by Julia Kelly
Mrs. Symonds waved her hand. “The dance will be held on the veranda. We might risk the weather a little bit, but I think the effect will be lovely. Don’t you?”
Stella couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face. A dance at Highbury. What a thing that would be.
“Miss Adderton, this is more Mrs. Dibble’s area, but you wouldn’t happen to know the level of our wine cellar reserves, would you?” Mrs. Symonds asked.
Father Devlin laughed. “What of our tea dance?”
“When I was a deb, I never could abide tea dances. Tepid, insipid things. If I’m to throw a party, it will be a good one,” said Mrs. Symonds.
Miss Cynthia was beginning to look positively pale. “The nursing staff—”
“If I might, Mrs. Symonds. I think you’ll find that you could sell tickets for six pence each and donate the money to a charitable cause. Like the British Red Cross or Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps,” said Stella.
Mrs. Symonds cut her a look, and for a moment she thought that her employer would object. Instead, the woman’s face brightened.
“I think that’s an excellent idea, Miss Adderton,” said Mrs. Symonds.
“Very noble indeed, and one I’m sure that everyone at Highbury House would be glad to take part in,” Father Devlin agreed.
Miss Cynthia leaned back in her chair, defeated. “If anything happens…”
“Patients and nurses are not animals, Cynthia. They will be able to control themselves through a fox-trot or two,” said Mrs. Symonds.
“I will be happy to play chaperone. I won’t be doing any dancing anytime soon,” said Father Devlin.
“I’m sure Father Bilson and Mrs. Bilson would as well, and myself, of course,” said Mrs. Symonds. “Does that satisfy you that your girls will all be well looked after, Matron?”
“It does,” said Matron.
“There you have it. If you’ll excuse me, ladies, some of the patients in Ward A have expressed an interest in studying the Bible together,” said Father Devlin as he used his crutches and the arm of his chair to haul himself up.
Miss Cynthia rose as well, still shaking her head. Matron followed her out, a small smile on her usually stern face.
As soon as they were alone, though, Mrs. Symonds said, “You were rather helpful just then, Miss Adderton. I do enjoy a chance to beat the commandant at her own game. I’ll have to ring around and find out who to speak to at the base. Please ask Miss Pedley to invite her friends.”
“You meant that?” Stella asked.
Mrs. Symonds gave her a look. “Please also remind Miss Pedley that she’s to use the gardens at her leisure. She can ask Mrs. Dibble to find me, and I will show her around.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Symonds. I think she has been a little hesitant because she did not want to impose, but I will remind her.”
A softness started to creep into her employer’s expression, but just as quick, Mrs. Symonds schooled it away. “That is all. You may clear the tea tray.”
Stella couldn’t figure Mrs. Symonds out. The dismissal was issued as easily as the praise.
Stella resumed stacking things onto the tea tray, painfully aware that she was not as graceful or quiet as a proper maid should be. Mrs. Symonds took up a book but didn’t open it. Instead, she said, “Your nephew seems to be settling in nicely.”
Stella paused, the heavy tray cutting into her palms. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for allowing him to stay.”
“Robin is very fond of him,” said Mrs. Symonds.
“Yes,” said Stella carefully.
“They performed a play for me the other day that they wrote themselves. It was very clever. Bobby in particular is a very talented mimic.”
“Oh, I hadn’t realized.” Bobby hadn’t asked her to watch the play. Or maybe he had and she was too busy to pause. “He’ll be getting the mimicry from my sister. Joan always was good at picking up the songs on the radio. She can sing just like Judy Garland or Dorothy Lamour.”
“What plans does your sister have for him?”
“Plans?” she asked.
Mrs. Symonds waved a hand. “For his education? His future?”
Stella stared at her employer. Bobby was the son of a builder who’d been killed in action and a mother who seemed more interested in dancing than mothering. What did she expect for Bobby?
“I suppose he’ll work after he leaves school,” she finally said.
“He’s a bright boy. When he’s a little older, I may be able to help place him in a good school.” Mrs. Symonds paused. “If his mother would like, of course.”
“Thank you. I’m sure Joan would appreciate that very much,” she lied. While Stella had ended up in service like her mother before her, Joan had run as far from the pull of Highbury House as she could. She doubted Joan would want anything to do with its owner after she no longer needed Mrs. Symonds’s goodwill.
“That will be all, Miss Adderton. Thank you,” said Mrs. Symonds, opening her book.
Stella pursed her lips, bowed her head, and left the lady to her leisure.
• VENETIA •
THURSDAY, 25 APRIL 1907
Highbury House
Rain, rain, and more rain
I have never understood “gardeners” who refuse to garden because it is unseemly for a lady or gentleman to dirty their hands. Perhaps they don’t know the thrill of plunging a trowel into spring-softened soil to toss up the sweet, earthy scent of leaves and twigs and all manner of matter. By refusing to stain their aprons, they miss the sensation of damp, fresh dirt crumbling between their fingers or breathing the fresh air deeply. They don’t know the satisfaction of knocking the dust off one’s clothes when retreating into the house for a well-earned cup of tea.
Then again, they also avoid the panic of being caught in a sudden, torrential rain with little cover.
Today I was alone in the poet’s garden, staking out the southern border with flags tied to sticks when the heavens opened. Almost immediately, the rain soaked through my shirt and plastered it to my back and chest. I pulled my canvas hat lower on my brow as I did my best to gather up my bundle of sticks. But when a crack of lightning pierced the sky and rattled my very teeth, I dropped everything to hike up my skirts and run for my cottage.
I cut through the ramble, mud weighing down my hemline. A gust of wind tore my hat from my head before picking up my limp hair and thrusting it back in my face.
Around the corner of the cottage, I spotted a figure huddled under the little front porch.
“Mr. Goddard?” I asked, peering through the haze.
He looked at me from under his soaked hat, his grin sheepish. “Good day, Miss Smith. Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?”
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
He lifted a leather bag. “I come bearing gifts.” His smile fell. “But you must come out of the rain.”
He tried to step out to cede the covered space to me, but I waved him away. “I’m already soaked through. There’s no point in you getting wet, too.”
I took the cottage key out of my pocket and unlocked the door. “Given the circumstances, I think we would both do well to dry our boots,” I said over my shoulder.
Mr. Goddard hesitated, but when I began to ease off my boots, he gingerly put his leather bag down and did the same. As he finished, I went to the woodstove to coax the dying embers back to life. When I turned back, I saw that he’d lined his boots up perfectly with mine against the wall. The sight of it rooted me to the spot. Surely I’d seen Adam’s boots lined up next to mine countless times before, but this felt different.
“I could make us tea while you change.”
I gave a start. “I do apologize. I’m forgetting my manners.”
“I should apologize. I’ve barreled into your home without warning. Perhaps I should—”
“No. Please stay. And I will make the tea. This is my house, for a time, even if it sits on Mr. Melcourt’s grounds.” I moved for the door to the small kitchen.
&
nbsp; He caught me gently by the elbow, bringing me to a pause in front of him. “Miss Smith, please, allow me. I can assure you, I’m not such a helpless bachelor.”
The warmth of his hand through the wet fabric sent a shiver up my arm. I nodded because I didn’t think I could say anything without my voice trembling.
In the privacy of my bedroom, I peeled off my wet things and hung them on the iron bed frame before dressing again. Everything felt deliciously dry and soft against my skin, from my chemise and stockings to my shirt and skirt. There was no saving my hair—not that it had been much to look at, jammed up under a hat for hours. Instead, I dragged a comb through it and tied it back with a ribbon to keep it off my face. When I finished, I felt like a girl of eighteen again, fresh and hopeful.
The kettle was whistling in the kitchen when I returned. The fire was beginning to chase off the damp of the day, but rather than sit by it, I went to the large table in the center of the room. Across it lay plans, catalogs, and correspondence.
I put on my spectacles and flipped through the plans for the gardens until I reached the detail of the poet’s garden and began noting down an adjustment. A soft clearing of the throat brought me back. Mr. Goddard was standing in front of me, grasping a tea-laden tray with both hands.
“Where shall I put this?” he asked.
I quickly cleared a spot for him. Carefully, he set the tea tray down and drew up a chair.
Automatically, I began to set up cups and handle the strainer. “Do you take milk?”
“Yes, and a lump of sugar, even though Helen thinks it’s terribly childish of me,” he said.
I dropped the lump in for him and passed the cup over. “You should take your tea however you choose.”
“That advice doesn’t surprise me one bit coming from you,” he said, settling back in his chair and crossing his ankle at the knee to rest the teacup on it.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You strike me as the sort of woman who does whatever she’s set her mind to without waiting for anyone else’s opinion.”
I flushed. “That’s not true. The very nature of my work means that I have to take a good number of people’s opinions into account.”
“You forget, Miss Smith, that I’ve watched you charm my sister and her husband.”
“I didn’t know that was possible,” I said before I could think to stop myself.
He only laughed. “You’ve seen Helen’s drawing room. Gilded and expensive. If she had her way, we’d be living with French knot gardens à la Louis XIV, with enormous Carrara marble fountains at the end of every sight line. And Arthur… I don’t know that Arthur has a creative bone in his body.”
“Despite his poetry?” I asked.
“You are too kind to his poetry,” he said. “Arthur’s garden would likely be a stretch of lawn with statuary and topiary and nothing else.”
“You forget that I’ve given them a sculpture garden.”
He studied me for a moment. “You have, and I suspect, much like the poet’s garden, you’ve done that because you know indulging their pretentions means that you’ve been able to create exactly what you want otherwise. Did they ask for an all-white garden?”
I smiled into my tea and said softly, “No.”
“Do you know, I’ve been wondering about why you’ve chosen the rooms that you did, and I think I’ve finally figured it out.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“Each room represents the life of a woman. The tea garden is where polite company comes to meet, all with the purpose of marrying a girl off. The lovers’ garden speaks for itself, I should think, and the bridal garden is her movement from girl to wife. The children’s garden comes next. I would guess that the lavender walk represents her femininity, and the poet’s garden stands for a different sort of romance than the lovers’ garden.” He sifted through the plans on the table and pulled free the detail of the statue garden. “Aphrodite, Athena, Hera. All of the pieces in the statue garden will be depictions of the female form. Am I right?”
I stared at him, my mouth slightly open. It was a little trick I used sometimes, weaving in a theme to the plantings, but never before had I done anything so blatant. No one had ever noticed before, yet this man had seen right to the heart of it.
“The one thing I don’t understand is how the water and winter gardens fit,” he said.
“I’ve always found water to inspire contemplation and introspection. I meant it to represent a woman’s interior life.”
“And the winter garden?” he asked, leaning in.
“Her death, of course.”
He sat back in his chair, his cup nearly empty now. “I haven’t shown you what I brought you.”
He retrieved a bag stained dark brown with age and rain, and I held my breath when he opened the flap. He pulled out a bundle of muslin and began to unwrap it in his lap. When finally he was done, I could see three plants with their root structures bundled up.
“You brought me hydrangeas,” I breathed.
“Hydrangea aspera Villosa. I overheard you mentioning that you enjoyed them when we visited Hidcote,” he said, handing me one of the plants and taking his seat. “Mr. Johnston was happy to oblige in exchange for the delivery of several ‘Shailer’s White Moss’ he is thinking of planting.”
“You brought me hydrangeas,” I repeated, touching one of the leaves. “Thank you.”
I looked up and found him staring at me with such tenderness, my breath hitched. I’d seen that expression before, between my parents in a quiet moment when they thought no one else was watching. Never before had I thought that anyone would look at me that way, and I knew that I couldn’t turn away from it without answering his unspoken question.
Deliberately, I set down the plant and rounded the table until I stood before him. His eyes never left mine as I reached for his hands. His thumb came to rest on the top of my hand, playing tiny circles over my skin. For a moment, we simply stayed like that and then, slowly, he pulled me down until the back of my thigh brushed the top of his.
“Miss Smith… Venetia…”
His right hand traced up my arm, to my waist. His other hand rose, and he let the pad of his thumb rest against my lower lip.
“I didn’t come here to…” he said, his voice a whisper. “That is…”
I turned my lips into the palm of his hand to kiss his warm skin and whispered, “I know.”
He tilted my chin to kiss me in kind.
It had been years since I had been kissed. I could remember the thrill and fission of passion that accompanied one, but I’d forgotten the comfort. The feeling of someone else’s skin against mine. The surety of a pair of hands holding me in place.
We danced in silence, his hands spreading against my back as I twisted into him, my arms wrapped around his neck as he kissed me urgently enough to bow my back. When my fingers twined in the damp hair at the base of his neck, I thanked God for the rain.
A falling log crashed against the metal of the stove door, jolting us apart. We both laughed at our foolishness, but still the moment was broken. I slid out of his lap, immediately missing the warmth of him and his comforting scent of wet wool.
“Venetia,” he started after a moment.
I sighed. “I understand, Mr. Goddard. You are my employer’s brother, and—”
“I wish you would call me Matthew,” he interrupted. “I don’t want to go back to Mr. Goddard and Miss Smith.”
“But why?” I asked as he donned his still-wet coat and slung his bag over his shoulder.
“Because”—he smiled—“I’ve desperately wanted to kiss you since I set eyes on you.”
• BETH •
5 May 1944
Dearest Beth,
Thank you for your letter. You don’t know how much I miss the farm and hearing what you’re planting helps.
I’ve been a thorn in the side of my commanding officer, but I think I may be able to string together enough leave to make it back home to E
ngland soon. I want so badly to see you again.
As soon as I have leave, I’ll come to Warwickshire and find you. I cannot wait.
With all my affection,
Colin
Beth juggled her box of graphite pencils and her precious sketchbook from hand to hand to wipe her palm on her skirt as she stared at Highbury House’s huge iron knocker shaped like a lion’s head. She was in civilian clothes today—her day off—and she was determined to finally do what she’d been too intimidated to attempt for weeks. Today she would sketch in Mrs. Symonds’s garden.
“You have to come, otherwise she won’t believe I told you,” Stella had said over a cup of thrice-steeped tea the last time Beth had made her delivery rounds to the big house.
“I can’t do that! Mrs. Symonds won’t want to be bothered with the likes of me. You said yourself that she’s a tough one.”
“I don’t know about tough. I can’t figure her out, really. She’s so different than when she first came to Highbury.”
“What was she like then?” Beth asked.
“The very picture of a blushing bride. She let Mr. Symonds arrange everything except for her harp.”
“Harp?”
“She used to play, apparently. Anyway, she watched the men unload it from the back of their van like a hawk. I don’t think she breathed until it was in the music room and set up just so.”
“Now that you mention it, I can’t imagine her playing any other instrument. She’s so grand, a harp suits her,” Beth said.
“Yes, well, she wasn’t always that way. I was a kitchen maid under the old cook, Mrs. Kilfod. I’ll never forget how much Mrs. Symonds fretted over the menu for her first dinner party. Mrs. Kilfod nearly had to throw her out of the kitchen,” said Stella.
“Seeing her now, you’d never guess she’s ever felt a bit of self-doubt,” Beth said, earning a little huff from her friend.
Out of the corner of her eye, Beth saw the flicker of a set of curtains, looking just in time to catch a curious soldier ducking his head. She blushed but picked up the front door’s knocker nonetheless. A few moments later Mrs. Dibble opened the door.