In the glorious autumn colours of the Cotswolds, the rehabilitation of Drusilla Pickford began in earnest. Flora was not going to waste time pandering to the silly woman’s excuses and there were many battles ahead. First, was persuading the invalid she would not collapse if she left her bed each morning, dressed as if ready to receive visitors, and read the morning paper.
On Flora’s afternoons off, she left the house to explore the beautiful lanes and villages of the county while Minnie took it upon herself to stand guard and record any tantrums. It was the lushness of the area that half persuaded Flora to stay at this post. What struck her though, was the ruinous state of the estate cottages, so in need of repair, the sight of tired women tending their vegetable patches while ragged clothes fluttered along the washing lines. There was an air of neglect and sadness. No one looked up to greet her. Children rushed past her, shoeless. How did they fare in winter?
Going back to Bordley Court with its sunlit aspect and sumptuous furnishings made the contrast all the more uncomfortable. It was hard to see Drusilla in all her fussy surroundings and not feel determined to change some things. When was the last time this pampered woman had seen the condition in which her tenants lived? She was not a ‘Miss Havisham’ yet, but where would her selfish isolation end? Flora was eager to shake her out of her lethargy.
‘I went for a walk in Bordley this afternoon. It is a sad place.’
‘The war took our men. Barnes has no under gardeners to train up and the borders are neglected. I don’t like to look out of the window at such mess.’
Trust Drusilla to think only of herself. ‘I was thinking more of the children without shoes, or warm winter coats. That is what I call real neglect,’ Flora replied, hoping for a sympathetic response, but Drusilla said nothing, turning her attention to the fire. ‘It’s getting cold, Minnie must attend to it.’ She rang the servant’s bell to summon her. ‘Where’s my tea, it’s late…’
‘For someone so frail, you care a lot about your stomach,’ said Flora.
‘How dare you question my condition?’
Flora was not going to be distracted, putting a log on the fire herself. ‘There are so many of your tenants in need of firewood and good food. As their landlady, perhaps it’s time for you to take more interest in them.’
‘There you go again,’ Drusilla said. ‘I do not employ you to question me on things the estate manager can see to.’
‘But if only you could visit to see for yourself, I’m sure it would help speed things along.’
‘How can I go out in my condition?’
‘And what condition is that, exactly?’ Flora shook her head in frustration.
‘Don’t be impertinent, I’ve had enough lectures from you.’
‘Miss Pickford, I haven’t even begun yet, but if you are not prepared to cooperate, there’s no point in my staying. As I keep saying, you could be such a force for good, if only you got off your daybed, put on a pair of stout shoes and made an effort. Before we have tea, it’s time for your daily walk in the fresh air. Come on, it will do you good to see your borders for yourself. I’ll get your coat.’
‘My fur coat… I expect it’s chilly out there. The nights are drawing in, or hadn’t you noticed, half dressed in that cape?’
‘I’ll have you know this cape was a lifesaver in France. When we were frozen in our tents, we slept fitfully, fully dressed, with blankets, capes, and newspapers underneath to keep warm. Sometimes we bundled in together,’ Flora added.
‘There you go again, war, war, war. I’m sick of such talk.’
Flora felt her fury rising. ‘Meanwhile, some of you lay snug in your beds, well fed and pampered, while others starved. No more excuses, it’s a beautiful afternoon. The trees are turning gold and russet. You are lucky to live in such a gorgeous setting.’
‘If I must,’ Drusilla sighed. ‘You are a hard taskmaster.’ Wrapped in her fur coat and hat, she descended the stairs like a Russian princess. At the door to the portico entrance, she hesitated, as if the very act of leaving the cocoon of her house took some enormous effort. Flora recognised this hesitancy.
‘Deep breaths, Miss Pickford, smell the autumn air, the woodsmoke. This is the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.’
‘Don’t go spouting poetry at me… I’m here, aren’t I?’
They walked slowly round the garden path, Flora pausing to point out apples, berries and the late Michaelmas daisies and asters. Then she settled herself down on a seat. ‘I have something to ask you.’
‘What now?’
‘I wondered if I might borrow the car. I’ve been driving for years. Perhaps we could take a tour of the area together, to Cirencester, go into the country to view some other villages and old churches.’
‘Whatever for? When you’ve seen one street, you’ve seen them all. They’re all the same round here.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Flora. ‘I’ve been reading about the wool merchants’ churches. There’s one in Burford I would like to see. Have you visited it?’
‘No, but I suppose I’ll have to. Is this another part of my treatment?’
‘Not exactly, but I’d like your company, just the same,’ Flora replied with a smile.
Drusilla shook her head but there was a twinkle in her eye. ‘You are exasperating at times, Flora Garvie…’
‘Good, we can have lunch out and make a day of it.’ Flora sensed she had overcome another obstacle of Miss Pickford’s resistance to change.
From bed to daybed, down the stairs into the garden, touring in the car along the leafy lanes, to draughty golden stone churches, admiring stained-glass mediaeval windows, statues and beautiful landscapes, Drusilla began to take notice of the world around her. The attacks of panic at leaving the house lessened. Her attendance at church increased as she ran out of excuses, but the taking on of responsibility for her estate was still a far-off dream. In the end it was to be a simple request that brought Drusilla closer to her tenants.
The nearby village of Lee Stowe had formed a Rural Women’s Institute where women of the village could meet together once a month for practical demonstrations, talks and social events. It was presided over by Lady Olveston, from Olveston Hall, and her daughter.
Mrs Repton, the vicar’s wife, spread the idea that perhaps Bordley cum Magna might like to form its own society. Resistance was firm from farmers and some husbands, who felt a night away from the home and hearth was solely their prerogative.
Not to be deterred, Mrs Repton came to call on Drusilla with a request. ‘If you were to encourage your tenants’ wives, as their landlady, to form a monthly meeting, there would be fewer arguments. Would you consider standing as their chairman?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t… I don’t go out in in the evening.’
‘This will be an afternoon meeting to fit in with chores and school. Everyone would be back in time to make meals. We would value your presence to add weight to the proceedings.’ Mrs Repton nodded in Flora’s direction for encouragement.
‘Indeed, I think it’s most suitable that the lady of the manor should take the lead. Lady Olveston is doing her duty,’ Flora added.
Drusilla waved her hand. ‘Well, if you put it like that… but I’ll not be expected to make an address, will I?’
‘Perhaps later. We will need a pianist, so perhaps Miss Garvie will oblige us? She was a great success in the Sunday school. The meetings open with a hymn. A committee of members will deal with our programme of events and all you would have to do is introduce speaker or topic and the members will do the rest. Can I leave it in your capable hands? I’m sure Miss Flora will help you.’ Drusilla nodded weakly and Flora smiled with relief. ‘Good, I knew you would come on board.’
Flora sensed this new meeting might overcome Drusilla’s shyness and help her to mix in the community. She was afraid her employer was in danger of becoming over-dependent on her as a companion, but soon, she thought, it would be time to return home. She had stayed much longer than expected. Her sister, Elvira, wrote screeds about new friends, parties, meetings and dances. There were lengthy details about all the pretty dresses, with short skirts, she was buying in Sauchiehall Street. This frivolity worried her but it was Pa’s news that was more serious.
He was worried that now the demand for warships was over, he would have to lay off men in the shipyards. He also mentioned that Aunt Jemima was not well. He couldn’t manage Kildowie without Mima.
Staying here in Bordley Court now felt like an indulgence but it had served two purposes: one, that Drusilla was coming back to life, and secondly, Flora had had time to mourn Kit’s loss in privacy. The anger she felt at his leaving her was fading. All that was left was a deep sadness for what might have been.
Like so many wartime women, she was having to face a future that no longer included a lover. Lady Olveston’s daughter, Petra, lost her fiancé at Gallipoli. Drusilla Pickford limped through life not knowing the joys of lying in the arms of a loving man. Flora felt perhaps she was better off not giving her heart and then feeling the agony when all hope was gone.
Mrs Repton told her there was a mother in the village who kept the door ever open in case her son, George, returned in the night. Even when she received the bronze memorial penny, given to all families who lost soldiers, she did not open it, shoving it in the back of a cupboard. George would not want to see it when he returned. False hope was eating her from within and the doctor did not think she would last out the winter.
In the next month or two, Flora decided, she would hand in her notice, giving Drusilla time for the women’s meeting to be established. She hoped that when the time came to leave, they would remain friends, but Flora knew Drusilla Pickford resisted change and there might be battles ahead.