Diana lifted her chin. “If you had once bothered to ask, I would have told you.”
“I’m sorry for Murray’s sake and for Robin’s sake.” The words sounded drawn out and painful on her sister-in-law’s lips, but they were there. “I will leave you.”
Diana turned away to the window.
The fog of grief again hugged her in too close. A few moments later, she heard the open and close of the door once again.
* * *
“Good evening, Mrs. Symonds,” said Miss Adderton as the hallway clock chimed half past seven. So regular was the cook’s habit of bringing up a tray that Diana normally hardly noticed, except this time she couldn’t keep Cynthia’s words from echoing in her head.
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.