The Last Garden in England(40)

As soon as Mr. Jones’s back was turned, Diana let out a long breath. The gardens were safe for now.

“Thank you, Captain Hastings,” she said.

“It was nothing,” he said, dipping his head. “It seemed a shame to lose such beauty, even if the cause is a good one.”

“Matron, I appreciate your support as well,” said Diana.

“I meant what I said. The gardens do help the men,” said Matron.

“Then please, encourage them to use the gardens. And if any of them have a mind to take up a pair of secateurs, I would be happy to put them to work,” she said.

Matron nodded. “I’m sure there are some who would be willing and able.”

“Miss Pedley, I cannot thank you enough for what you’ve done today. The gardens mean a great deal to me.” Diana paused, fighting down the lump in her throat. “Please feel free to avail yourself of them whenever you choose.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

“Beth is an artist,” Miss Adderton cut in.

Diana raised a brow. “Is that right?”

“I just do little sketches here and there. Nothing more than that,” said Miss Pedley.

“She did a drawing of me on the back of a piece of cardboard, quick as you like. I couldn’t believe it. It looked just like me,” said Miss Adderton.

“I only dabble,” Miss Pedley insisted.

“I hope you’re not going to be one of those women who refuse to believe in her own talents,” said Diana.

Don’t do what I did.

The younger woman’s lips opened a fraction, but she shook her head.

“Good,” said Diana.

You didn’t refuse to believe. You gave it all up.

“Miss Adderton, I believe you have responsibilities in the kitchen,” she added.

She didn’t stay to hear her cook’s reply. Instead, she made a straight line back up the beautiful green lawn that wouldn’t see out another summer to the house. She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her long cardigan. She couldn’t stop them shaking.

She was nearly to the sanctuary of the little suite of rooms that were still her own when she spotted Father Devlin on a bath chair, his injured leg stretched out in front of him and his crutches resting nearby.

“You might be able to give a general a lesson or two with that show of force, Mrs. Symonds,” he said by way of greeting.

“How do you know what that was all about?” she asked, carefully drawing her hands out of her pockets.

He gestured to the lawn. “It’s rather too easy to put two and two together, unfortunately. A vast stretch of lawn like this was bound to be gobbled up for agriculture at some point. The land girls and the tractors confirmed my suspicion.”

“Yes, well, most of the gardens can stay. At least there’s that,” she said.

“It matters a great deal to you,” he said.

She could feel her shoulders bunch. “The men use them.”

“It’s about more than that, isn’t it, Mrs. Symonds?” When she didn’t reply, he gestured to the empty bath chair next to him. “Please, do sit.”

“You realize you’re inviting me to sit in my own home,” she pointed out.

“Haven’t you ever wished that someone would give you permission to rest for a moment?” he asked.

Her chest constricted. Why did a notion so simple cut so deeply? Why did the idea that someone might see straight to the angry, bitter center of her frighten her so much?

“I can’t stop,” she said as she sat. “Highbury needs me.”

“Highbury is a house,” he said.

“Robin needs me,” she said.

“Robin does need you, but he is far from a neglected little boy.”

“He’s been sick before.”

“And yet I saw him just the other day running with Bobby Reynolds. At this rate, you may one day find him captaining the rugby team at school.”

“I’m not sending him away to school.”

“No?” the chaplain asked. “Well, either way, I think we both know that Robin is not the reason that you raced down the lawn this morning.”

She threw him a hard look. “Then what is it?”

“What do you think it is?”

Murray.

She hadn’t been sure that she would love Highbury House, so far away from her few friends, her parents, her beloved harp teacher. But while she’d been hesitant to move, Murray had insisted it would be best to raise their future children in the countryside. He would commute to his surgery in London. She would stay in the countryside, making their home beautiful.

“You won’t need to worry about a thing, darling,” he’d cooed in her ear, arms wrapped around her from behind, his chin tucked on her shoulder. “Think of all the space we’ll have. A nursery for our children. Rooms for guests. And you can have a music room for your harp, all your own. You’ll fall in love with it.”

She’d twisted at her vanity chair, her hair half unpinned, and kissed him. Then she’d said yes.

He’d been right. She had fallen in love with Highbury House. It had been impossible not to during those first beautiful summer days. They would take a blanket and a stack of cushions into the winter garden to escape the building works. They called it their garden, and she could almost believe that they were the only ones who knew about it. He would lazily comb her hair with his fingers, undoing all of the careful work her pin curls had done the night before, but she hardly cared.