by Julia Kelly
“Are you all right?” she asked her nephew.
He nodded, his eyes still downcast. “Yes, Aunt Stella.”
“Good. Don’t you dare move.” She hesitated and then dropped a kiss to his forehead.
Her nephew didn’t protest. He didn’t do anything.
She straightened and braced herself as she turned to the headmaster.
“Miss Adderton, I’m Mr. Evans. Would you take a seat?” the man asked.
Her grip wrapped around her handbag strap a little tighter when she saw Mrs. Symonds sitting in front of the headmaster’s large oak desk.
Mrs. Symonds twisted to watch her take the chair next to her, her eyes giving nothing away from under the brim of a neat, dove-gray hat.
Mr. Evans crossed his hands on the top of his leather blotter and fixed both of them with a look. “Mrs. Symonds, Miss Adderton, as you can imagine, we are very careful at Highbury Grammar not to allow any fighting in the schoolyard.”
“Of course,” she murmured. Mrs. Symonds said nothing.
“This is not a place for roughhouse and play. I know we have taken both Robin and Bobby earlier than is usual, but they are expected to behave as the older boys do.” He paused. “I’ve already spoken to both boys individually, but I’m going to ask them to come in and tell us what happened. They must understand that actions have consequences.”
Consequences. Stella knew what that meant. Smacks on the hand with a ruler. Lashes on the bottom with a cane. “Consequences” were one of the reasons she’d been glad to leave school as early as she could.
Mr. Evans rose, returning a moment later with a hand planted firmly on each boy’s shoulder. He steered them beside his desk and then resumed his seat.
“Reynolds, why don’t you tell us what happened?” the headmaster prompted.
Bobby’s face screwed up in thought.
Robin jumped in with a bright, animated voice. “We were arguing over who could run faster.”
“Symonds,” the headmaster cut him off.
“It’s true,” said Bobby in a quiet voice. “We all ran to the edge of the schoolyard and back.”
“Robin, you ran?” Mrs. Symonds asked.
“I’ve been practicing, Mum! I’m really good and I didn’t need my inhaler once,” said Robin.
“Robin and I beat everyone,” said Bobby.
“And then it was only Bobby and me left,” Robin jumped in.
“Symonds,” Mr. Evans warned again.
“Let him speak,” said Mrs. Symonds in a quiet, firm tone Stella knew only too well.
“We bet a sixpence that we could run fastest,” said Robin.
Stella bit her lip. She knew for a fact that Bobby didn’t have a sixpence to bet because, although Joan had packed Bobby’s ration book in his little case, she hadn’t left a cent to help pay for things like his books. Those fees had come out of Stella’s savings.
“I was winning,” said Bobby, a hint of pride in his voice.
“Then I tripped him,” Robin finished, matter-of-fact.
“You tripped him? Why would you do that, Robin?” his mother asked.
Robin shrugged. “He was winning.”
“That is not a gentlemanly thing to do,” Mrs. Symonds scolded.
“He didn’t trip me, I fell down,” said Bobby quickly.
“No, you didn’t. I tripped you, and then you punched me,” said Robin, as though that explained everything.
“Two teachers had to pull the boys apart from one another,” said the headmaster.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Evans. Bobby is usually such a well-behaved boy,” said Stella.
“And so is Robin,” said Mrs. Symonds.
“I’m afraid the boys will need to be punished,” said Mr. Evans.
“If you think that you will be responsible for doling out that punishment, you are sorely mistaken, Mr. Evans,” said Mrs. Symonds, her voice polished as steel.
Mr. Evans sighed. “Mrs. Symonds, there is nothing to be gained from leniency in these sorts of affairs. Boys must learn—”
“I will not tolerate you or anyone else striking my son.” Mrs. Symonds glanced at Stella. “And given that I believe what is fair is fair, neither will Bobby face that punishment.”
“Mrs. Symonds, both boys—”
“Will be punished, you have my reassurance. Now, if that will be all.”
Sputtering, Mr. Evans half rose from his desk, but by then Mrs. Symonds had already gripped her son’s hand and was leading him out. Stella bid the headmaster a hasty goodbye and grasped Bobby by the elbow.
“Are you truly okay?” she whispered as she helped Bobby ease on his coat and collect his satchel out in the reception.
“Yes,” said Bobby, more cheerful than she’d heard him since he’d arrived at Highbury House.
“Do you like Master Robin?”
“We’re friends. He lets me play with his toys, and I help him run. He doesn’t have to stop anymore. Nanny doesn’t know, but we’re going to show her.”
Outside, Stella found Mrs. Symonds waiting with Robin, who was crouched down, examining a bug crawling on the brick wall of the school.
A lump rose up in Stella’s throat again. It wasn’t fair, but she knew what was expected—even if Robin had been the one to start the fight. He was to the manor born, and Bobby was just a little boy with a cook for an aunt.
She put a hand on her nephew’s shoulder. “Bobby, you must apologize to Master Robin and Mrs. Symonds.”
“We’re friends,” said Robin. “I’m going to teach him how to throw a cricket ball.”
“It’s true, Aunt Stella,” said Bobby.
“Well, in that case, it will be even easier for you to both apologize to one another, won’t it?” asked Mrs. Symonds.
The boys muttered hurried, insincere apologies. They weren’t sorry for what they’d done. They were just being boys.
Stella was about to grab Bobby’s hand and say their goodbyes before walking the long way back to the house—alone—when Mrs. Symonds said, “Robin, why don’t you run ahead with Bobby? Miss Adderton and I would like to talk.”
Bobby broke free from Stella’s grasp, laughing as he ran down the pavement with Robin, their friendship newly solidified. Her hand fell away. A child in a cook’s care did not harm the heir of the house. She should’ve reminded Bobby of that, but Stella hadn’t thought it was necessary. The separation between people like Bobby and people like Robin was so great, the rules felt self-evident.
Mrs. Symonds cleared her throat. “Miss Adderton,” she started slowly, “I believe I owe you an apology, even if my son doesn’t seem to think that one is necessary.”
“You? Owe me?” she stumbled in shock.
“I understand the very difficult position that Robin put you in by acting so disgracefully with Bobby. I can assure you that he will receive a fitting punishment.” Mrs. Symonds tilted her head as she watched the boys meander off down the road. “I think that some time spent weeding in the garden would suffice. Two weeks after school should do it, I think. Robin does so hate the wet, and this is such a wet time of year.”
“Could Bobby join him?” Stella asked.
A slight smile touched Mrs. Symonds’s lips. “I’m certain there are more than enough weeds in Highbury for two punishments.”
Mrs. Symonds began to walk, glancing back at Stella as though she expected her to join. Stella frowned deep. The stuck-up, stuffy lady who demanded preposterous things like a cheese soufflé for a Sir Something or Another and his wife wanted to walk with her.
Cautiously Stella followed, and Mrs. Symonds slowed her pace to match Stella’s.
After a few silent minutes, Stella ventured, “If you don’t mind my asking, Mrs. Symonds, do you object to the cane?”
“In schools, in homes, anywhere. I know it’s frequently used, but I don’t ever wish Robin to know it.”
Why? Stella wanted to shout. Why, when in so many other ways Mrs. Symonds seemed traditional to her very core?
“It was my late husband Murray’s wish,” said Mrs. Symonds, as though reading Stella’s mind. “He experienced a particularly brutal beating at his preparatory school. I had no desire to send Robin to such a school, much as my sister-in-law might disagree with me.”
“I see,” Stella said carefully.
“How is Bobby adjusting to life in the country?” Mrs. Symonds asked.
Stella sighed. “He’s clung to me. I think he is shy.”
“He doesn’t seem to be shy around Robin.”
He isn’t old enough to have the good sense to be.
She peered down the pathway to the two boys zigzagging, their arms stretched out like Spitfires. “No, he doesn’t.”
“You have asthma, don’t you? That is why you can’t serve?” Mrs. Symonds asked.
“Yes,” she said, preparing herself for the judgment.
“I’ve never seen Robin run before without becoming winded.”
“Maybe his lungs have grown stronger,” she suggested.
Mrs. Symonds made a noncommittal sound. “Has your sister indicated how long she wishes Bobby to stay at Highbury?”
As though it were anyone’s decision but Mrs. Symonds’s.
“No. Joan isn’t much of a letter writer unless she wants something. I’ve only had two letters since February.” She paused. “I hadn’t seen her since her husband’s funeral.”
“And yet still you took her son,” said Mrs. Symonds.
“Where else would he go?”
But even as she said the words she knew that they were only part of the truth. Yes, Bobby had no other family besides her. And yes, he was just a child. Yet it wasn’t as simple as all of that. If she could, she would be gone from Highbury. She’d take herself off to London, New York, Shanghai—she didn’t care where, so long as it wasn’t Highbury, where everyone knew her and there was no escape.
What she would do when she got there, she still didn’t know.
“This war has brought so much unhappiness, we must do anything we can to shield our children from it,” said Mrs. Symonds.
When she glanced over and found that Mrs. Symonds was gazing at her son, her eyes were blank—almost as though she wasn’t there.
“Master Robin looks very much like his father,” said Stella.
“He does.”
“Mr. Symonds was a kind man,” she offered.
“He was,” said his widow with a nod. “Some decency left the world the day he was killed, and the world needs decency right now. The convalescent home, for instance. He would have been delighted that the house had become a place of rest and recuperation for so many men. All I can see is the invasion of my home. I did ask Cynthia to speak to Mrs. George about respecting your needs, by the way.”
Stella jerked back in surprise. “You did?”
Mrs. Symonds shot a smile—tiny but sly—at her. “Some battlefields must not be lost. Given the state of rations these days, I am happy to declare the kitchen one of them.”
Stella was struck by the warmth of Mrs. Symonds’s gesture.
“If I might be so bold, madam, I think Mr. Symonds would want you to be happy.”
Something in the air shifted, and she could see Mrs. Symonds’s back straighten.
“Miss Adderton, you overstep,” Mrs. Symonds snapped. And once again, the walls were in place, the boundaries clear. One of them was the employer, and one of them was the cook.
“I do apologize. I—It’s only that I—” She tried to string together the right words.
“I expect dinner will be served at half past seven, as usual,” Mrs. Symonds said before marching off and leaving Stella very much on her own on the last strip of pavement before the village gave way to the road to Highbury House.
SPRING
• EMMA •
APRIL 2021
Due to necessary cuts across the foundation, we have decided to place the Head of Conservation position on hold indefinitely. This is in no way a reflection of the selection committee’s feelings about you as a candidate. Indeed, please accept my personal apology…
Emma gave the email from the Royal Botanical Heritage Society’s executive director one last scan and then locked her phone. After almost three months without a word, she wasn’t exactly surprised that the position had been effectively eliminated, but it still stung that they had made her wait so long to find out. She knew she’d been a good candidate.
The more she thought about it, the more she could see the potential good she might do with a budget and the weight of the Royal Botanical Heritage Society behind her. It didn’t exactly help that she’d checked Turning Back Thyme’s business account that morning and realized that if Highbury House had any more delays, she was going to have less money in reserve than she liked at the end of the year. And that wasn’t even taking into account the advance payment on her taxes her accountant would soon be hounding her to make.
“You don’t need a job. You have a company,” she muttered, stuffing her phone into the canvas bag on the front seat of Charlie’s American-style pickup truck and cutting the ignition. Martha Reeves and the Vandellas stopped singing about a heat wave midverse, plunging the truck into silence.
She would do what she always did. Head down. Move forward. Don’t look back.
Emma thrust open the truck door and braced herself for the cold, pounding April rain that stung her face as she ran the short distance to Highbury House’s front door. The thirty clematis that she needed for the long border and the tea gardens would be fine in the bed of the truck, but if water made it through the flap of her bag, she was screwed.
Like magic, the door swung open, and she hurtled past a very dry Sydney and Bonnie and Clyde, practically skidding to a stop on the black, white, and gray tile of the entryway. Gone were the drop cloths that had littered the space when she’d first arrived, and the scent of newly applied paint still hung in the air. Highbury was making progress, and so was she.
“I saw you drive up,” said Sydney.
“Thanks,” she said, holding her bag out as she tried to wring out her hair one-handed. The dogs danced around her, thrilled as always.
“Bonnie, Clyde, down. Where’s Charlie?” asked Sydney, peering out at the truck.
“He’s patching up his narrow boat. The roof sprung a leak,” she said.
“He lives on a narrow boat?” asked Sydney, frowning.
“He stays on it when he’s on jobs near the Grand Union Canal, otherwise he’ll take a cottage like I did.”
“Does he like it?” Sydney asked.
“When the weather’s nice.”
“It’s England…”
“And the weather’s never nice for long. I know. He bought it at the height of the summer, and all he could talk about was motoring up the canals in the sun.” Fun-loving, easygoing Charlie was brilliant at troubleshooting and logistics but wasn’t exactly a forward planner.
“Let me get you a towel,” said Sydney.
Emma didn’t protest as her employer led her downstairs to the basement. It was often easier to agree with Sydney than try to persuade the woman that she didn’t need or want any help. Surprising herself, though, she’d quickly become accustomed to going along with the other woman’s whims. The fact that Sydney seemed to delight in making people’s lives just a little bit easier, brighter, or more welcoming didn’t hurt, either.
“Have you been down here before?” Sydney called over her shoulder.
“No, not yet.”
“This used to be the servants’ domain.” They reached the bottom of the stairs, and Sydney pointed to the left. “The kitchen is that way. We still have the wine cellar, but sometime in the last fifty years someone installed a washing machine and a drying rack in the old stillroom.”
Emma followed Sydney into a spacious utility room with a washer and dryer, a Welsh dresser, and a set of cabinets built into the wall. Sydney opened one of the cabinets and pulled out a neatly folded ivory towel.
“Thanks,” said Emma.
�
��I was just going to put tea on, if you want to join me.”
Given the rain, she wasn’t eager to get out into the garden. “Sure.”
“Wonderful!” Sydney lit up so brightly that Emma felt guilty she hadn’t accepted the woman’s offers of tea more often.
Emma squeezed water out of her long ponytail as she walked up the corridor to the kitchen. When she crossed the threshold, however, she stopped short.
“Wow.”
This had to be the most beautiful kitchen she’d ever seen. A huge central island of stone-gray-painted wood and granite with a set-in gas cooktop sat in the middle. On the far wall a huge hunter-green Aga dominated, a conventional oven set in next to it. There were generous counters, a deep Belfast sink that looked like it could fit either Bonnie or Clyde, and cabinets done in a slightly lighter shade than the island. Emma knew they were virtually underground with only a tiny set of windows near the ceiling allowing natural light in, but somehow the space felt airy. And to top it all off, a bouquet of forget-me-nots spilled out of a blue-and-white jug with casual elegance.
“This is incredible,” she said.
Sydney blushed. “Thank you. Cooking is a passion of mine, and I wanted to make sure we had a usable kitchen when we moved in.”
“It looks more than usable. I want to cook in here, and I don’t even like cooking.”
Sydney laughed. “Andrew said the same thing when he saw the architect’s plans. Let me get the tea on. Why don’t you take a seat?”
Emma rounded the island to where Sydney had pointed and found a set of black bar stools tucked under the ledge. She pulled one out, watching Sydney fill the kettle and flip it on before pulling out a teapot, teabags, and two mugs before heading to the refrigerator for milk.
Sydney put a slice of lemon drizzle cake in front of her just as the water came off the boil. “If you want it. It’s just something I’ve been experimenting with.”
“Your own recipe?” she asked.
“A lemon drizzle cake with pistachio and poppy seeds,” Sydney said as she poured the water into the pot. “I don’t think I have it quite right yet, but I’m not embarrassed to feed it to you.”