by Julia Kelly
* * *
Stella found a spot in the third pew from the front. The wedding had all come together so quickly, she didn’t know who had been invited. She nodded a hello to Mrs. Penworthy and several of the land girls. Two nurses sat on Beth’s side, too, with two others for Graeme, as he’d told Stella to call him. The pair of nurses not in attendance were back at the hospital tending to the patients who were too sick or unable to make the short walk to the village church for the ceremony. Even Mrs. George was there with her little band of minions—a relief, because Stella hated to leave the kitchen defenseless while the woman was around.
She stole a glance at the front of the church where Graeme stood in his uniform. Her friend had caught a handsome one, Stella would give her that.
She felt a little tug on her arm, Bobby pulling the sleeve of her pale yellow dress.
“Can I sit with Robin?” the little boy asked.
“Robin is sitting with his mother today,” she said just as the boy in question turned around from his spot in the first pew to stick his tongue out at Bobby.
Bobby broke out into a laugh that turned several heads. Fortunately, everyone who caught Stella’s eye looked like an understanding sort.
“He wants me to sit with him.” Bobby shifted in his seat. “He does!”
“There will be plenty of time to play after the ceremony,” she said. There would be no stopping him because, although she was a guest, she’d also made the wedding breakfast her present to the couple. It would be the very best that rations could offer—some donated by Mrs. George and the convalescent hospital—with the crowning achievement a two-tiered cake, made with real eggs and butter. She just hoped that it would be enough to give everyone a little slice.
Bobby settled into his seat with his arms crossed over his chest, but he didn’t fight her anymore. She was, she’d found, impervious to a pouted lip and could ride out a temper tantrum with the best of them.
“Bride or groom?”
Stella turned to the woman who’d asked the question, taking in her fiery-red hair and meticulously tailored dress.
“Bride,” she replied.
“I am as well.” The woman gave a carefree laugh. “How do you know Beth?”
“We met when she began making deliveries to Highbury House.”
“Those deliveries…” the other woman muttered before shaking her head.
“Beth also comes up to sketch in the gardens.”
“And visit her captain, I’m sure. Who knew she would be the smart one, taking on deliveries.”
A light coating of bitterness coated the words. “And you?” Stella asked, trying to steer the conversation onto safer ground.
“I’m also in digs at Temple Fosse Farm.”
So this was Ruth. Now that Stella could put the face to Beth’s stories, the affected boredom made sense.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said.
“I still can’t believe they were able to get this all arranged so quickly,” said Ruth.
“It’s my understanding that Mrs. Symonds made the arrangements, and the vicar was happy to help a couple who are both doing their part,” said Stella with a note of censure in her voice.
“I do my part,” Ruth said tartly. “What do you do?”
“I was declared medically unfit to serve by the ATS, the WRNS, and the WAAFs. The Women’s Land Army wouldn’t take me, either, so I couldn’t have done what you’re doing now.” The back of her neck grew hot, so she added, “I volunteered with a Civil Defense unit, but then I became my nephew’s guardian a few months ago.”
The other woman’s mouth snapped shut as the organ began to boom from the opposite end of the room. Stella let out a sigh of relief.
The scrape of shoe leather against stone resounded as the guests all stood. Outlined against the sunlight was Beth in a navy-blue dress. She wore a hat with a white net—a little bridal nod when clothing rationing made wedding dresses impossible. Stella touched the spot above her heart when she saw Mr. Penworthy holding Beth’s arm, looking proud as punch.
Stella glanced up at the altar, where Graeme stood beaming. As soon as Beth reached the top of the aisle, she looked down at her bouquet of flowers, a blush pinking her cheeks.
Father Bilson adjusted his glasses, smiled, and began to speak. “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you.”
“And also with you,” echoed everyone in the church.
After the sermon and the readings, Mrs. Symonds stepped forward to take Beth’s bouquet when it came time to exchange the rings, and Stella frowned, still in awe of how her polite friend had managed to establish such ease with the imperious Mrs. Symonds.
When the vicar declared Beth and Graeme husband and wife, Stella felt something lurch inside of her. Not jealousy or envy, but an awareness that she was witnessing something she may never experience. May never want to experience.
The congregation rose a final time to cheer the couple as they walked down the aisle and out of the church. Stella caught Beth’s smile as Beth passed her by; she’d never seen her friend so happy.
A little elbow hit her arm. Stella looked over and realized that Bobby had climbed up onto the pew.
“Bobby, get down from there,” she gasped. “We’re in church.”
“I can’t see,” he said.
“We’re going outside right now,” she said.
“I’m hungry,” he complained as she tugged his jacket into place.
“You’ll have to wait until we’re back at the house.” Then she would hand him off to the maid, Dorothy, tie on her apron, and get back to work. Even with Mrs. George’s help, a thousand things needed doing for the wedding breakfast.
“No!” Bobby shouted right in the middle of the aisle.
Dozens of heads swiveled to them.
“No!” Bobby screamed again.
“Bobby, stop it,” she hissed.
“No!” He hung on the “o,” dragging it out so that it echoed up to the arches and rose above the organ. Then he threw himself on the floor.
Stella knew she was supposed to react, but all she could do was stare. She didn’t know how to make him stop this tantrum. All she knew was that she didn’t want to deal with any of it.
I don’t want to do this. Her guilt dropped through her like a stone through water. She hadn’t asked for this child, even if he was blood.
Bobby began to writhe on the floor as people murmured, their eyes darting from the child to her and back again. As though they expected her to somehow stop this display.
“Bobby, get up,” she said, her voice weak, defeated.
He continued to squirm, hot tears rolling down his face.
“Bobby—”
“Bobby Reynolds, you will stand up this instant!”
The sharp voice of Mrs. Symonds brought Stella’s nephew to a stop. He peered up at the mistress of Highbury House with wide eyes, as though just realizing that he had an audience. He’d likely never heard Mrs. Symonds use anything but the soft, ladylike voice she employed as either a pat or a slap.
Mrs. Symonds put her hand on Bobby’s shoulder and crouched down until she was almost on her heels. “You will pick yourself up off the floor and apologize to Father Bilson. Do you know why?”
“I was yelling,” he said softly.
“Yes, you were yelling in church. That is not acceptable behavior. Do you understand?”
He nodded, and Stella watched him pick himself up off the floor. His coat was dusty and his eyes were rimmed red, but he was standing, which was more than Stella had been able to accomplish.
“I’m sorry, Father Bilson,” Bobby said to the vicar, who stood, his arms crossed over his chest.
“I accept your apology, young man. All of us have moments of weakness that we must fight against,” said Father Bilson.
“Now, will you tell me why you were throwing a tantrum?” asked Mrs. Symonds.
“He was—”
“R
obin, that question was not for you,” said Mrs. Symonds, not even glancing at her son where he stood next to her.
“I’m hungry, and my jacket itches, and I’m hot and—”
Mrs. Symonds held up a hand. “I think that I have a good idea of the situation. I’m afraid you must put up with all of these inconveniences until we are home. Can you be a brave boy and do that?”
Another nod.
“Good, then go with your aunt, and she’ll see that everything is sorted out,” said Mrs. Symonds.
As her employer straightened, Stella gritted her teeth and murmured a thank-you.
“There’s no reason to thank me,” said Mrs. Symonds.
“You made him stop crying,” she said.
Mrs. Symonds offered her a little smile. “It isn’t a matter of stopping a child crying. Often it’s a question of listening to what it is that they want. If they are hungry, tell them that they will be fed. If they are hot, let them know that they will soon be somewhere cool. Bobby is a smart boy. He understands these things, but he is only five.”
“I’ll see to it that he doesn’t disturb the wedding breakfast,” said Stella.
Mrs. Symonds waved a hand. “He’ll be even more bored there than he was here. Send him to play with Robin. They can amuse each other.”
Stella hesitated but nodded. She had a wedding breakfast to finish, and it wouldn’t do to argue with a kindness on today of all days.
• DIANA •
When Diana first met Cynthia Symonds, she had been convinced that her future sister-in-law was perfect. Although not particularly pretty, Murray’s petite, delicate sister had pale blond hair and peaches-and-cream skin that never seemed to blemish. Cynthia could speak eloquently in four languages with anyone from a duke to a diplomat. She was remarkably well-read, and she could ride to hounds without letting the veneer of calm slip from her face. She went to church, but not too often. She flirted, but only a little. She was just as a lady should be.
Perhaps that was why it had been so satisfying when cracks began to show in Cynthia’s facade. It had started when Cynthia and Murray’s mother ran off to Africa with the man who was now her husband with hardly a goodbye to her own children. This forfeited Murray’s mother’s right to Highbury House. Diana had witnessed the moment Cynthia heard that the family property would pass to Murray and seen the flicker of jealousy flash over her sister-in-law’s eyes.
Then, one day at a party, Diana had realized that Cynthia had been out for quite a few Seasons, and the number of times Cynthia found herself partnered to dance had shrunk. An engagement to a baron’s son in 1936 never materialized. Then, in the spring of 1939, the National Service Act passed, and the young men who’d once flirted with the only Symonds daughter left for officers’ commissions.
Cynthia had changed after that. As the nation entered war, her purpose in life seemed to transform overnight from marriage to the war effort. She’d become almost dictatorial in her passion, hardened in her determination to win the war from Highbury House. That, and Diana’s own stubbornness about the transformation of her home, had sparked much of their discord.
Now, however, Diana sat studying her sister-in-law, who wore a lazy smile on her face thanks to the champagne coupe in her hand and the wedding breakfast they’d just enjoyed.
“Do you know, I’d forgotten what this tasted like,” said Cynthia, raising her glass.
“You mentioned,” said Diana.
“It tastes like happiness,” Cynthia said.
It, Diana realized, was quite possible that Cynthia was drunk before the four o’clock hour.
“That’s Bollinger for you.” She’d opened up the wine cellars again today, a move that had made Mrs. Dibble look positively queasy. But what was a wedding without something to toast with? Miss Adderton had done her best with the food, but there was no changing the fact that rationing was still on. It felt good to air out the well-stocked wine cellar for a celebration.
“The bride looks pretty,” said Cynthia, squinting in the direction of the new Mrs. Hastings.
“Brides are always pretty on their wedding day. It’s a rule,” said Diana.
“You were lovely.”
Only Diana’s long-trained control kept her from recoiling at the compliment. “Thank you.”
“I remember thinking you were beautiful and my brother was handsome. What a funny thing it was that you two married.”
“Funny?”
“Oh yes, don’t you think? I doubted you would be married at all when I first met you,” said Cynthia.
“I was already engaged to Murray when we first met.”
Before Cynthia could reply, Robin pounded across the veranda to Diana.
“Mummy! Mummy! Do you want to see how fast I can run?” he shouted between excited breaths, Miss Adderton’s nephew close on his heels.
“Robin, now isn’t a good time,” she said, her eyes sliding to her sister-in-law.
“But, Mummy! Bobby and I have been practicing,” he whined.
“Go play in the garden,” she said while Cynthia tried to sip from her already-empty glass.
Her son skipped over to Bobby and whispered something in his ear. The pair of them giggled and ran off together.
“Yes, I didn’t see how a marriage between you and Murray would work at all,” Cynthia continued, unprompted.
“Why?” Diana fought to keep the edge out of her voice. She shouldn’t have asked—nothing good would come of digging up old feelings—but she couldn’t help herself.
Cynthia laughed. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“My family is just as good as yours.”
Cynthia gave an uncharacteristic snort. “Oh, better if you asked your mother.”
She inclined her head, acknowledging her mother’s snobbery. Truthfully, the Eddings family had made its money in the Napoleonic Wars, and the Symondses had only acquired their wealth when Murray and Cynthia’s mother had married into the family, bringing the Melcourt soap fortune and Highbury House.
“Then what was it?” she asked.
Cynthia leveled a look at her. “I thought my brother was going to swallow you alive. You were such a quiet, serious thing, and my brother was a bully.”
“Murray was not a bully,” she said automatically.
“Oh, Diana, he was, though. Even you must see it. He wasn’t cruel, but he had to have his way, and he wielded kindness to get it,” said Cynthia.
“I won’t stay here and listen to this,” she said, pushing herself out of her seat. “I cannot believe you’d speak about your late brother that way.”
“And I cannot believe that you can’t see that he did it to you, too.” Stunned, Diana slowly dropped back into her chair, and Cynthia leaned in closer. “When was the last time you went to a concert?”
Diana swallowed around a lump of emotion. “We moved to Highbury. It’s not like London.”
“You could have found something in Leamington Spa or Birmingham, or you could have taken the train down with Murray. He was always in London. Without you.”
“Are you’re implying—”
“No, nothing like that. For all his faults, he had a moral compass, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t leave you up here to rot.”
“I became a mother. I had to put music aside,” she said.
Cynthia snorted. “No, you didn’t, and you have a nanny.”
“There was so much to do…”
“Besides, you stopped doing things you enjoyed long before you became a mother, didn’t you?” asked Cynthia.
“Concerts can be so tedious—” She stopped abruptly.
“My brother hated anything where he had to sit quietly and let something or someone else be the center of attention. Concerts, opera, theater—none of it was for him, so he convinced you that you didn’t want to go, either.
“I’ll bet fifty guineas that he was the one who pushed to move to Highbury—a place where you didn’t know a soul—so that he could play at country gentleman. I’m sure he told you t
hat you two would be happier without the distraction of parties and friends.”
“I didn’t like parties all that much,” she whispered. And she hadn’t, but she’d tried her hardest because, when they were first married, it had mattered to Murray that they were liked. Popular. She’d begun to gather a small group of women around her. She’d started to look forward to seeing them regardless of whether Murray was by her side. She began to have a life, and then Murray had inherited Highbury House and uprooted them. There had been no discussion, no question. London wasn’t a suitable place to raise children, he’d argued. Highbury was a home. She’d let him convince her. It seemed so obvious that it’s what she should want. But had she?
It felt as though all of these years she’d been watching her memories from behind glass, and Cynthia had just swung a hammer.
“In fairness to Murray, he probably thought that what you wanted and what he wanted were conveniently in step. He had Highbury House and an important London practice, a big house and a wife to make it beautiful. You built a life to his exact specifications,” said Cynthia.
But that wasn’t true. Highbury House was her creation because Murray had become bored of it. She’d dealt with the builders, decorators, and gardeners, answering their questions about what brass knobs to buy and how high to hang the pictures. She’d argued with the vendor who’d delivered the wrong bathtub for the master bathroom. Twice. She’d been the one exhausted at the end of each night, constantly covered in a fine layer of construction dust.
“And whatever happened to your harp?” Cynthia asked.
Her stomach fell. In her heart of hearts that she’d given up playing for Murray, and she’d resented him for it. Why else did her daily hour in the music room bring her so much joy and guilt all at once? Why else would she feel so furious when she thought about the time he’d come home from London and found her crying on Nanny’s day off because Robin had croup and she hadn’t even had time to bathe, let alone practice. He’d suggested she put away her harp, so she’d packed up her greatest joy because that was what a wife did when her husband was thinking of her best interests. She loved her husband, but when she thought of that day, she hated him, too.