Diaries of a Heartbroken Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Collection

by Hamilton, Hanna

  Stirling looked at himself a little longer and decided that he liked the beard, albeit without the bits of bile. He nodded his head as if he had made up his mind. He turned to his bed and glowered at the little package wrapped in thick white paper. He walked over and opened it.

  Chapter 7

  “Join the bloody army? You’d best stay clear. It’s the path to death and destruction, mate,” said Jake to Rory. They’d been drinking since the early afternoon and they were already quite sloshed. Both of them shared the same opinion that their lots in life were unjust and undeserved. They had lost their jobs as stevedores and with it the much needed coin to remain alive.

  For Rory, it was much worse because he had a family to feed. His wife had left London and thanks to the grace of a wealthy former employee, she had taken on a job as a seamstress in her home. When the baby came, she would become a maid in her household. The children lived there in a cottage placed at their disposal. Rory did not know when he would see them again. As far as he was concerned, the only person that remained in his life was the man he had avoided on his first day at work.

  “We have no choice. Where else will we make any money?” grunted Rory.

  “We could emigrate to the colonies. I hear the Americas are good. Over a million Irishmen went there during the Potato Famine a few years ago. They won’t be back, that’s for sure.” Jake drained his mug of gin. He searched the bottom of the empty beaker in the hope to find some more of the liquid that had sustained him for days.

  “As what? We have no coin to pay for the passage. We can barely afford our drinks.”

  Jake shifted his weight along the coarse wooden surface of the bar. “We can sell ourselves…”

  “And become indentured servants for five years.” Rory sat up. The effort for him was considerable. “We’d be slaves in all but title.”

  Jake shrugged. “As far as I know slaves get fed.”

  “That is if we survive the passage across the sea. No, there’s got to be something else we can do,” said Rory, shaking his head. He emptied his tankard of gin and scoffed. “Got any coin, mate. I’m all out.”

  Jake rummaged in his pockets only to discover that he had none either. He shook his head. “Not a bloody copper.”

  Rory realised that he was at rock bottom. He didn’t have one brass farthing to his name. In a little under a week, his scoundrel landlord would throw him out onto the streets. Then, he would be just another pauper populating the rookeries of London. So far, he had gotten by, by stealing from the rich. He picked their pockets. It was an activity with only one destiny. If he were caught, he would end up with his neck in a noose and dangling from a rope.

  Looking at his insalubrious surroundings, Rory knew that going on a continuous bender with Jake was not the best way to change his lot. At the moment, he was drunk and called a dump for an accommodation his home. Something needed to change.

  “Young men of London,” shouted a deep voice that belonged on a military parade ground.

  “Oi, stop shouting, you’re hurting me head,” grunted one of the other frowzy patrons sitting in the tavern that was unsuitably called The Dashing Hussar.

  The Sergeant-Major slapped his hand on the barrel in front of the man, silencing him immediately. Rory looked at the soldier with drunken eyes. Dressed in a navy-blue tunic with gold brocade on the front, he was an impressive sight. On his head, he wore a black horsehair busby with a black and maroon hackle on the top. That combined with the striking redness of his breeches made Rory think. He recognised the uniform that belonged to one of England’s finest regiments, but he was too drunk to remember which one.

  Once he had everyone’s attention, the Sergeant started to say his piece.

  “Young men of London if you would be starved, ruled and oppressed by your cruel masters, if you would not be ruled by one except her majesty the Queen, God bless her, but you do have the urge for glory, wealth and fine clothes…”

  The Sergeant paused briefly to clear his throat.

  “Now’s the time to break out of this squalor, and seek that glory, wealth and the fine clothes you so richly deserve. Look no further men, for you can do no better than to enlist for the eleventh regiment of Hussars.”

  “That’s it. They’re from the bleeding Light Brigade,” said Jake, coming to his senses. “Finest cavalry regiment in the whole of Europe, if not the world.”

  And as if he had singled them out, the Sergeant marched up to Rory and Jake. A drummer boy and four other soldiers dressed in the same uniforms followed in his wake.

  “Good evening gents,” said the Sergeant affably.

  Jake and Rory just grunted inaudibly.

  “Have either of you fine gentlemen ever considered enlisting to the 11th Regiment of Hussars?” he asked seriously.

  “Huh, I’m a miserable cad and a scoundrel. Army wouldn’t want me,” guffawed Jake drunkenly. “I would probably pinch the commander’s spurs for a penny or two. You don’t want me…even though I’d love to join up.”

  Rory arched his eyebrows in surprise. Only moments ago, his new friend had spurned the whole idea of a military career and now he said that he loved the whole idea.

  “No matter, you look like a strong and healthy lad to me,” said the Sergeant.

  “And you, sir, doesn’t the prospect of a fine uniform, and the respect and the adulation of the people appeal to you?” he continued, focusing his attention on Rory who shrugged his shoulders. “You’d earn wages,” added the Sergeant knowingly.

  Rory looked at him. For a heartbeat, a look of hope crossed his face, but he then quickly succumbed to his drunken despair once again. He resigned himself to the fact that he would never see his wife and children again.

  “And a nice, full tankard of gin for the both of you,” continued the Sergeant with a grin on his face.

  The promise of more alcohol made the Sergeant appear endearing to the two drunks. They looked up at him hopefully. The path to further oblivion appeared saved for this night at least.

  “That’s the spirit, lads,” he said nodding his head at the innkeeper who smiled because he knew what was going to come next.

  Once the three tankards with gin were placed in front of them, Jake eagerly stretched out his hand to take his tankard. The Sergeant placed his hand on his arm to restrain him. Jake looked at him with a confused expression on his face.

  “One sip of London’s finest blend and I’ll take it you’ll enlist,” he said with a mischievous grin.

  Jake so wanted a drink that he just nodded. The soldier released his arm and smiled encouragingly. “What about you, big lad? Fine strapping bloke like you will have the Russians running a mile.” When Rory nodded, the Sergeant held up his tankard and the three of them toasted to the new recruits.

  Once he’d drunk and wrote down their names in a little black booklet, the Sergeant studied his two new recruits carefully.

  “You two will look a rare treat in stable dress. You are now a part of Prince Albert’s Own, and you will follow in the footsteps of our famous brothers who fought at Salamanca and Waterloo.”

  Enthusiastically, they toasted each other again. After two more tankards of gin each, Rory and Jake staggered out of The Dashing Hussar with the soldiers. They walked down the dark and grimy streets of London that were weakly lit by the flicker of gas lamps. The streets were lined with homeless young children, mothers holding their babies and paupers. It was a sorry sight of abject despair and misery.

  Reaching a crossroads, Rory wanted to turn off and head back to his squalid dwelling, but the Sergeant stopped him.

  “You, young man, are a Hussar in the 11th Regiment of Hussars. One of the 7th Earl of Cardigan’s Cheerybums. Stand to attention when I’m addressing you, sir,” he shouted. But Rory never heard him as he passed out onto the pavement.

  Chapter 8

  “And you are?” said Florence Nightingale in an authoritative tone of voice.

  “Miss Clementine Delaney, ma’am.”

  “
Why are you here, young lady?” said Nightingale sternly.

  “To serve Queen and country, ma’am.” Clementine’s lips shuddered as she nervously swayed on her feet in the presence of such an impressive woman. Her reputation preceded her as a harsh disciplinarian.

  “I see. Is that all?” asked Nightingale disappointed.

  Clementine, who up until now had just stared ahead as if she were a private in the army, turned her head and looked at Florence Nightingale directly. Her eyes widened. The woman’s gaze was serious and full of determination. As the last in the line of a dozen women, she wanted to make a good impression. She wanted nothing more than to be a part of this.

  “I want to make a difference, ma’am. Against my parent’s wishes I chose not to become a dutiful wife because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in some man’s shadow, but to feel the excitement of helping people in need. Maybe travel the world, have an impact on people’s lives and to be respected as an independent woman. Women with purpose will be needed in the months to come,” said Clementine, turning her head away and staring ahead again.

  Florence Nightingale smiled knowingly. The gesture made her habitually sharp - but pleasant - features soften. She was a tall, thin woman, dressed in an elegant but simple black, full dress with a white lace collar. A white lace scarf covered her reddish-brown hair. Her grey eyes that could switch between great sympathy and unyielding purpose told a story that this woman would one day make history.

  “Ladies! It appears Clementine has what it takes to become a nurse,” said Nightingale, walking away from the assembled women. She stopped and turned around to face them again. To Clementine it appeared that she had a perpetual glow on her face that betrayed her sense of purpose and determination.

  “I, too, went against my parent’s wishes. Actually, they even forbade me to become a nurse,” she said, chuckling. “They even compared the profession to that of a prostitute’s. Now there’s something for you to think about before enlisting. Do you want to be compared to such persons?”

  There was a shocked intake of breath from the group of women.

  “I did not hear you, ladies. Do you wish to be called as such?”

  “No, ma’am,” shouted the assembled women.

  “I did not hear you clearly enough.”

  “No, Miss Nightingale.”

  She nodded imperiously. “Five years ago, I refused a marriage proposal from a suitable gentleman. My mother and father wanted to disown me because of it. But that is of no importance. Do you know what I said to my suitor? What reason I gave him for declining his proposal no matter my feelings for him?” asked Nightingale.

  Mesmerised by Florence Nightingale’s aura, some of the applicants nodded their heads eagerly while others shook theirs. Upon seeing this Nightingale smiled again. “I said that he stimulated me intellectually and romantically, but my moral and active nature required satisfaction, and that, I would surely not find it as his wife.”

  Again, the assembled women were in awe of Nightingale’s willpower and independence. Apart from the queen, there probably was no greater woman in the whole of Victorian Britain. For an unmarried woman, she had travelled extensively.

  Nightingale had spent a long time in Egypt, getting as far as Abu Simbel. What she wrote about the place bore testament to her learning and literary skill. The words were a mirror image of her philosophy of life. She had described the Abu Simbel temples with such flowing eloquence:

  "Sublime in the highest style of intellectual beauty, intellect without effort, without suffering … not a feature is correct - but the whole effect is more expressive of spiritual grandeur than anything I could have imagined. It makes the impression upon one that thousands of voices do, uniting in one unanimous simultaneous feeling of enthusiasm or emotion, which is said to overcome the strongest man.”

  As an avid reader, Clementine had read about it. Furthermore, she knew when Nightingale had received her calling to help people as a nurse. It was in Thebes when she had written about being called to God. Her elder sister, Parthenope had shared her letters with the press, spreading her sister’s acclaim among the populace, especially the upper classes.

  The excerpt in the newspapers quoting her words brought on even stronger patronage from her old friend Sidney Herbert who had just become the new Secretary of War. Nightingale had claimed that: God called her in the morning and asked her whether she would do good for him, alone and without reputation.

  On her way back to England, Florence had visited the Lutheran religious community at Kaiserswerth-am-Rhein in Germany. There she observed Pastor Theodor Fliedner and the deaconess working for the sick and the deprived. It was where she had received her medical training. In 1851, she anonymously wrote about her experiences there in her first published work called: The Institution of Kaiserswerth on the Rhine, for the Practical Training of Deaconesses.

  “Ladies, hear this, I have received a letter from the Secretary of War, Sidney Herbert, asking me to organize a corps of nurses to tend to the sick and fallen soldiers stationed in the theatre of war,” said Nightingale, getting serious again. She cleared her throat. “Time is of the essence ladies, be sure of that, because we do not have much.”

  There was a surprised murmur from the women, but Nightingale continued speaking regardless.

  “I have been told that the army sails for the east in the coming months. Errant whispers claim that it will be as soon as September this year. And we have been ordered to follow shortly afterwards so that we will reach Constantinople in October. I won’t have much time to train you and you won’t have much time to settle your affairs here.”

  Clementine couldn’t believe it. Her life had just taken a dramatic turn. It wouldn’t be long and she’d be on board a ship heading to the theatre of war. She was so sure that she’d get the position and the prospect excited her.

  “And don’t for one moment think that the voyage over there will be some pleasure cruise. There will be daily training because the very instant we are on the ground, we will be confronted with an environment that is foreign and like nothing you have ever seen before,” said Nightingale. She waited for her words to sink in before continuing. “We will set up a professional nursing corps in the city of Constantinople. It will be the first time in history that anything of the like has been attempted,” she said with passion.

  Nightingale paused a moment. She watched the faces of the women before her. Already, she had made her choice. She had already close to the three-dozen nurses she needed and all that remained was for her to select three more.

  “Not only will you have to be resolute against the tough environmental conditions, and the demands of a stultifying workload, but you will also have to withstand the chauvinistic nature of your male colleagues. And in doing all of that, you will be confronted with the blood and gore of the wounded all around you. But mark my words, my chosen ladies will be fearless in the execution of their duties.”

  Nightingale stared at the women fiercely and as she expected, only three of them were strong enough to hold her gaze.

  “Only Clementine, Bernadette and Sally will remain here. The rest of you may leave,” said Nightingale harshly.

  Once the other women had unhappily left the room, Nightingale addressed her three new recruits.

  “I have chosen the three of you because you display the characteristics and strength for the job. Don’t ever let me down. I will accept no breach of discipline. You say that you are unmoved by the seductive attempts of the dashing soldier. This will be a test for you all. I will have no preferential treatment of family members or lovers,” she said severely.

  “No ma’am,” responded the new nurses in unison.

  “But first, there’s to be a little fun,” grinned Nightingale mischievously.

  Clementine and her two new colleagues shared excited glances.

  “There’s to be a ball in the coming days with some of the regiments that have been chosen to be shipped out to the Crimea. The Secretary of
War has asked me personally to invite my ladies of the corps to the event,” said Nightingale.

  She breathed in deeply. Clementine knew that something important was coming next.

  “Under no circumstances are you to fall in love. Is that clear?”

  There was a murmur of ascent from the new recruits as all of them were sure that there was no chance of that happening.

  “Most of the men that will be attending this ball are the pride of England and the envy of the world. Falling in love with such a man is as easy as picking daisies in a meadow. But before any of you let your hearts run wild, remember this. You may be kissing him tomorrow, and in a month’s time you’ll be watching the chief surgeon sawing off his leg.” Nightingale said the last bit with such vehemence that it had Clementine truly believing that she would never fall in love in her life.