The Last Garden in England(65)

The old Diana had lived under her parents’ roof, her mother making well-meaning decisions for her. Marriage had been freedom from that.

“Have you given any more thought to what the next stage of your life looks like?” Father Devlin asked.

She cradled her glass into her chest, the cool of the condensation soothing her. “Perhaps after the war when there are no more battles to fight.”

A tall man with jet-black hair approached the pair.

“I hope you don’t mind me being so forward,” he said to Diana. “But I understand that you are the hostess.”

Diana raised her brows, but before she could say anything, Father Devlin helpfully piped up, “She is.”

The man placed a hand to his chest and gave a neat little half bow. “I’m Wing Commander Edmund Grayson, and I wanted to thank you personally for tonight. There aren’t many opportunities for my men to let off a little steam, and this has given them something to look forward to.”

“Anything for the Royal Air Force,” she said, knowing she sounded a little flip, but not caring.

Wing Commander Grayson paused and then said, “I also wondered if you might care to dance.”

She lifted her glass. “I’m afraid my hands are occupied.”

Father Devlin shuffled his crutches so he could pluck the glass from her. “Enjoy your dance, Mrs. Symonds.”

She nearly objected, but then stopped herself. What harm was there in one dance? She took Wing Commander Grayson’s extended hand and let him lead her onto the floor.

“It’s been a very long time since I’ve danced. I hope you won’t find me too clumsy,” he said.

She laughed. “I can promise you that however long, it’s been longer for me.”

“That can’t be the case. A beautiful woman like you must dance all the time,” he said.

Was he flirting with her? “The last time I danced, I had come up to London to meet my husband on leave. We went to the Dorchester.”

“You’ll have to ask him to take you again,” he said.

“My husband won’t be coming back from the war.”

Wing Commander Grayson’s arms stiffened around her, but he didn’t stop dancing. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Mrs. Symonds. I can’t imagine what I would do without my wife, Flora, and I never want to think about what it would do to her if something happened to me.”

Then why are you fighting? She wanted to scream the question, but she knew the answer just as well as he did. Still, that didn’t make being left behind any less brutal.

“When did your husband die?” Wing Commander Grayson asked her.

“August of 1941,” she said.

“I can’t imagine how hard it’s been for you.”

“It’s been a long time,” she said, even though it didn’t feel that way most days. “He volunteered to serve. He didn’t wait for conscription. I…”

“Didn’t want him to?” Wing Commander Grayson offered.

“No.”

“Sometimes a man feels a responsibility to his country that is too great to ignore.”

“He said something to that effect once. I told him that his responsibilities were to our son. To me. I don’t think I’ve ever really forgiven him.” She looked up at the officer. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger,” he said.

She glanced at Father Devlin over the officer’s shoulder, certain her newfound candor was the result of his meddling. She’d spent so much time closing doors behind her, making sure no one had a key. Yet the chaplain seemed determined to pick open each of those locks and let the sunlight stream in again.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she said.

They danced in silence until Wing Commander Grayson spun her a quarter turn so that she could see Mrs. Dibble at the end of the veranda, waving wildly at her. “I think someone might be trying to catch your attention.”

“What on earth has come over her?” she asked, brow furrowed. But when she saw who was standing next to the housekeeper, her heart sank.

“What’s wrong?” Wing Commander Grayson asked.

“That’s Mr. Jeffries, the postmaster. He only comes out after hours with urgent news.”

“Like a telegram,” said Wing Commander Grayson.

The postmaster raised his hand to show a folded slip of paper.

They stilled. Slowly a hush fell over the veranda as around them couples began to notice. Even the band stopped playing. Mrs. Dibble made her way through the parting crowd, Mr. Jeffries following solemnly behind her. When they stopped in front of Diana, the postmaster handed her the telegram.

“I didn’t think it should wait for the morning,” he said.

Diana looked down at the name on the paper, and her breath caught in her throat. “No.” Her voice cracked. “You’re very right, Mr. Jeffries. Thank you.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Symonds,” murmured Mrs. Dibble, shuffling backward.

The housekeeper clearly did not want to be the one to dispense the news, but Diana couldn’t blame her. She didn’t want to, either, but she was the mistress of Highbury House. It was her responsibility.

“Please excuse me, Wing Commander Grayson,” she said.