The Last Garden in England(19)

At first Matron McPherson, who ran the medical side of the hospital, had tried to keep Diana out of the wards with a sharp “Mrs. Symonds!” every time Diana appeared.

Finally, Diana had had enough. “This is still my home, and I will go where I please,” she had argued in the middle of her ballroom, eight wounded men watching her from their beds with a degree of respect.

“I cannot have people traipsing through my wards,” Matron had shot back.

“Never mind that; it isn’t appropriate, Diana,” Cynthia had said in a rare moment of agreement with the matron. “The men aren’t used to female company.”

“They’re surrounded by women,” Diana said.

“Nurses,” Matron corrected her.

“You’re a woman,” Diana pointed out. “And so are you, Cynthia.”

“I am the commandant of this hospital,” said her sister-in-law, as though the term unsexed her.

“I will come and go freely in my own home,” Diana said firmly, refusing to be moved until both Matron and Cynthia relented. The world might be at war, but she would not be ordered about like an infantryman in her own house.

Now, as she walked into B Ward, Sister Wharton, the senior nurse on staff, looked up from observing a junior nurse administer a shot to Private Beaton, who was fast asleep.

“Mrs. Symonds,” Sister Wharton said with a nod.

Diana slowed. “Sister Wharton, how are your patients today?”

“Some are better than others. He’s asked me to thank you again for helping him write to his mother.” Sister Wharton nodded at Private Beaton.

The man’s right hand had been ripped to shreds by shrapnel. He hadn’t yet mastered using his left, and he didn’t want to alarm his mother by writing to her in a different hand. Diana had lugged Murray’s old typewriter to the ward and set it up on a little table by Private Beaton’s bedside. His dictation had been the first of three letters she’d typed that day.

“I hope his upcoming surgery is a success,” said Diana. “I was wondering if you knew where Miss Symonds might be.”

“I believe you’ll find her in her office,” said Sister Wharton.

Diana did not point out that Cynthia’s office should be called the billiards room. That was one battle she’d lost. Instead, she thanked Sister Wharton.

At the billiards room door, Diana drew in a deep breath before knocking, trying her best to ignore the bitter taste of having to knock on doors she owned.

“Yes?” came a thin voice from the other side.

Diana twisted the brass doorknob and stepped inside to be greeted by the back of Cynthia’s head. With blond hair that was beginning to streak with silver, it would have been easy to think that the woman who dressed in demure pastels and high lace collars might be soft and compassionate. Five minutes with Cynthia, however, and anyone would have been disabused of that notion. Cynthia was made of flint and dogma.

Cynthia swung around in Murray’s old desk chair, her sharp, birdlike features pinched with thinly veiled annoyance. “My darling sister-in-law, how good of you to stop by. Do you find yourself at a loss for things to do?”

“You know that I have more than enough work to keep this house running on a quarter of its staff, with or without forty-three patients, three doctors, six nurses, six general service members, a matron, a quartermaster, and yourself in residence.”

“So you often tell me.” Cynthia sighed. “What is the matter today?”

“We would have no need to speak every day if the staff and patients would give a care to this house and my family living in it,” said Diana, taking a seat before she’d been invited to.

“If this is about the flooding in the green bedroom—”

“That has been repaired. It was fortunate that Mr. Gilligan was able to turn off the water to the sink as quickly as he was, otherwise it would have seeped through the ceiling,” she said.

Cynthia’s lips thinned as she shuffled some papers on her desk. “Yes, well, that was an unfortunate accident.”

“It was entirely preventable,” Diana pushed.

“I spoke to the nurses on the second floor about minding that the patients aren’t throwing cricket balls inside, but you must understand that the men can become bored.”

“Perhaps you would extend that warning to the rest of the house. Mrs. Dibble found that the silk wallpaper in the blue bedroom has been damaged after someone bounced a rubber ball against it,” she said.

Cynthia hesitated but then frowned, picked up her pencil, and made a note in the little book she kept close at hand. “I will speak to Matron.”

Diana let out a breath. “Thank you.”

“Is that all?” asked the older woman.

“It is not. Earlier today one of your cooks broke several eggs belonging to the house. As you know, I am to have the vicar and a few other people to supper tonight.”

“Surely Father Bilson will understand if his custard is made with dried eggs.”

“I cannot serve Father Bilson a custard made from dried eggs,” said Diana.

“Why not? I’m sure that it’s nothing he hasn’t eaten at his own table.”

“That is not how things should be done.”

Cynthia made an exasperated noise, but again the pencil went up. “I will see to it that they are replaced. How many?”