“Surely Father Bilson will understand if his custard is made with dried eggs.”
“I cannot serve Father Bilson a custard made from dried eggs,” said Diana.
“Why not? I’m sure that it’s nothing he hasn’t eaten at his own table.”
“That is not how things should be done.”
Cynthia made an exasperated noise, but again the pencil went up. “I will see to it that they are replaced. How many?”
“Two.” When Cynthia looked up at her, she pressed on. “But that is only a symptom of the real problem.”
“And that is?”
“This is not the first time that my cook has dealt with the damage or disappearance of rations since the hospital arrived at Highbury. The VAD explicitly promised that you would keep to your own rations and leave ours alone.”
“Ours? I’m a member of this family, too, lest you forget,” said Cynthia.
Lest she forget? How could she when Cynthia mentioned it so often? But it was Diana whom Murray had left the property and all of its contents to, not his sister.
“The hospital cooks are not to touch the family’s rations,” Diana said slowly. “That is food your nephew eats.” It is food you eat night after night because, while you want to rule over the nurses, you won’t eat with them.
“I will speak to Mrs. George,” Cynthia finally said.
“Thank you,” Diana said.
Cynthia glanced down at her notebook. “Before you go, I wanted to talk to you about the night nursery. Is it really necessary for Robin to sleep there?”
“Where is he supposed to sleep if not in the night nursery?” The hospital had already requisitioned the day nursery for four patient beds.
Cynthia looked up. “Well, he could sleep with you.”
“No,” said Diana.
“Or you could send him out to school,” Cynthia said.
“He’s not yet five.”
“I took the liberty of writing to Mr. Keen at Charleton Preparatory School, and he said that, given the extraordinary circumstances we are living under, he is prepared to take boys as young as seven.”
“He’s only four.”
Cynthia waved her hand. “A small matter of making arrangements. With Robin away at Charleton, he would be well prepared for Winchester just like his father—”
“I am not sending Robin away to school,” said Diana.
“Diana, be reasonable,” her sister-in-law said.
“I am.”
“If this is about his ailment—”
“His asthma,” she corrected. “No, it is not.”
“He has always been a sickly boy.”
“He is not sickly any longer,” said Diana. “He is healthy and in little danger so long as he keeps his inhaler with him.”
“He’s so thin,” said Cynthia.
“Please feel free to take the matter up to the Ministry of Food who issues his ration book.”
“Robin is a Symonds, Diana. Symonds boys have been going to Winchester for decades.”
“Robin is my son, and I will decide what to do about his education. He stays at home,” she said.
“Is that really wise, considering? All of these men coming and going from the hospital, and some of them can be quite rough. And then there is the issue of space. I have a third of my staff living in cold attic bedrooms, a third in barely habitable cottages, and a third down the road in the village. The Royal Army Medical Corps wrote last week that we’re to expect more men by midmonth, and the surgeon is demanding that we find him another room for a surgical suite because the old storeroom is too poorly lit. If Robin were to go, we could have the night nursery, too.”
“No,” she bit out.
“We all must make sacri—”
“You will not tell me about sacrifices,” Diana said fiercely. “You will not dare.”
Her sister-in-law folded her hands one over the other. “I understand that you are still mourning my brother’s death.”
Diana pushed herself up out of the chair. “Please remind Mrs. George that she and her cooks are to stay out of Miss Adderton’s way.”
Diana was halfway to the door when Cynthia called out, “I thought you should know, we have a chaplain in Ward C. I thought that you might like to meet Father Devlin.” Cynthia hesitated. “Perhaps you could speak to him about Murray.”
A long pause stretched between them as Diana clenched her fists. Finally, she said, “Cynthia, my request to stay out of my rations extends to matters of my personal life as well.”