“I think, perhaps, my work here is done,” said the officer, who slid out of the scoop gracefully.
“What is your name?” Diana asked.
“Captain Graeme Hastings, at your service, madam,” he said, bowing as best he could.
“Thank you, Captain Hastings,” she said. “Mr. Jones, I have received no requisition order for my land, so I would like very much to know what you are doing on my property.”
The man reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and held it out.
“Do you expect me to climb up there to fetch it?” she asked.
Chagrined, the farmer came down from his tractor’s seat. “There you are, ma’am. You can read it there, clear as day.”
He was right. Typed out in orderly lines was the agricultural requisition of all unused land at Highbury House.
Her garden. One of the few things that was still her own—which she’d done her very best to maintain throughout this bloody war—and they were going to take it away from her.
“I’m just following orders,” said Mr. Jones.
Mrs. Dibble, out of breath and sweaty, handed Diana the envelope she’d waved across the lawn at her. Slowly Diana broke the flap and pulled out her copy of the order.
“It was in yesterday morning’s post,” said the housekeeper.
“I see.” But then, what difference would twenty-four hours have made? There was no fighting the war effort.
Trying her best to calm her shaking hand, she folded up Mr. Jones’s copy of the letter and handed it back to him. “I understand that the great lawn must be sacrificed.”
He tucked the order back into his jacket pocket. “Aye, and the garden must go.”
“No,” she said firmly. “Not the garden rooms.”
“Diana, be reasonable. An order is an order,” her sister-in-law admonished. “You can keep your kitchen garden, I’m sure.”
“I’m being very reasonable. The gardens are useful and are used. They are not to be torn up,” she said.
“What good are flowers in a war?” Mr. Jones asked.
She pulled her shoulders back. “They’re for the men.”
“For the men?” he repeated.
“Yes,” she said. “They’re therapeutic.”
“I, for one, could not agree more with Mrs. Symonds,” said Captain Hastings, stepping to her side. “I can attest to the healing effects of nature after the battlefield.”
“Captain Hastings is right,” said Matron. Diana glanced over her shoulder, but the head nurse wore the same stern look she always did—only this time, it appeared they were on the same side. “We are dealing with men who have been through some of the worst things imaginable. They find peace in the garden. It is an escape, if only for a little time.”
“Really,” Diana heard her sister-in-law mutter.
“You would not want to deprive a healing man of his chance to be at peace, would you, Mr. Jones?” Diana asked.
The farmer frowned and shook his head. “The requisition order—”
“That land is used. The order is for unused land. If a second set comes in ordering me to rip out the gardens, so be it. For now, you may have the lawn,” she said.
After glancing at all the expectant faces watching him, Mr. Jones grunted. “I’ve got my own orders about how much I need to plant. It won’t be enough land with just the lawn. I’ll need that, too,” he said, pointing to the long border.
Diana hesitated, but she knew that if Mr. Jones didn’t produce what was expected of him, he’d have to report why, which could bring the government to Highbury House to investigate.
She gave a curt nod. “You may take the long border and the lawn. Nothing more.”
After a moment, Mr. Jones shouted over his shoulder, “All right, then. Back to work, ladies!”
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?