“I know – I was there when they took him to the ship, remember.”
“No, no, I mean he is really gone – dead.”
Hearing her words and their intended finality, Clementine’s crying got worse. She dug her nails into Rory’s arms as melancholy washed over her.
Rory let her sob for a while before he spoke. “Clementine, why do you say that? Stirling was sailing for home. He can’t be dead.”
“The ship transporting him sunk. I tried not to believe it but it is true. We received word a month ago that a British Royal Navy vessel was lost in a storm off the coast of Algeria. There were no survivors.”
“I, I don’t - I can’t believe it. He survived the Charge, the injury…” It looked as if Rory was going to join Clementine in her crying.
“I know. It is so horrible,” she gasped between sobs.
“That can’t be it. My old friend would never go anywhere without saying goodbye. I will not believe he left us – not Stirling.”
“Royce, you are alive.” Clementine rushed to him and took him in her arms. “I am so happy to see you – oh, my, I am overjoyed. Does Elizabeth know?”
Royce stroked his sister-in-law’s head, his hand gliding over her golden tresses. “I wrote to her that I would be coming home. The Light Brigade has been discharged of her duties pending an investigation into the fateful Charge.”
Clementine looked up into his eyes. The weak-looking boy had become a man. There was none of the silly youthful naiveté to be found anywhere on his face. Slight wrinkles had appeared around his eyes, giving him the appealing air of a man who had lived life and seen and experienced many things.
“How wonderful that you will be going home.”
He nodded. “What about you, Clementine? Won’t you be joining Rory and I?”
Clementine shook her head. “I leave when Florence leaves. Our duty here is not over yet.”
“But surely after what you have been through, they can free you of that obligation. The best place for you is with your family.”
“No, Royce, this is where I belong until the war is fully over and the men in the Crimea are all taken care of.”
Royce could see the determination play on her face. He sighed.
“But that call of duty won’t stop an old mate of yours taking ye for a cup of tea.”
Before Clementine knew what was happening, Rory’s plate-sized hand had enveloped her arm. She wanted to protest but the expression on his face did not offer any argument.
“Rory’s right. It’ll do you good. Come along, Clementine, lead the way to the mess.”
It was the first time Clementine felt a little better. Up until then, the only way for her to remain calm and at ease with her mind was when she worked. She had gone into overdrive, rising at dawn and collapsing at midnight. There had been no room for anymore morbid thoughts.
“Is the tea any good here?” asked Royce.
Rory grunted. “Tis better then that revolting swill we got in the Crimea – I can tell ye.”
“Jolly good. I’m looking forward to a half-decent cup. Any cake?”
Clementine giggled. It felt so good to be able to hear two people being able to discuss something so trivial as the quality of tea. How she longed for the day when she would only have to worry about the type of cake she would eat or whether she had to take an umbrella with her in case it rained.
It was then she had a notion, a vision that was Stirling. He stood on endless dunes of sand behind a sheen of hazy vapour. It was like he was some sort of mirage. Could it be? Was he alive after all?
Chapter 32
It was a lovely English summer’s day in the year 1856. All around Nightingale’s childhood home of Lea Hurst in the small village of Lea, the flowers and shrubs were in full bloom, and the trees proudly boasted their splendid frondescence. Sitting in the garden, Clementine could hear the bubbling and gurgling of the River Derwent in the background.
It had only been four months since the signing of the Treaty of Paris that had ended the Crimean War and three weeks since Clementine’s jubilant return home from Constantinople. To her surprise they were met with a hero's welcome, which Florence of course had done her best to avoid.
The previous year, Queen Victoria had rewarded Nightingale's work by presenting her with an engraved brooch that came to be known as the Nightingale Jewel and by granting her a substantial sum from the British government.
Barely home a week, Clementine was already busy on Florence’s next project. At her mentor and friend’s invitation, Clementine was helping her compile and write an 830-page report, analysing Florence’s experiences and proposing reforms for other military hospitals operating under poor conditions. It was a monumental task that would one-day spark the total restructuring of the way soldiers would be treated in peacetime and in times of war.
Clementine was still a very beautiful woman but the last vestiges of girlishness had been erased by the travails of war. She was now a focused and realistic woman who knew exactly what she wanted from life. Only one thing was missing. Despite nearly losing all hope, Clementine still prayed that Stirling was alive and well somewhere in the world.
Reason dictated against this. A little over a year ago, she had received word that the ship carrying her betrothed had floundered off the coast of northern Africa. There had been no survivors. Clementine could still feel the pain of her loss as if it were fresh as a newly picked apple.
She had lost all hope after that. From that day forth, Clementine had no longer lived up to her sobriquet of Miss Sunshine. She had completed her tasks with ruthless efficiency albeit without her habitual sweet compassion. She had become a puppet, pulled by the strings of some heartless puppeteer.
Florence had felt responsible for Stirling’s death. Had she not given the order for him to be transported home that night, he might have still lived. However, her work had never ceased as the casualties had flooded the ward as the war continued, spreading from the Crimea to the Caucasus and beyond as the allies increased their pressure on the Russian Empire.
To bring the war closer to home and out of fear that the Russians might attempt to attack Great Britain and France, the combined British and French fleets had entered the Baltic Sea. They had outnumbered the Russian fleet considerably, confining its movements to the coast. It was the largest naval effort since the Napoleonic Wars. The British and French admirals, Sir Charles Napier and Alexandre Ferdinand Parseval-Deschenes considered the Sveaborg fortress defending the enemy ships too perilous.
Hence, the attacking fleets limited their actions to blockading Russian trade in the Gulf of Finland. Naval attacks on other ports, such as the ones on the island of Hogland in the Gulf of Finland, had born fruit. Additionally, the allies had conducted raids on less fortified sections of the Finnish coast.
Russia depended on imports – both for her domestic economy and for the supply of her military forces - the blockade forced Russia to rely on more expensive overland shipments from Prussia. The blockade had seriously undermined the Russian export economy and had helped shorten the war.
The war had not been the result of a calculated plan, or even of hasty last-minute decisions made under stress. It was the consequence of more than two years of fatal blundering in slow motion by inept statesmen who had months to reflect upon the actions they took.
It arose from Napoleon's search for prestige; Tsar Nicholas's quest for control over the straits of the Dardanelles and the Sea of Marmara; his naive miscalculation of the probable reactions of the European powers; the failure of those powers to make their positions clear; and the pressure of public opinion in Britain and Constantinople at crucial moments.
The global geopolitical and political landscape was about to change dramatically as a consequence of the conflict. Out of fear from the British, the Russian Tsar was already in negotiations to sell his North-American possession in Alaska, to the Americans. The Prussian state became more powerful, jostling with greater Teutonic nationalistic fervour.<
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As history was in the making, Clementine had seen Royce and Rory in Constantinople before they headed home. It had been a sad and joyful reunion combined. They had spoken of Stirling albeit very little. Neither had been willing to put voice to the inevitable. It was as if both of them still believed he lived.
Despite her pondering, Clementine heard the sound of a horse riding onto the gravelled area with a turning circle laid to lawn upon which stood a sundial centrepiece. She heard the rider dismount in front of the substantial late Georgian house that boasted Jacobean origins. After that, she heard footsteps and a knock on the door.
Forgetting about it, Clementine again turned her attention back to her work. There was still so much to be done. For the next few minutes, she concentrated on compiling a list of necessities for a hospital.
“Clementine, there is someone here to see you,” said Florence, interrupting her.
“See me. Really, who is it?” asked Clementine not at all expecting anybody.
“Probably best you see for yourself, my dear,” said Florence. She had a sparkle in her eye that Clementine had not seen in a long while.
Clementine stood up and faced her friend. “He’s in the drawing room,” said Florence, her face adopting a more concerned mien. “Don’t worry, I’ll finish this up, just go,” she said noticing Clementine’s hesitation and quick glimpse at the papers.
“He?”
“Just go – you will be pleasantly surprised.”
Clementine could not imagine being pleasantly surprised anymore. It had become so bad that she avoided her parents, sister and Royce because they reminded her too much of the engagement dinner and Stirling.
Reluctantly, Clementine walked into the house. Not at all knowing what to expect, she slowly entered the drawing room. Standing in front of and facing the fireplace was a tall man dressed in the uniform of a Colonel in the 11th Regiment of Hussars. Hearing the sound of Clementine’s shoes on the parquetry, he turned around to face her.
“Oh my God,” gasped Clementine, her hands covering her mouth at her blasphemy and surprise.
“Not really, it’s only me,” said Stirling, smiling.
Clementine couldn’t believe how well he looked. His face was lightly tanned and he had put on a little weight but not too much so. He stood proud and confident, and in no way resembled a man who had suffered the ordeals of someone whom she had thought drowned.
Was it truly he? Her mind tried to fight off what her eyes were seeing. She rubbed them, only to find Stirling still standing before her. Was he an apparition, some evil trick played on her by an overly eager heart? Heartbeats separated them for a while longer until she could not hold back the rush of emotions coursing through her.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” she said, rushing forward to take the man she loved into her arms.
Stirling also took a few steps forward until they met. They embraced. With Clementine being a head shorter than Stirling, she lifted her head a little and buried her nose onto Stirling’s neck, while he submerged his nose into her hair. They remained frozen like that for a long time until Clementine lifted her head to look at him.
He smiled at her affectionately. Clementine had to swallow down a happy tear, for she could see the love returned to her in his eyes that sparkled in happiness. Before she knew it, Clementine impulsively moved forward and kissed Stirling on the lips. Instantly, he responded and the two of them kissed like there was no tomorrow. For now, Clementine was just a woman in love and she wanted to bask in that love for a little while longer.
Breaking away from her somewhat too roughly, Stirling became serious. For a moment, Clementine was worried but noticing her man’s nervousness, she relaxed a little.
“Clementine, I love you,” he blurted.
Clementine laughed. The sound of her happiness made Stirling’s heart melt with joy. After all the horror he had seen, she was the most beautiful creature in the world and he would never again let her out of his sight.
“I love you too, Stirling,” said Clementine wanting to kiss Stirling again. She frowned when he pulled away.
Stirling then went down on one knee, making Clementine frown. “My love, I want nothing more in this life than for you to be my wife. Clementine Delaney, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”
“Haven’t you already asked me that?” she asked between tears of joy.
“Yes, I did. But I thought that I should do so again. We have both been through so much.” He shrugged. “I thought that maybe you might have changed your mind.”
Clementine kissed him briefly. “Never. And besides, I still have this.” She held out her left hand where her engagement ring with the amethyst stone on a golden band sparkled. “This never left my finger when I was not working.”
Smiling, Stirling got back up and reached out for her hands. She stared at him through glazed eyes, her pulse still pumping in her veins at a ridiculous rate. Her entire frame tingled from his touch – she was desperate for more. Clementine was torn between wanting to weld her lips to his or begging him to tell her what had happened to him all of this time. Why had he not written?
Before she could think anymore, he pulled her into him, onto him with both arms. Clementine’s chest pressed against his as their bodies fused into one. Heat overcame her. This was what she had prayed for all of this time. Re-enacting their union on the hill overlooking the Thames when he had first asked for her hand in marriage had been capricious at best. Her irate remembering while he was gone was nothing like this – this passion – this love.
Clementine’s eyes were half closed, and so were his. She looked up. Through the slits of her eyelids, his lips only looked small from afar she realized, because of their doll-like pucker. They were perfectly big, really, now that she had a good look at them. Perfectly, and something better than she remembered.
Stirling nudged his nose against hers, and their mouths fell sleepily together, already soft and open and demanding for what had been denied them for so long.
As her eyes started to close, her eyelids stuck. She wanted to keep them open to see him and make sure this was really happening. She wanted to get a better look at Stirling’s dark eyebrows, she wanted to admire his wild, vampire hairline - she had a feeling this was never going to happen again and that it might even ruin what was left of her life. Clementine wanted to keep her eyes open and bear witness to what happened next.
But his mouth was so soft and seductive – before she knew what was happening, her eyes slipped shut. His kisses and little nips, alternated with the demand of his tongue. She was there for the taking. It was like he was drawing something out of her with soft little jabs of his chin. She brought her fingers up to his hair, and she couldn’t open her eyes again – too magical was the contact.
With a swift gradation of intensity that made her cling to him as the only solid thing in a dizzy swaying world, Clementine found herself mewing. His insistent mouth was parting her shaking lips, sending wild tremors along her nerves, evoking from her sensations she had never known she was capable of feeling. And before a swimming giddiness spun her round and round, she knew that she was forever his – it was what she had always been.
Stirling had never thought he would be in the arms of the woman he loved again. Before that moment, he had so much he wanted to tell her. He wanted to reveal to her all that had transpired after the fateful sinking of the HMS Renown. Now, his mind was empty. All that remained was the kiss.
They kissed like crazy – like two people starved of love and human contact - like their lives depended on it. Her tongue slipped around inside of his mouth, gentle but demanding. It was nothing like he’d ever experienced. Kissing her before in the hansom on the way to the reporter had been special as all first kisses invariably were. But what happened now transcended a new dimension – a higher plane.
Stirling suddenly understood why people described kissing as melting because every square inch of his body dissolved into hers. Her fingers grippe
d his hair, pulling him closer. His veins throbbed and it felt as if his heart would explode.
Stirling had never wanted anyone like this before. All he wanted to do was lay her down and press the weight of his body on top of hers.
Clementine felt him all over - all of him - pressed against her. She inhaled his scent that consisted of his cologne, and that extra fragrance that was just…him. The most delicious perfume she could ever imagine. She wanted to breathe him, lick him, eat him, and drink him. His lips tasted like honey. His face had the slightest bit of stubble and it rubbed her skin persistently. Clementine didn’t care; she didn’t care at all. He felt wonderful – absolutely perfect. His hands were everywhere, and it didn’t matter. She wanted him closer and closer still.
She couldn’t believe her good fortune, only thirty minutes ago she had prayed that he was still alive, and now she was in his arms. Stirling was back. Clementine wanted to scream with joy at this delightful twist of fate. She wanted to rush out into the garden and tell Florence everything.
Diaries of a Heartbroken Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Collection Page 55
