

That is the trouble with these new-fangled machines, no-one ever realizes the dangers until something like this happens. Perhaps everyone, especially the children, will now treat the railway with some respect rather than contempt, Gertrude concluded.

Will Fanny be all right? the shocked and pale Isobel asked.

Only time will tell. She has survived the operations but she is still in shock, and of course there may be some infection. However, she is a strong well-fed girl and if anyone can survive, she can, but….

You mean she may die? Isobel interrupted, her sweet voice trembled and tears began trickling down her already stained face.

Yes dear, there is no point in saying otherwise, it is possible. Luckily, immediately the accident happened, her body shut itself down, and consequently she did not lose too much blood. Also, the young doctor used something called ether, it is very new, and it allowed Fanny to sleep during the removal of both her shattered legs, and it should help with the shock her body has suffered. He was very efficient; he did all this at the side of the track, using ice to stem the bleeding, and then he made certain the veins were tightly tied with catgut, but unfortunately, there is always a great risk of infection. She will need much looking after.

Where is she now? Mrs. Haskins enquired.

She is at home. She should really be in hospital but it is too far away and the doctor was not certain whether she would survive the journey. Luckily, her mother keeps a clean house, and being from a large family she is well experienced in nursing, so she knows what to do. I will make certain the local doctor will call upon her regularly and I am also certain many others will help the family cope. Mrs. Haskins nodded at this remark. Fanny must now be in all our prayers. Then clasping her niece’s hand she took her leave.

Gathering as much information as she could by hounding her aunt and the doctor, Isobel visited Fanny daily, endeavouring to help the ten-year-old stave off infection enabling her to recover. She went into the fields and lanes and collected golden rod for cleansing, fresh yarrow leaves for binding the wound, chamomile for a soothing sedative and antiseptic, burdock to cleanse her blood, and lavender to smoulder in the sickroom; she helped her aunt change the dressings and cleanse the stumps, never demurring at the sight of the amputated limbs; she also sat reading for as long as Fanny was able to listen.

Eventually, after many months of this careful tending, the brave patient was able to go outside in the wheeled chair that Gertrude had found for her, pushed by her proud young attendant. Isobel had become quite the skilled and dedicated nurse.

Being her favourite aunt, the unmarried and slightly lame Gertrude was the strongest influence in Isobel’s young life. From the first cry from the newborn she assumed the role of ‘mother’ and alone shaped the child’s outlook on life.

Being Sir James Spry’s youngest sister she lived with the family at their Shropshire home. Gertrude filled her days distributing food to the poor and the sick, with charitable works for the local rural community, most of whom worked on the estate. She spent the weekday mornings teaching at the school her family had generously built for all of the village inhabitants, instructing the children, and many adults, in reading, writing and arithmetic; she was also energetic within the church, organizing fetes and bazaars.

She would act as a nurse, dressing wounds, administering medicines and even washing and performing personal tasks that arose for the bedridden; nothing was too arduous or disagreeable for this remarkable and benevolent lady.

One of Gertrude’s most popular and her own favourite venture was her monthly magazine, free to all the populace. It told of births, engagements, marriages and deaths; advertisements from the enterprising were encouraged, all the local news, together with reminiscences. Also, there was always a short work of fiction and a poem, written by anyone who wished to contribute; all this aided the villagers resolve to read and write.

When Isobel was as young as four, Aunt Gertrude had given in to the child’s begging, allowing her to have her own stall at the church bazaar. The villagers were much amused to see this little doll of a child arranging items on ‘her’ stall, which contained her own handmade (with the help of Cook) sweetmeats, her own embroidered handkerchiefs, and books and toys she had out-grown. She learned the meaning of philanthropy at an early age.

At the age of seven, Isobel also managed to persuade her aunt to allow her to contribute towards the magazine, hence began the regular feature of ‘I-Spry’ where she showed an aptitude for reaching out to the other children in the area by the many interesting and diverse subjects to which she was attracted.

Isobel had always realized that she was luckier than the other children who had access to this publication. So this quick, bright, clever child who had an abundance of talents and the advantage of a family whose educational method was of the wisest, attempted to encourage others to share in the wonders of education in a fascinating and appealing way.

She never shirked her duties as editor of the children’s page, setting and judging competitions herself, only asking for help to ensure that her readers would understand her text, and as spelling was not her strongest subject, to have it checked. She encouraged the young to write letters to her and would read and reply to every one, paying special attention to the least educated of her writers. One of her favourite items was the competitions. She would devise a quiz, or writing, drawing or needlework event, and after showing a talent for recognising good work, would carefully choose the finalists, and then she would appeal to her aunt for a final confirmation of her chosen winner. She rewarded the entrants with little prizes, either, of articles applicable to the art, or a small cash reward.

Isobel was a practical little girl, who could cook and sew, her samplers were meticulously stitched, and at every opportunity she would practise housekeeping in the cottage her parents had built on the estate. This pretty little dwelling was for their children to furnish, play in, and cultivate flowers and vegetables in the tiny garden that surrounded it.

The boys took a great deal of interest in the growing of food for eating, and when Isobel was five years old, she was allowed, with help from Aunt Gertrude, to cook the produce, and, with some meat sent to the cottage by Cook, she dished up a meal for her three brothers and her Aunt.

For this first dinner party, the boys cut wood for the fire which they laid and lighted, making the dining room warm and cosy, (everyone knew when the Spry children were in residence, as a thin cloud of smoke would rise from the chimney, and the Union Jack would be flying from its pole). After the merry meal Isobel donned an over-large white apron, and vanishing into the kitchen, banning anyone including her favourite aunt, until she had zealously washed the crockery herself.

They say abroad that an English woman remains young for longer than a woman of any other nationality. This is because she is allowed to take a more active share in the work and especially the play of her brothers. It keeps her bright, occupied with impersonal matters, and consequently young in heart and mind. This certainly applies to Isobel Spry.

Chapter 1

Oh Papa please give me your blessing? Isobel’s voice was high; her emotions were flowing. Knowing she must not cry, she struggled to keep under control the tears that were stinging her eyes. She swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and whilst pacing around the room, managed to keep her face hidden from her beloved papa.

But my sweet little Belle…

Father, if you are going to patronize me, please do not speak, she shouted angrily as she turned again, irately pushing the tiered skirt of her day dress out of the way. She felt frustrated, not wanting to speak to her father like this, but how else was she going to make him understand.

I’m sorry Belle, he said miserably as he carefully folded The Times newspaper he had been reading before she had burst into his sanctum. He arose from his desk, his face etched with worry. I know you have always been an independent child, but you are only just seventeen, and your mama and I worry about you, but going out to the Crimea to nurse the wounded… he paused staring at his only daughter, his brow deeply furrowed. Why do you want to go to war? It is not like caring for your dolls or dogs, or even that girl from the village. Could your motives be other? Perhaps you wish to see that young man of yours.

Grant me some intelligence please, Father. Of course I wish to see Edmund. but he is not my only reason for wanting this, she said indignantly, deliberately ignoring his insulting comment regarding dolls and dogs.

Could you not give patronage to the local hospital…? Noticing his daughter’s disdainful look, he cleared his throat and continued. Or perhaps any hospital where you would be helping others in safety. You do not know what you will encounter in Constantinople.

Papa, I am not a child, she shouted. Look at me. She stretched her arms out in front of her, her hands open, then turned a full circle on her heels. "I am a woman. I am not expecting it to be a holiday, I know it will be difficult, and yes, I am apprehensive of what I may witness, but I am prepared. When I think of the men who have had to go out to war and they do not have the choice, I do, and I need and want to exercise that choice, and maybe be of some help to those poor souls. She was now in full flow, her obvious passion fired. Conventionally, women are confined to ignorance and triviality, she now turned her face to her father. But we have so many more talents than embroidering handkerchiefs and playing the piano… she continued scornfully. We have much to offer, you only have to look at Aunt Gertrude … your own sister. Why are we not free to openly practise these skills? Why are we not allowed to accomplish anything outside the home? Isobel asked as she walked towards her concerned parent, stopping within touching distance. She was not expecting an answer and nor did she wait for one. With her ebullience calmed, her equanimity reclaimed, she continued gently placing her hand on his arm and looking directly into his pale grey eyes. I know I am lucky enough to have a wonderful father whom I love dearly and who understands my needs more than anyone, and Papa, I need to do this." She was confident that eventually her father would comprehend that this was a just deed, but she also knew that her argument would have to be convincing, and of course, it had to be supported with more than a few honeyed words.

Sir James Spry, Baronet, walked from the desk, and wearily dropped into his comfortable club chair and sat watching the flames flickering around a log in the fire-grate, whilst his fingers involuntarily searched for a familiar chafe of the leather on the arms.

He was accustomed to his daughter’s overdone flattery. Recognising the argument was lost, he realized it was he who was to blame for allowing his petulant and gifted daughter to be educated to the highest level, with her excelling and outperforming his sons. He had always believed that girls had the same capacity to learn as boys, and in Isobel’s case he had been proved right. His pride in her pronounced masculine intrepidity prevented him from alienating his last born, but he was afraid for her. He comprehended that by allowing her to follow her desires, he was unlike most other contemporary fathers; it would be a different matter if she were male. He wished to understand her needs and did not want to be as imperious with his daughter as his own father had been with his two elder sisters. He saw how unhappy they were after their father had ‘made a good marriage for them’. Being neither well-educated nor worldly, they were treated unjustly by their authoritarian older husbands; the unremitting humiliation of Sybil in front of friends, family, and servants; and poor Clara dying at the age of thirty-six during the birth of her ninth child. Only the considerably younger Gertrude, who with James’s help, managed to escape the tyranny; it was certainly not difficult to see James’s objective behind the treatment of his precious daughter.

Isobel sank to the floor at her father’s feet. Laying her head on his knees and looking down at the now threadbare Persian carpet, she said tenderly. I know all you want for me is happiness, maybe to marry well and have children. I do want that for myself, and I promise I will fulfil that obligation when the time is right. And Papa, you don’t have to be concerned, I can look after myself, remember I grew up with three brothers. Pushing back the blonde curls that always insisted on working loose from her tightly fixed hair, she turned to look up into her father’s durable face. Anyway, Mama was married to you at eighteen.

Yes, but I took the responsibility of looking after her, you’ll not have anyone.

I will. William and Edmund are out there, and I would be under the supervision of Miss Nightingale, and you know how highly Mr. and Mrs. Herbert and Lady Maria Forrester speak of her. You know it was they who gave me the idea in the first place.

James had to agree that his friend, Sidney Herbert, who was the present Secretary at War, was very complimentary of their good friend Miss Florence Nightingale. Their idea was to send nurses to the Crimea, but unfortunately, the profession, which comprised of supposedly caring females, did not stand in good repute as they were generally considered to be ignorant, dirty, brutal, coarse old women for which sobriety was unknown, and who were notoriously immoral. But Sidney had assured him that Miss Nightingale did not wish to have anyone of that standing engaged. James was secure in the knowledge that the naive Isobel would not conjoin with such people, or succumb to their unacceptable practices, but foreknowledge was important for determining how this appointment may affect her futurity. James was also concerned about his offspring being amongst so many dying and injured men, most of whom would be low born, their morals and demeanour contrary to a girl of Isobel’s disposition. Also, he found it impossible to imagine how she would withstand the bloody injury and death that came with warfare, as genteel and decorous daughters were never prepared for the gruesome effects of battle.

He remembered the girl who lost her legs. Now, what was her name…? Isobel did help with her nursing, and according to Gertrude, had been uninhibited; unheedingly dealing with the problems that were concomitant with such an injury.

He leaned his balding head against the back of the chair, past events coursing through his mind. It had been a wonderful day when his extraordinary daughter Isobel Mary Victoria was born at Lippiscote Manor in the County of Shropshire on the 20th June 1837, the very day Victoria was declared Queen of Great Britain and Ireland. She was the youngest of the seven children to be born to him and his wife, Mary. He remembered that she was not a pretty baby, but soon recognised the blossoming of her beauteous nature and he could not help but spoil her greatly. As there were only just over seven years between his four surviving children, James hired Francis Webb to tutor his sons in preparation for leaving home at the age of eight years to continue their education at Westminster. Allowing his daughter to join them in the schoolroom, he continued Mr. Webb’s employment until Isobel was sixteen years old, by which time she showed considerable aptitude for a whole diversity of subjects, ranging from arithmetic to zoology, and becoming fluent in several languages. He then suggested that she go to a finishing school in Switzerland, but she vehemently refused on the grounds that she did not need to be finished, he presumed the real reason being that she was concerned of becoming homesick, missing her brothers, her horse Speckle, and Flash and Dash her two King Charles Spaniels.

She and her siblings, Charles and Henry, had always been close, but the relationship she shared with his eldest son, William, who was seven years her senior, was extraordinary. Even though he went away to school before she was in her second year of tutoring, he always made time for his young sister. James smiled as he reflected on the holidays, with her needlework cast aside, decorum sacrificed as she tucked up her skirts and allowed her hair to hang loose, matching her brothers in any combat or competition. She was a fearless rider; both side saddle and astride; having been known on occasions, to ‘borrow’ her brothers’ riding breeches; a graceful accurate fencer; and effectively tenacious at bowls and croquet. She would run and climb, play games such as hide-and-seek and tag, and in the winter she tobogganed and skated effortlessly. All this activity emanated in shouts of laughter when the talented Isobel was, according to her brothers, ‘allowed’ to be victorious; a veritable tom-boy, much to her mother’s chagrin. The evenings were just as competitive, with games of chess, cards and dice, and musical entertainment, with the boys singing, and Isobel competently accompanying them on the pianoforte, and in her sweet but discordant voice, joining in the choruses.

He knew that it was because of his influence that she had grown into a stubbornly independent and tenacious child, and when making up her mind to do something she never loses the thought until it is accomplished, being much like her maternal grandfather who, after his philandering father had squandered the family wealth, started with nothing and worked unstintingly until his woollen cloth was the most superior and sought after in the world of haute couture, bringing him eminence and prosperity.

James looked at his daughter’s determined and now handsome face, and his heart melted, he would get his dearest daughter the moon on a stick, if he were able. He sighed and said resignedly. You are more youthful than they are calling for… but I will talk with Sidney Herbert…

Oh thank you Papa, Isobel exclaimed leaping up from the floor and jumping onto her father’s lap, throwing her arms around his neck, and noisily kissing him on the cheek.

But you must break it to your mama gently, he said, pulling his head away and looking soberly at Isobel. You know she is troubled enough with William being in the Balkans.

Oh Papa, could you not speak with her and explain…?

No, Belle! James interrupted, his tone firm. You must speak with mama yourself. Isobel stood up and moodily walked to the window, irritably spinning her father’s globe on the way. It’s no good sulking. I will not change my mind. If you wish to be autarchic you will have to effect more intractable tasks than this. Think of it as an exercise in utilizing discipline for your new life, he said, as he stood, then he immediately left the room before Isobel could see how anxious he really was.

She continued to stand by the window, listlessly running her fingers along the sill. She saw nothing as she was dispirited and apprehensive, feeling a little thwarted by her father whom she could usually persuade by being melancholy, and of course, with much pouting. With a want of filial respect, she was more fearful of speaking with her mama than going out into the unknown. Mother and daughter had never been close, and Mary Spry could be vitriolic with a bitterness that was arcane, and would become easily distressed. She also had a way of making her daughter feel culpable, probably, Isobel felt, because of the affinity she had with her father.

Coming out of her reverie, she sighed, stood tall, smoothed the flounces of her silk skirt, and as she started towards the door, noticed the position at which the globe had stopped. Turkey was clearly discernable, and turning the globe slowly, she traced with her fingers, the journey she imagined would be taken by herself and her fellow volunteers.

Mary Spry, although in her fifty-second year was still a handsome woman with a good figure. She was small but fine in proportion, a comely woman despite the fact that she claimed not to enjoy good health. She had had a difficult time birthing all her children, nearly dying with Isobel, but since then she had avouched infirmity, and a day did not pass without her feeling resentful towards her only surviving daughter; she could not help the feeling and did very little to overcome that emotion. Normally, she was seen rarely in other parts of the house as she spent most of her days in her own sitting room, even taking her meals alone. The exceptions being when there were guests, which was quite a regular occurrence at the manor, and then she would efficiently orchestrate the arrangements from her suite, with the servants running up-and-down, to-and-fro and hither-and-thither muttering maledictions, until perfection was accomplished, and then she would play the consummate hostess, organizing a multiplicity of divertissements for her guests; her house parties were renowned for their manifold entertainments.

Come, was the dour answer to Isobel’s tentative knock. As she entered she could see her mother’s white lace cap protruding from the top of the day-bed, and a gentle fragrance of attar of rose permeated the air. A stylish portrait of the newly married Lady Spry, who at that time was only a little older than Isobel, cheerfully overlooked the scene. Thomas Lawrence had captured his subject in casual attitude, just as though she had merely glanced from her book towards some welcome company. Isobel wished the likeness would replace the embittered woman she now had to face.

In an attempt to steady her nerves she took a deep breath and walked slowly towards her reclining parent. In spite of her anxiety she was acutely aware of the surrounding sounds, the rustling of her skirt with every step she took, the crackling of the fire in the hearth, the ticking of the ormolu mantle