The Last Garden in England(92)

Selfish.

“Thank you.”

She looked over in time to see Miss Adderton’s shoulders stiffen under her blue dress. It was, Diana realized, probably the first she’d spoken directly to the cook in weeks.

Miss Adderton folded her hands behind her back and then turned, a pleasant enough smile fixed on her face but one that showed pain around the edges.

“Dinner is a pork medallion with beetroot and potatoes,” said Miss Adderton.

Diana didn’t care about dinner. She cleared her throat. “How is your nephew?”

The cook’s gaze dropped immediately to the floor. “Bobby is as well as can be expected.”

“Given what he has been through, I would assume that means he isn’t very well at all,” she said.

“He doesn’t sleep very well. He often has nightmares,” Miss Adderton admitted.

“I see.”

The cook hesitated but then said, “He’s quiet now, too. Like when he first arrived, before he started playing…”

Diana’s heart squeezed as Miss Adderton trailed off. Before he started playing with Robin.

The other woman was looking at her, waiting for her to say something. She knew she should. This was when a lady was meant to offer some sort of platitude. But Diana couldn’t find it in herself to be dignified any longer. Instead, she said, “Thank you, Miss Adderton. You may go.”

The cook nodded, and when the door closed softly behind her, Diana began to weep.





? VENETIA ?


MAYBE OCTOBER

Highbury House

I don’t know the day of the week or the date because I do not care any longer. I haven’t written for days because how does one record the worst day of their life?

I knew that my time at Highbury House was coming to a close. I felt it acutely when I stood on the dew-softened soil with Mr. Hillock to discuss planning for next spring; the days had become shorter.

“The daffodils will be ready to plant next week if we receive shipment of them,” he said.

“I wrote to my brother four weeks ago to ask for the bulbs. I’ll write to him again tonight and see why there has been a delay,” I promised.

“O’Malley told me this morning that the ground is prepared for the winter garden,” he said.

I recall sighing then. “I will have the sketches ready for you shortly.”

Mr. Hillock squinted at me. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Miss Smith, it seems as though you’re not wanting to work on that winter garden.”

“Nonsense,” I said, even though I knew he was right. It was the last of the gardens to be planted, and I had taken to tweaking and changing it almost daily. It would be my farewell to Highbury House, but I was not yet ready to say goodbye.

We parted ways, and I took myself off to the children’s garden, where I had begun to spend much of my time. On my hands and knees, I weeded and tidied as best I could. It was becoming harder and harder to find the energy to garden like that. My knees and back protested as soon as I stood. However, after a while, I took out secateurs to begin cleaning up a buddleia.

I grasped a thin branch of the silvery-green plant and made the first cut close to the base. A twinge tweaked my back, and I hissed in a breath. I did not stop. Instead, I chopped the buddleia branch into three neat pieces and dropped each into the large canvas bag that one of the gardeners will haul off to the compost pile later.

I worked like this for a few minutes, methodically cutting the plant back to half its height. When I reached for a thicker branch, my back spasmed more violently this time. I dropped the secateurs and grasped at my back, my fingers digging in to the stiff fabric of my corset. Another pain gripped me, but this time it squeezed deep inside.

I knew something was wrong. I needed to sit down. Catch my breath. Think. I lifted my skirts to step gingerly over gaura and asters and saw it—a trickle of fresh blood snaking down the side of my shoe.



* * *



I lost my child—a daughter, Dr. Irving informed me, although I had not asked and had not wanted to know.

It took hours from those first pains in the children’s garden to when Young John found me crouched on the ground, my arms clutched around my stomach and my skirt soaked with blood. I’d tried to stop him, but he ran straight to Mrs. Creasley. She helped me to the cottage, Mr. Hillock supporting my other side. She sent for Dr. Irving.

And then she went straight to the Melcourts and told them everything.

Mercifully, I saw no one but the doctor from the moment I was laid in bed. By midnight, it was done.

Dr. Irving spent an eternity tidying his instruments and washing his hands. When finally he was finished, he cleared his throat. “Miss Smith, I’m very sorry—”

I didn’t reply. I didn’t want his sympathy or his pity.

“It is possible that you may have other children in the future.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. I had lost my daughter, and my grief shocked me. Until that moment, I had convinced myself I could be dispassionate. Now I could see that all of my hours planning and worrying had been for her as much as for myself. I had wanted to give her the best life that I could.

But she was Matthew’s daughter as well, and it would only be a matter of time before everyone else knew it. And so I mourned not only for her but for my life as it had once been. For my ruined professional and social reputations. For the loss of my income and my independence. And for Matthew. There was no reason for us to marry now. I would be forced to leave, and Matthew’s life would resume as before.