by Julia Kelly
“Do you need a compress?” Mrs. Symonds asked.
She bent her knee a couple of times, testing it. “No,” she managed.
“I’m sorry I frightened you,” said Mrs. Symonds.
Stella looked up at the other woman from under her lashes. I’m sorry. It was so odd to hear those words from her employer.
“It’s nearly a quarter past one,” said Mrs. Symonds.
“I had some things I needed to take care of.”
She watched Mrs. Symonds’s gaze drift to the pile of papers on the worktop. “Are you burning these?”
“Yes,” she gritted out.
“Nice, San Sebastián, Cape Town, Bombay… Are these all places you dreamed of going?” Mrs. Symonds asked.
Shame suffused Stella’s body. “They were on the walls of my room. It was silly,” she said.
Mrs. Symonds sifted through the papers. “I’ve been to a few of these places—Paris, Rome—but you’re far more adventurous than I am. I didn’t know that you wanted to travel.”
Stella sat, lips firmly shut, watching her employer’s hand fall on the correspondence coursework.
“You’re taking shorthand dictation courses?” Mrs. Symonds asked.
“Another silly thing.” Another dashed plan.
“I didn’t realize that you wanted to do anything besides cook,” said Mrs. Symonds.
Stella’s heart twisted, and she nearly gasped.
“I hate cooking.” The words that had been building up in her for years flew from her lips.
Mrs. Symonds looked stunned. The lady carefully put down the exercise book. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”
Look what you’ve done now, Stella. “I’m sorry. I’m grateful for my job here.”
Mrs. Symonds pulled her quilted satin dressing gown closer and took the wooden chair across from Stella. Finally, she said, “There are things that I wished I could have done. Regrets that I have… May I ask what you would do with your life if you weren’t a cook?”
She knew that she shouldn’t answer honestly. But she was simply too tired to lie. “I was born in Highbury,” she said.
“Yes, I know. Murray said that your mother worked as a housemaid until her arthritis became too taxing,” said Mrs. Symonds.
“That’s right. Mum’s cooking lessons helped me catch Mrs. Kilfod’s eye when I was fourteen. She made me her helper and taught me what Mum couldn’t.”
“What did you want to do instead?” Mrs. Symonds asked.
“I wanted to leave,” she said in a burst. “Joan was the lucky one. Mum thought she was too bold to be in service, so she was sent to work at one of the department stores in Leamington Spa. She met Jerry when she was sixteen, and he married her three months later. When she moved to Bristol, I was so jealous I could hardly stand to look at her. I’ve spent my whole life two miles from the cottage I was born in. I wanted to go to London. To work and then maybe to do more. Would you want to spend all your days in the basement of a house that’s not yours, cooking for a family that’s not yours?”
Mrs. Symonds inclined her head. “So that’s what all of these correspondence classes are about.”
“Yes.”
“You thought to go to London and become a secretary, I take it?” Mrs. Symonds asked.
“Yes.”
“And one day you want to travel.”
Stella looked miserably at the pile of unburned papers on the table. “I thought if I worked hard enough, I might be able to save. It was a silly idea.”
“You’ve done that three times now,” said Mrs. Symonds sharply.
“What?”
“Used the word ‘silly.’ ”
Stella’s back straightened.
“How did you find the time for both?” Mrs. Symonds asked.
“After I finished in the kitchen every night, I would go to my room and study. Sometimes, I would wake up early in the mornings as well.”
“Can you not continue to do that?” Mrs. Symonds asked.
She shook her head. “With Bobby, it’s too difficult. Besides, there’s no point now.”
“No point?”
“I used most of the money I’d saved on him,” she said.
Mrs. Symonds looked shocked. “Your sister didn’t provide for him?”
“Joan could forget about money like that,” she snapped, “when it suited her.”
“You could have asked if Robin had any clothes he’d grown out of. He was a little taller than Bobby, but with a little hemming they would have worked,” said Mrs. Symonds.
This time Stella kept her proud mouth shut.
“No, I see. That wouldn’t do,” said Mrs. Symonds.
“It isn’t just the money. What am I supposed to do with him? If I move to London, I’ll have to find some place to stay that allows children. I’ll have to find a job with an employer who doesn’t mind that I have a child, even if he isn’t my own son. It doesn’t matter that my story about Joan dying is the truth. I know what it sounds like. And what happens when he is ill and needs to be nursed?”
“You and Bobby will always have a home here,” said Mrs. Symonds.
No. Stella felt the word in every bit of her body. What Mrs. Symonds was offering was a kindness few domestics could hope for, but it felt wrong. She couldn’t stay here.
Still, she wasn’t thinking only for herself and it was time to accept that.
“Thank you,” she said, shoulders drooping under the heavy weight of her future.
Mrs. Symonds toyed with the cover of one of Stella’s exercise books. “If you still do wish to move to London, there might be a way.”
“How?”
“Let Bobby stay here.”
“What?”
“He is already settled at Highbury. He can move back into the nursery, and I can recall Nanny or hire on someone else. I can care for him, and you could go to London.”
“I have no money,” Stella said.
Mrs. Symonds arched a brow. “I could arrange that, too.”
“It wouldn’t be too painful for you after Robin?” Stella asked.
Mrs. Symonds set the book down and folded her hands on top of each other before looking up, her eyes solemn but determined. “It would give me a great deal of pleasure.”
There it was, her plan held out on a silver platter to her, funded by this woman she’d worked for, for so long. She could go to London. She could work her way into a job that, one day, might let her see those places she’d planned to go for so long. But it would mean turning her back on the one responsibility she should hold most dear.
“I don’t know if I can do that,” Stella said.
“I am going to London at the end of the week. You may think about it until I return,” Mrs. Symonds said. “Now, I think I’ll have that warm milk I came down for.”
Stella stood automatically. “It’ll just be a moment.”
“No, Miss Adderton, you take your things and go back to bed.”
When she shot Mrs. Symonds an uncertain look, the mistress of Highbury laughed. “I can warm a pan of powdered milk. I’m not completely helpless.”
Stella had never seen the great lady do anything of the sort, but who was she to argue with the mistress of the house? Instead, she picked up her things and began the long climb upstairs knowing she wouldn’t sleep a wink.
• VENETIA •
SATURDAY, 26 OCTOBER 1907
Highbury House
Cold with the first frosts already threatening
My conversation with Mr. Hillock brought me back to life. I stood, brushed off my skirts, and returned to the desk I’d neglected since my miscarriage. Opening my sketchbook, I began to work out a plan for the winter garden.
For four days, I hardly left my desk, falling asleep over my pencil. But every morning I woke up, peeled the paper from my face, bathed, and then went back to work.
Twice in four days, Mr. Hillock came to the house bearing bread or cakes from his wife’s kitchen. I ate like a starving woman while he looked
at my drawings, asking questions and familiarizing himself with the design he would have to execute.
I have not yet told Adam what happened at Highbury House. If he thinks anything of the lapse in my correspondence, he hasn’t mentioned it in the letters that are delivered with my breakfast tray. I will tell him in my own time what had happened. Or I won’t. It is no one’s business but my own.
And Matthew’s.
Matthew, who has yet to reappear. I cannot deny that I had hoped he would, if only to share a little bit of the burden of grief. If I let myself think back to that horrible evening when everything went wrong, I can see the expression of rage and desperation and grief stretched across his face. But then every doubt I ever had of his feelings—about the proposal, the baby, everything—creeps back in.
Back to my garden.
• STELLA •
Thwack! The cleaver went straight through bone and hit the wood butcher’s block, solid and satisfying. Beth, who was sitting well out of the range of chicken’s blood, watched Stella, wide-eyed.
“How you don’t chop your own hand off I’ll never know,” said Beth. Behind her, Mrs. George and her minions banged pots and pans.
“More years of practice than I’d like,” said Stella, setting the neatly severed thigh to the side of her board. Her cuts had to be precise because every bit of this chicken would be used. She would pound the breasts thin, coat them with margarine and herbs, roll them in the last brown bread crumbs from the morning’s loaf, and then fry them for something approximating chicken Kiev for Mrs. Symonds’s dinner tonight. She would roast the thighs separately, pulling the meat from the bone to use in a pie. And the carcass would go into a pot for stock, Stella retrieving any remaining meat to shred for a soup with the vegetables Beth had just delivered.
“I suppose I’ll have to learn how to cook properly at some point,” said Beth.
Stella looked up. “You can’t cook?”
Beth shrugged. “Basic things, but I haven’t had much practice with it. My aunt never let me in the kitchen with her. She said I was a distraction. You can teach me if I’m still in Highbury.”
If I’m still at Highbury, Stella thought.
“Have you heard from your Graeme?” she asked.
“I get a letter most days,” said Beth.
“And have you talked any more about where you’ll live?” she asked.
Beth sighed. “No. Every time I bring it up, he keeps telling me that he will take care of it, but I have to wait. What if his plan is to move to Norfolk or Scotland or somewhere even further?”
“When does he return on leave?” she asked.
“In two weeks,” said Beth. “Forty-eight hours this time, and he was only able to get that because he’s been dispatched to support with some work in London. He can’t tell me anything else.”
“You can talk to him then about where you want to set up your home,” said Stella.
“Oh yes, I’m determined to,” said Beth.
Stella gave a half smile, but she found herself struggling to focus. All she could think about was Mrs. Symonds’s offer. Could she leave Joan’s son behind and start her new life? Mrs. Symonds’s trip to London was only two days away. She would have to make up her mind.
The clatter of little shoes down the corridor leading to the kitchen made Stella’s stomach clench. Sure enough, Bobby burst through the door, a grubby hand clutching an exercise book.
“Aunt Stella! Look at my handwriting!” He shoved the book at her.
“Bobby, what did we discuss?” said Mrs. Symonds, gliding into the kitchen behind him.
Bobby took a step back. “Hello, Aunt Stella. How was your day?”
She stared at her employer. “It was very good, thank you.”
“The ‘s’s are hard, but the teacher said I did well,” Bobby said, thrusting the exercise book at her again.
“That’s very good,” she said, patting him awkwardly on the head.
“Bobby, would you run up to the morning room and fetch me my shawl, please?” said Mrs. Symonds.
Without questioning why, Stella’s nephew raced off.
“He did do well,” said Mrs. Symonds. “I spoke with the headmaster today, who thinks that this week has been better.”
“Thank you,” said Stella. She knew she should ask for more details, but she was at a loss.
“No surprises for the menu tonight, I take it?” Mrs. Symonds nodded to the chicken.
“Supper will be as we discussed,” said Stella.
Mrs. Symonds nodded. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
As soon as Mrs. Symonds was gone, Beth said, “She’s good with Bobby.”
“I still don’t understand why she wants to spend time with him when she just lost her son. It must be painful to be around children.”
Mrs. George turned around from her stove. “Did you ever think that taking care of that boy could be just as much for her as it is for you or for him?”
“What?” Stella asked.
The older woman put her hands on her hips. “Mrs. Symonds needs someone to care for. I’ll reckon she’s been missing the feeling of being needed.”
Stella dropped her gaze to the butcher’s block and picked up her cleaver again. “Enough talking. I have work to do.”
• BETH •
1 November 1944
Temple Fosse Farm
My Lord,
Please forgive me for being so forward, but I believe you are a friend of my husband, Captain Graeme Hastings. He asked me to let you know how he is faring because he misses your conversations. I apologize that I have been remiss in not writing to you earlier, and I hope you do not think it forward of me to express my hope that our paths might cross one day.
Yours faithfully,
Mrs. Graeme Hastings
2 November 1944
Braembreidge Manor
Dear Mrs. Hastings,
There are few good things about this war, but one of them is that we are not so bound by politeness as we once might have been. I would be delighted to make your acquaintance any time that would suit. Don’t bother to call at the house. I spend a good portion of my day in my greenhouse with my orchids.
Yours sincerely,
—A.W.
7 November 1944
Braembreidge Manor
My dear Mrs. Hastings,
It was a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, and I enjoyed hearing your report of how Captain Hastings is faring. I must confess, it makes an old man wish he could be of some use.
I hope you will give thought to my offer. Regardless of your decision, please come again. I will ask my cook to keep back some tea leaves so that we might have fresh for your visit.
Yours sincerely,
—A.W.
She looked up at the screech and grind of metal on metal, pulling her shoulders back under the jacket of her best hunter-green suit.
People began to stream down the steps from the platform. Two RAF officers walked by in their navy uniforms followed by a pack of four WAAFs, their heads bent together so close that their caps nearly touched. A woman in a worn tweed coat tugged at the hand of a little boy who’d outgrown his trousers so that his knobby ankles peeked out.
Beth went up on her tiptoes, eager to see her husband for the first time since their wedding. They’d spent their honeymoon in bed, clinging to each moment they had together. Too soon, they’d had to say goodbye in the Temple Fosse Farm farmyard. She’d watched the lorry carrying him to the train station pull away, and as soon as he was out of sight she ran to Stella’s kitchen door. Her friend had taken one look at her tearstained face and put the kettle on.
She was not going to waste one moment of Graeme’s first forty-eight-hour leave, but there were the many things she needed to speak to him about, as well. She was determined to have that conversation before they did all of the things he’d dared scandalizing the military censors to write her.
She was just beginning to worry he hadn’t made his train when the
re he was. A grin widening his mouth as soon as he spotted her. He raced down the stairs as she surged forward, all of her concerns pushed aside. He caught her up in his arms and kissed her.
Beth was sure that one of the passing WAAFs sighed when he broke apart enough to say, “It’s good to see you,” and kissed her again.
She let her body soften to his as he cradled the back of her head. She wanted to stay like this, in this moment kissing him in the lobby of the train station, for as long as she could. But that would be dodging all of the things she’d practiced saying to him.
She pulled back, breathless. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you. Eight weeks is a long time.”
He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and made for the bus station that would drop them a half mile from Temple Fosse Farm. Since Beth’s wedding, the Penworthys had given her her own room.
“You’ll want your own space when Captain Hastings is on leave,” said Mrs. Penworthy, laughing when Beth spluttered her tea.
Ruth had moved into an old storeroom Mrs. Penworthy had helped her do up. Beth had been surprised when Ruth hadn’t objected, though the privacy meant all of them gained something.
It was so tempting to just let Graeme come home with her and hole themselves up in her bedroom until he had to go back to his unit.
So tempting and so cowardly.
The bus rolled up to the stop, and the metal doors clanked open.
“Come on,” she said, never letting go of his hand.
They boarded and paid the fare, the driver nodding at the sight of Graeme’s uniform. They settled into a pair of seats toward the back, his hand laced with hers and resting on his lap.
As the bus pulled onto Old Warwick Road, Graeme said, “I want to hear everything about what you’ve been doing.”
She laughed. “I write to you every day. You’re better than keeping a diary.”
But still she told him everything. Stories from the farm, what the Penworthys were planting, how Bobby was doing in school. But there was one thing she didn’t say. She would keep that to herself for just a little while longer.
He leaned over and kissed her temple. “When there aren’t other people around…”