She started to climb down from the cab when a man’s outstretched hand, an exposed shirt cuff, no jacket, appeared. She looked over her shoulder and found Captain Hastings grinning up at her.
“You look as though you have the matter well in hand, but I thought I would give my assistance. Just in case,” he said.
Her work at Temple Fosse Farm had kept her in the barn and out of the fields, so it had been a solid week since they’d last spoken, and she found herself surprised at how pleased she was to see him. Pleased and… a little bit guilty because the last time she’d written to Colin she’d reassured him that she hardly spoke to any of the injured soldiers at Highbury House.
But when she returned Captain Hastings’s grin, she couldn’t help the little tug of attraction low in her stomach. She took his hand, even though she was fully capable of jumping down herself. When she hit the ground, however, he winced.
“I’ve hurt your shoulder,” she said.
“It’s nothing.”
“Captain Hastings.”
“The day I let a pesky injury dampen my gallantry, I shall have to give up, Miss Pedley,” he said.
“Well, we can’t have that. Petunia,” she said, turning to her new friend, “this is Captain Hastings. He sometimes walks out along Mr. Penworthy’s fields and stops for a chat.”
“Lovely name,” he said.
Petunia looked him up and down and then laughed. “It’s a terrible name, but it’s mine.”
“What brings the land girls to Highbury House today?” he asked.
Beth sobered. “We’re to tear up the gardens.”
His brows shot up. “Really?”
“The land has been requisitioned,” said Petunia.
She frowned. “You seem surprised.”
He used his good hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Not surprised, per se. It’s only that I saw Mrs. Symonds this morning after she returned from London. She mentioned wanting to spend some time in the garden this afternoon after helping some of the men with their letters home.”
Beth’s brow furrowed. “Landowners are supposed to receive a notice that their land has been requisitioned, aren’t they?”
“They are,” said Captain Hastings.
“What if Mr. Jones is wrong? What if he’s overstepping his bounds? Mrs. Symonds needs to know,” she said in a rush, her thoughts racing. But she couldn’t slow down. If there was a chance to preserve this beautiful place for just a little longer, she had to try.
“Thank you, Captain Hastings.” Beth turned to Petunia. “Do your best to stall Mr. Jones. Ask lots of questions. Be a pest.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult for me. Where are you going?” Petunia called after her.
“To find Mrs. Symonds!”
* * *
Beth couldn’t just burst into Highbury House demanding to see the lady of the manor. Mrs. Symonds didn’t know her from Adam.
But one person did.
When Beth flung the kitchen door open, Stella swung around and a wooden spoon clattered to the counter next to her. The cook pressed a hand to her heart. “Goodness me, I thought we were being invaded.”
Beth gasped for breath. “You are. We need to find Mrs. Symonds right now.”
“Mrs. Symonds?”
“Where is she? I have to talk to her.”
“You haven’t even met her.”
“Stella!” she cried. “The land girls are here to tear apart Mrs. Symonds’s garden.”
Stella whipped off her apron so fast it tugged her scarf off her hair. “Come with me.”
Tugging her by the hand, Stella led her up a flight of servants’ stairs and through a door hidden in the paneling, into a large entryway papered in chinoiserie. Plush emerald-green carpet dampened their footfalls as they rushed past a grandfather clock chiming eleven.
“We’ll try the wards,” said Stella over her shoulder.
“Which one?”
Stella skidded to a stop in front of a nurse and demanded, “Mrs. Symonds, where is she?”
“Ward B,” the nurse said, pointing over her shoulder before her eyes fell on Beth’s boots. “She can’t go in there.”
“What if I take my boots off?” Beth asked.
The nurse hesitated just long enough for Beth to clumsily toe the boots off and stumble behind Stella through a large door.
“Miss!” the nurse shouted behind them.
Ward B had clearly once been a drawing room, but it had been stripped of most of its features save a large chandelier. About a dozen men sat in their beds, some in arm slings like Captain Hastings, some with legs propped up in plaster casts. Sitting at a typewriter on a little table was a lady wearing a dark green dress with a black Peter Pan collar.