The Last Garden in England(39)

As she flew out of the west drawing room, fury fueled Diana again. Behind her, she could hear Miss Adderton and the land girl rushing to keep pace.

In the grand entryway in the center of the house, she spotted Mrs. Dibble speaking with Matron.

“Mrs. Dibble,” she called. “I need yesterday’s post—both deliveries—and this morning’s as well!”

“Yes, Mrs. Symonds. I’ll just fetch it,” said the housekeeper.

“Now, Mrs. Dibble!” she shouted.

From the scuffle behind her, Diana caught the words “garden” and “requisitioned.” Fists balled tight, she pushed out of the French doors to the veranda.

The roaring of an engine from down by the lake quickened her pace, and she raced down the great lawn, past the reflecting pool, to where a crowd of olive-and-brown-clad land girls were clustered around a tractor. On top sat red-faced Mr. Jones glaring at a uniformed man with his arm in a sling who half lay in the mouth of the tractor’s huge metal scoop, looking for all the world as though he was stretched out on a sofa in the midmorning sun.

“Mr. Jones!” she shouted up at the farmer as she approached.

Mr. Jones shoved the brim of his flat cap on his forehead and squinted at her. “Brought the cavalry with you, have you, Mrs. Symonds?”

She glanced over her shoulder to see Miss Adderton, Miss Pedley, Cynthia, and Matron behind her. A dozen yards back, Mrs. Dibble huffed and puffed, waving a white envelope in her hand.

“I think, perhaps, my work here is done,” said the officer, who slid out of the scoop gracefully.

“What is your name?” Diana asked.

“Captain Graeme Hastings, at your service, madam,” he said, bowing as best he could.

“Thank you, Captain Hastings,” she said. “Mr. Jones, I have received no requisition order for my land, so I would like very much to know what you are doing on my property.”

The man reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and held it out.

“Do you expect me to climb up there to fetch it?” she asked.

Chagrined, the farmer came down from his tractor’s seat. “There you are, ma’am. You can read it there, clear as day.”

He was right. Typed out in orderly lines was the agricultural requisition of all unused land at Highbury House.

Her garden. One of the few things that was still her own—which she’d done her very best to maintain throughout this bloody war—and they were going to take it away from her.

“I’m just following orders,” said Mr. Jones.

Mrs. Dibble, out of breath and sweaty, handed Diana the envelope she’d waved across the lawn at her. Slowly Diana broke the flap and pulled out her copy of the order.

“It was in yesterday morning’s post,” said the housekeeper.

“I see.” But then, what difference would twenty-four hours have made? There was no fighting the war effort.

Trying her best to calm her shaking hand, she folded up Mr. Jones’s copy of the letter and handed it back to him. “I understand that the great lawn must be sacrificed.”

He tucked the order back into his jacket pocket. “Aye, and the garden must go.”

“No,” she said firmly. “Not the garden rooms.”

“Diana, be reasonable. An order is an order,” her sister-in-law admonished. “You can keep your kitchen garden, I’m sure.”

“I’m being very reasonable. The gardens are useful and are used. They are not to be torn up,” she said.

“What good are flowers in a war?” Mr. Jones asked.

She pulled her shoulders back. “They’re for the men.”

“For the men?” he repeated.

“Yes,” she said. “They’re therapeutic.”

“I, for one, could not agree more with Mrs. Symonds,” said Captain Hastings, stepping to her side. “I can attest to the healing effects of nature after the battlefield.”

“Captain Hastings is right,” said Matron. Diana glanced over her shoulder, but the head nurse wore the same stern look she always did—only this time, it appeared they were on the same side. “We are dealing with men who have been through some of the worst things imaginable. They find peace in the garden. It is an escape, if only for a little time.”

“Really,” Diana heard her sister-in-law mutter.

“You would not want to deprive a healing man of his chance to be at peace, would you, Mr. Jones?” Diana asked.

The farmer frowned and shook his head. “The requisition order—”

“That land is used. The order is for unused land. If a second set comes in ordering me to rip out the gardens, so be it. For now, you may have the lawn,” she said.

After glancing at all the expectant faces watching him, Mr. Jones grunted. “I’ve got my own orders about how much I need to plant. It won’t be enough land with just the lawn. I’ll need that, too,” he said, pointing to the long border.

Diana hesitated, but she knew that if Mr. Jones didn’t produce what was expected of him, he’d have to report why, which could bring the government to Highbury House to investigate.

She gave a curt nod. “You may take the long border and the lawn. Nothing more.”

After a moment, Mr. Jones shouted over his shoulder, “All right, then. Back to work, ladies!”