The Last Garden in England(75)

“I beg your pardon for being so forward, but have you noticed that your clothing no longer fits as it once did?” he asked.

I frowned. “I have some things that fit me better than others, but you must understand, Dr. Irving, there are aspects of my work that require a degree of physical exercise that most ladies do not engage in.”

“I cannot find fault in your desire for exercise, Miss Smith. In fact, I wish more ladies and gentlemen would engage in activities in the fresh air.”

“Then you agree that there is nothing wrong with me.”

“I do apologize for the intimacy of this, Miss Smith, but when was the last time you experienced your courses?”

I looked up sharply. “What?”

“When were your last courses?” he asked slowly as though translating for someone who spoke another language.

I did a quick count in my head, trying my hardest to remember back to the last time I’d needed the bundle of rags I kept in a plain box in my wardrobe. Surely it was just a few weeks ago. When the arbors went in between the poet’s garden and the water garden. I remembered needing to excuse myself to check for—

That was two months ago, before the Melcourts’ party.

“Dr. Irving”—my voice high with rising panic—“surely you are not suggesting—”

“That you might be with child? I’m afraid when a hale and hearty lady faints, and then the housekeeper who is called to help ease her corset finds that the lady in question has been wearing her laces looser than the notches in them might suggest, I must ask the obvious question.”

“It is hot. No lady likes to wear her corset close when the weather is as it has been,” I insisted.

The doctor looked on with some sympathy.

Shame collapses on me. It is one thing for the doctor to suggest that I might be with child, but if the housekeeper knew…

I buried my face in my hands. I needed time to think. Time to figure out what I could do, for I mustn’t lose the garden at Highbury or my livelihood.

After a moment, the doctor said, “I take it, then, that you were not aware of the possibility of your condition.”

It hadn’t even crossed my mind.

“I’m thirty-five years old,” I said.

“A great many women older than you have borne healthy children safely,” he said.

I swallowed. “Dr. Irving, I’m unmarried.”

“Ah. Yes. Well, I gathered as much when Mrs. Creasley called you Miss Smith.”

I grabbed his hand. “I cannot have this baby.”

He pulled back, his avuncular jocularity gone. “Miss Smith, think very carefully what you say next. There are things in this world that are not only an affront to God but a crime.”

I sank back, miserable knowing that this doctor wouldn’t help me even if he knew how.

He began collecting his things and placing them carefully into his brown leather medical bag.

He was halfway to the door when I stopped him. “Dr. Irving, please would you do me the courtesy of not telling Mr. and Mrs. Melcourt.”

The doctor pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Mr. Melcourt will ask me for my bill.”

“If you could tell them you treated me for a nervous condition…”

“I would not betray the confidence of a lady. But Miss Smith, you do know that at some point it won’t matter what I do or do not tell the Melcourts. They will know. Everyone will.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” I said weakly.

He left, plunging the room into silence and leaving me in despair.





? DIANA ?


JULY 1944

Diana’s trug bounced against her side as she snipped another long-stemmed bloom and placed it into the shallow basket. All around her in the tea garden bees hummed fat and lazy in the summer sun, going about their industrious days a little slower than usual.

She’d always loved this time of year. She could cope with the dreariness of winter, but she craved sultry air. She enjoyed late nights on the veranda with a glass of something cool and sweet in her hand. In her parents’ home, she’d never have dared to wear anything but the cotton nightgowns her mother selected for her. In her own home, however, she’d learned the delicious freedom of sleeping nude in the summers.

No longer sharing a bed with a fever-hot man at night was one of the few aspects of widowhood that she’d allowed herself to enjoy. She might long for the weight of Murray’s hand on her back as she fell asleep, but she didn’t miss the way his mere presence would stifle her. Now she went straight from the cool of her bath into bed.

Passing into the lovers’ garden, she heard a woman’s voice from over the hedge.

“Remember, it’s important that you stay still,” the woman said, followed by little boys’ giggles.

Curious, Diana poked her head into the children’s garden. Sitting shoulder to shoulder with their backs against one of the cherry trees were Robin and Bobby. A few feet away sat Miss Pedley with her sketchbook.

“Mummy!” Robin shouted as soon as he saw her. He was up like a shot, throwing himself at her legs. Her heart swelled just looking down at the top of his little blond head. Some days she thought it was a miracle he was here; others he reminded her of Murray so much it was almost painful.

“Hello, darling. Are you playing artist’s model for Miss Pedley?” she asked.