The Last Garden in England(52)

“Yes, well, she wasn’t always that way. I was a kitchen maid under the old cook, Mrs. Kilfod. I’ll never forget how much Mrs. Symonds fretted over the menu for her first dinner party. Mrs. Kilfod nearly had to throw her out of the kitchen,” said Stella.

“Seeing her now, you’d never guess she’s ever felt a bit of self-doubt,” Beth said, earning a little huff from her friend.

Out of the corner of her eye, Beth saw the flicker of a set of curtains, looking just in time to catch a curious soldier ducking his head. She blushed but picked up the front door’s knocker nonetheless. A few moments later Mrs. Dibble opened the door.

“Miss Pedley!” the housekeeper exclaimed. “You’re not in your uniform.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Dibble. No, I’m not. I hope you don’t mind me using the front door, but Mrs. Symonds told me to come around if ever I wanted to—”

“Oh, the garden. Yes, you’d better come in,” said the housekeeper, stepping back. “There’s been a mix-up somewhere down the line, and four men arrived today from one of the hospitals in Birmingham. Only there are no more beds for them. The whole household is in a dither. Even us, and we’re not supposed to have a thing to do with the hospital. Although, how I’m meant to stay out of it, I’d like to know.”

“I can come back another time,” she said, edging back.

“No, no, you stay there,” Mrs. Dibble called before disappearing down a corridor to the left of the grand stairs.

Beth shifted from foot to foot as a nurse rolling a patient in a wheelchair cast her a curious look. A part of her wished that Captain Hastings would materialize, but she suspected that at this time of day he would be out for one of his long, rambling walks.

He seemed to have an instinct for knowing when Mr. Penworthy would be out in the fields, for he stumbled across them a couple of times a week. The farmer would often laugh and tell Beth to amuse the captain so that he could finish his work.

It didn’t take much to amuse Captain Hastings, she was learning. She’d never thought of herself as the sort of girl who had much to say or many opinions, but maybe it was just that no one had cared to ask her before. Captain Hastings wanted to know how she was finding her work, of course, but also what she thought of the progress of the war. What she would have done if she hadn’t been a land girl. How she felt about being orphaned. What life in her aunt’s house had been like. What her favorite films were and the last books she’d read.

For a girl who had grown up mostly in silence, this onslaught was electrifying, uncomfortable, shocking. But the more questions she answered, the more she wanted to share. It was like Mrs. Penworthy’s suppers or Ruth’s whining, Mr. Penworthy’s grunts of approval when she did something correctly, the way that a cluster of land girls would shout her name when she walked into a dance or the cinema.

She hadn’t realized how lonely she’d been until she’d found all of these people.

When Mrs. Dibble reappeared, she looked no less harried than before.

“Come on, then.” The housekeeper gestured to Beth. “Mrs. Symonds will see you in the library.”

Beth jogged to keep up, even as she passed the open doors of converted wards. In the middle of Ward C, under a chandelier that dripped with crystals, two women argued in whispers.

“That’s Matron McPherson and Mrs. Rhys, the quartermaster who’s in charge of operations. They’ve been like that all morning,” said Mrs. Dibble.

“What will they do about the extra patients?”

“I don’t know. I want to support our men just as much as anyone else, but it isn’t my job to take care of a house and a hospital.” Mrs. Dibble stopped in front of an oiled oak door. “Stay here. I’ll announce you.”

Left in the corridor, Beth felt like a schoolgirl waiting on the headmaster. She could hear the housekeeper murmur her name, and then the door opened wider so Mrs. Dibble could beckon her in.

“Hello, Miss Pedley,” said Mrs. Symonds from across the room. The woman had pinned her thick, dark hair up, presumably to protect it from dust as she worked on what looked like a large project to rearrange the books in the library.

“Good morning, Mrs. Symonds. I hope I’m not bothering you,” she started.

“Not at all. I’m glad you’ve decided to make use of the gardens. They start to come into their own this time of year.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“You plan to draw?” Mrs. Symonds asked.

She looked down at her art supplies that she held up to her chest and immediately dropped her hands. “Yes.”

“I never had much talent for it myself, much to my mother’s disappointment. She was rather Victorian in her belief that a lady should be proficient in drawing, painting, dancing, singing, and at least one instrument. As an all-around student, I was a bit of a disappointment.”

“I can’t imagine that, ma’am,” said Beth.

“Oh, I had talent. It was just taken over completely by the harp. I had a foolish notion once that I might play professionally, but of course that was impossible.”

“The harp is such a beautiful instrument. Do you still play?”

Mrs. Symonds’s lips tightened. “I gave it up after I married. Would you care for a tour?”

The sudden snap from one subject to the next knocked Beth back a bit, but she managed to say, “Yes, I’d like that very much.”