The Last Garden in England(38)

“What brings the land girls to Highbury House today?” he asked.

Beth sobered. “We’re to tear up the gardens.”

His brows shot up. “Really?”

“The land has been requisitioned,” said Petunia.

She frowned. “You seem surprised.”

He used his good hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Not surprised, per se. It’s only that I saw Mrs. Symonds this morning after she returned from London. She mentioned wanting to spend some time in the garden this afternoon after helping some of the men with their letters home.”

Beth’s brow furrowed. “Landowners are supposed to receive a notice that their land has been requisitioned, aren’t they?”

“They are,” said Captain Hastings.

“What if Mr. Jones is wrong? What if he’s overstepping his bounds? Mrs. Symonds needs to know,” she said in a rush, her thoughts racing. But she couldn’t slow down. If there was a chance to preserve this beautiful place for just a little longer, she had to try.

“Thank you, Captain Hastings.” Beth turned to Petunia. “Do your best to stall Mr. Jones. Ask lots of questions. Be a pest.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult for me. Where are you going?” Petunia called after her.

“To find Mrs. Symonds!”



* * *



Beth couldn’t just burst into Highbury House demanding to see the lady of the manor. Mrs. Symonds didn’t know her from Adam.

But one person did.

When Beth flung the kitchen door open, Stella swung around and a wooden spoon clattered to the counter next to her. The cook pressed a hand to her heart. “Goodness me, I thought we were being invaded.”

Beth gasped for breath. “You are. We need to find Mrs. Symonds right now.”

“Mrs. Symonds?”

“Where is she? I have to talk to her.”

“You haven’t even met her.”

“Stella!” she cried. “The land girls are here to tear apart Mrs. Symonds’s garden.”

Stella whipped off her apron so fast it tugged her scarf off her hair. “Come with me.”

Tugging her by the hand, Stella led her up a flight of servants’ stairs and through a door hidden in the paneling, into a large entryway papered in chinoiserie. Plush emerald-green carpet dampened their footfalls as they rushed past a grandfather clock chiming eleven.

“We’ll try the wards,” said Stella over her shoulder.

“Which one?”

Stella skidded to a stop in front of a nurse and demanded, “Mrs. Symonds, where is she?”

“Ward B,” the nurse said, pointing over her shoulder before her eyes fell on Beth’s boots. “She can’t go in there.”

“What if I take my boots off?” Beth asked.

The nurse hesitated just long enough for Beth to clumsily toe the boots off and stumble behind Stella through a large door.

“Miss!” the nurse shouted behind them.

Ward B had clearly once been a drawing room, but it had been stripped of most of its features save a large chandelier. About a dozen men sat in their beds, some in arm slings like Captain Hastings, some with legs propped up in plaster casts. Sitting at a typewriter on a little table was a lady wearing a dark green dress with a black Peter Pan collar.

“Mrs. Symonds,” Stella called.

The woman looked up—and so did every soldier and nurse in the ward.

“Miss Adderton, what are you doing in here?” Mrs. Symonds asked, her fingers still on the typewriter’s keys. The young man in the bed next to her, whose hand was wrapped in plaster, looked on with interest.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Symonds, but there is something urgent that Miss Pedley must tell you,” said Stella.

Beth stepped forward, all too aware that she was standing in her thick socks.

“Miss Pedley?” Mrs. Symonds prompted, her tone managing to be at once firm and tired.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Symonds. It’s just, I’m a land girl,” she started.

“Yes, I gathered as much,” said Mrs. Symonds.

“This morning, we were told to make our way to Highbury House,” she said.

Mrs. Symonds’s chin jerked. “Why?”

“Mr. Jones said that your land has been requisitioned. There are tractors at the foot of the lawn right now,” she said.

“That’s absurd. He can’t simply drive over here and start tearing up my gardens. I haven’t had a requisition order,” said Mrs. Symonds.

“Beth says he has one,” said Stella.

“Mr. Jones is going to start any moment, if he hasn’t already. He wants the land readied and planted within a week.”

“Mrs. Symonds, I can see them,” called a man who’d shimmied up in bed to peer out of the window behind him.

“Second Lieutenant Wilkes, sit down!” a nurse bellowed.

“Only trying to help,” the man muttered.

Mrs. Symonds pushed away from the typewriter. “Take me to Mr. Jones, please, Miss Pedley.”

Relief washed over her. “Yes, Mrs. Symonds.”





? DIANA ?


In the months after Murray’s death, Diana learned what a powerful motivator fury could be. Mixed with grief, it had propelled her through those darkest days when the government carted in white-enameled bed frames and mattresses, surgical equipment and bath chairs.