by Julia Kelly
Sydney frowned. “That’s my Great-Grandmother Diana, so that must be Granddad Robert.” Sydney began to sort through the photos, flipping them over as she went. “Here, look at this. Someone’s written ‘Robin, age three’ on the back.”
“There are so many baby pictures in here. Who would bury these?” asked Emma.
“There’s more in there,” said Henry.
Sydney collected up the photographs to set them aside, revealing what looked like the contents of a child’s toy box. A set of tin army men, a toy lorry, a couple of books, a pair of baby boots with a robin stitched onto each heel, a jumper…
“What is all of this stuff?” Sydney asked.
“Look, there’s an envelope,” said Emma.
Sydney opened it and pulled out several papers. On top was an official document with an application number at the top and Certified Copy of an Entry written in red across it:
Date and county of birth: 12 March 1939; Bristol
Name and surname of child: Robert REYNOLDS
Name and surname: Diana SYMONDS
Address: Highbury House, Highbury, Warwickshire
Occupation of parents of adopted child: Housewife
Date of adoption order: 16 November 1944
“This can’t be right,” said Sydney. “My grandfather wasn’t adopted. His name is in the family Bible in ink just above his father’s recorded death, and I just found his birth certificate earlier this year when I was going through his papers.”
But when Sydney shuffled to the next page, the adoption papers were clear as day.
“Who signed them?” Emma asked, pointing to the bottom.
“Diana Symonds, Stella Adderton—”
“And Beth Hastings?” Henry asked. “Why would my nan have been a witness?”
“You said she was a land girl near here. She must have known either Diana Symonds or this Stella. She must have been allowed on the grounds to do the sketches you showed me,” said Emma.
Sydney stared blankly into space. “I don’t understand.”
Emma watched Sydney turn on her heel and start back toward the house with the box in her hands. Emma and Henry glanced at each other and immediately followed.
Sydney hurried through the house, down the corridor, and into the library. They were right behind her when she went straight up to a large book on a carved wooden stand.
“This is the family Bible. It goes back seven generations on Helen Melcourt’s side.” Sydney flipped open the front cover and traced her finger down a page of handwritten names in various shades of black ink. “Here, Robert Symonds. That’s my grandfather.”
Henry peered over Sydney’s shoulder. “Born 14 May 1939.”
“The dates don’t match, Sydney,” said Emma quietly.
“But if Robert Reynolds was adopted, then who is this boy?” Sydney asked, jabbing a finger at the Robert in the family Bible.
“Henry, remember that sketch of your grandmother’s of the two boys under the tree?” Emma asked.
“You think that there were two boys here during the war. One was Robin and the other was Sydney’s grandfather, Robert,” said Henry, reading her mind.
“Yes. I have the sketch at Bow Cottage. I can get it,” said Emma gently.
“That would be good,” said Sydney quietly.
“Are you okay?” Emma asked.
Sydney crossed her hands over her stomach. “Why would Diana have had one son and adopted another only to never mention the first boy again? The only thing I can think is that Robin must have died.”
The three of them looked down at the photograph of three-year-old Robin.
“I suspect that the war wasn’t the only thing that brought tragedy to families during those years,” said Emma quietly.
“If this date of birth and adoption are correct, Robert was only five when he was adopted. He might not have remembered much of his life before his adoption,” said Henry.
“And every family has their secrets. Maybe they just didn’t talk about it,” said Emma. “Maybe Diana thought it would be easier for him to grow up without worries. I don’t know who he was before, but life was probably easier as the son of a wealthy family.”
“Sydney?” Henry pushed a hand through his hair. “I think I’ve met Stella Adderton. My nan used to go up to London every once in a while to see dealers about getting her paintings into shows. She would stay with her friend, Stella. I don’t remember her last name, but Stella was what we would call an executive assistant now. She used to travel a lot for her job, so she left Nan the key to her flat. Nan took me up with her once when I was maybe ten. We went to the London Zoo.”
“Do you think Beth would tell Stella about how Robert was getting on?” Sydney asked.
“I’d like to think so.”
Emma was half listening, her gaze fixated on something in the family Bible. No. It couldn’t be… She couldn’t believe that an answer to a more than one-hundred-year-old question had been sitting in plain view this entire time, if only someone knew to look for it.
“Do you mind if I take a picture of this?” she asked.
“Hmm?” Sydney murmured as she began to sift through the box again.
“The family tree. Do you mind?”
“Go ahead,” said Sydney, already turning her attention again to the buried artifacts of a boy’s life.
“Hey, there’s something else in here,” Henry said.
Emma’s phone camera clicked, and she turned to see him holding a large iron key.
Sydney squinted “Is that—”
“The key to the winter garden’s gate. Let’s go find Andrew and Charlie,” said Emma.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, they stood in front of the winter garden gate. Sydney was practically vibrating with excitement, key clenched in her hand, but Emma hung back. She kept glancing at her phone, unsure if she should believe the photograph she’d taken.
“Emma,” Sydney prompted her.
Her head shot up, and she slipped her phone back into her pocket. “What can I help with?”
Her friend held out the key. “I think you should open it.”
“No, it’s your garden,” said Emma.
Sydney shook her head. “You’re the one bringing it back to life.”
Emma glanced at Andrew, who nodded. She swallowed but took the key nonetheless. She slid it into the lock and turned it. It resisted, but with a little effort, she managed to get the tumblers to grind open.
“Give me a hand, will you?” she asked, gripping the bars.
Henry and Andrew both shoved against rust and age, opening the gate for the first time in decades. Then, one by one, they walked through the gate and into the winter garden.
Sydney turned around, slowly taking in what Emma had done. “It’s going to be beautiful.”
“You’re sure you want to keep restoring it, even after finding the box?” Emma asked, hoping that her friend would say yes.
Sydney nodded. “It’s already been a garden for the lost. Now I want it to be a place where we can make new, happy memories.”
Andrew looped an arm around his wife’s waist and kissed the top of her head. “I think we should start now.”
Sydney smiled up at her husband. “In about seven and a half months, we’re going to be three running around this big old house.”
“Not running right away,” said Andrew, paling a little bit.
“Oh, Sydney!” Emma gasped, pulling her friend into a hug. This was what she’d been looking for. To be a part of joyful beginnings. To have a home.
Sydney whispered to her, “And you’ll be around to see it.”
Emma pulled back. “How did you know?”
“There are no secrets in a small village, remember? I ran into your real estate agent at the grocery store the other day.”
“I haven’t told anyone else except Charlie that I’m looking to buy, but I may have mentioned I’ll be staying on for a little longer,” said Emma, glancing at Henry, who was crow
ding around Andrew with Charlie, shaking his hand and clapping him on the back.
“I’d tell you to take all the time you need, but I’m pretty sure he’s one trip to the White Lion away from finding out.” Sydney stepped back and announced to everyone, “I think I need to sit down. I never took it seriously when people told me that pregnancy was exhausting, but I believe it now. Why don’t we all have a cup of tea?”
“You don’t have to ask me twice,” said Charlie.
“Let me just get this hydrangea into the ground,” Emma said.
“I’ll help you,” said Henry.
Sydney and Charlie exchanged looks but left without a word, followed by Andrew.
“Well,” said Emma.
“Back to work,” he said.
Emma moved toward her spade but snuck a look at her phone again.
“What do you keep checking?” Henry asked.
She turned her phone around to show him the photo of the Bible page.
He stepped close to lean in, resting his hand on the small of her back. “What am I looking at?”
She read out, “Helen Marie Goddard marries Arthur Melcourt in 1893.”
“I’m still not seeing it,” he said.
“The family tree shows that Helen’s brother is Matthew Spencer Goddard. There’s a gap in the correspondence between Venetia Smith and her brother, Adam, who handled all of the operations of her business, during the autumn of 1907. Then Venetia reappears seemingly out of nowhere in America in 1908, married to a man named Spencer Smith. The same middle name as Matthew Spencer Goddard, Helen Melcourt’s brother.”
“You think Spencer Smith is really Matthew Goddard?” he asked.
“Think about it. Venetia was a single woman working for his sister’s family. She leaves the country without any explanation and never comes back. I think she was running because she and Matthew fell in love.”
“But why not just marry?” he asked.
“It must have been more complicated than that. I think she and Matthew had an affair and her reputation was on the line.”
“And so Matthew marries her and takes on a different name so no one could trace the affair back to her work at Highbury House,” he said.
“And look at this,” she said, excited as she flicked through the pictures on her phone to the image of Professor Waylan’s letter she’d texted to Charlie. “A professor who helps me sometimes found this letter from Spencer Smith to Venetia in 1912. ‘Sometimes when you are away I think back to the celestial connection that forever binds me to you. The joy that slipped through our fingers led us to where we are now. I hope you do not hate me for having no regrets, because now I have you.’ Someone wrote on the final garden plans ‘Celeste’s garden’ under the name for this space. What if the celestial connection is this garden?”
A little smile tipped his mouth. “I love how excited you are by this.”
She grinned. “I like the idea that maybe I know a secret about Venetia Smith that no one else in the world knows. Except you.”
Henry picked up his spade and began pushing dirt to level off the bottom of the hole they’d pulled the box out of. “You know,” he said as he worked, “I never did get an answer to my question.”
She crossed her arms as she watched him. “What was that?”
“When are we getting drinks?”
“Are you asking me out to be neighborly or because you want to ask me out?”
He huffed a laugh. “If you have to ask, I’m not doing a very good job of sending signals.”
Emma crossed the short patch of ground between them, and kissed him. She could feel his surprise as his lips opened, but then he cradled the back of her neck, deepening the kiss. She traced her hands up his arms, gripping his hair and pulling him closer to her, finally letting herself do what she’d wanted to since he’d taken her groceries from her at the pub and pulled her into his world.
When finally she pulled away, he kept her anchored to him, his hands on her hips.
“Let’s skip drinks and go straight to dinner,” he breathed.
She laughed, wrapping her arms around his waist. “I thought you’d never ask.”
• DIANA •
DECEMBER 1944
Diana watched Bobby pick up the red toy lorry with its chipped paint and place it in the tin box. It had been three weeks since Bobby’s aunt had left Highbury House carrying a battered suitcase and her handbag. While quiet, Bobby was a sweet little boy. With time, he would once again grow into the vibrant child who’d played with her son.
Sometimes Diana fretted that she had used her money and her position to force Miss Adderton’s hand, just as she’d forced Cynthia out. But then why did Miss Adderton shake her hand before walking down Highbury’s drive? And why had the only letter that had arrived from London been addressed to her, not to Bobby? Miss Adderton wrote that she had enrolled in a secretarial college full of other women deemed unable to serve for whatever reason. She’d taken on hours with a volunteer ambulance unit in Willesden, where she’d found a flat. She was already making friends.
There was not one message for Bobby in the entire letter.
No. Diana may have made many mistakes in her life, but adopting Bobby was not one of them.
“Are you certain you don’t want to keep it, Robert?” she asked, nodding to the toy.
He shrugged in a way that she was learning meant he was embarrassed. “It was Robin’s favorite.”
Tears stung at the bridge of her nose. “Then you’re right. It should go into the box.”
Silently she packed the rest of the items on the table into the box. A red jumper she’d knitted for Robin two Christmases ago. A couple of his baby photos she had duplicates of. A set of tin army men who’d fought brave battles over the grass of the children’s garden. The spare key to the winter garden.
Her hand hesitated over a sealed envelope that lay to her right. Perhaps it was unwise for her to hide away the adoption papers, but she didn’t want them in the house where Bobby might come across them. He was her child now.
Carefully she placed the envelope inside the box, closed the lid, and latched it shut.
“Come along now. It’s time to bury our treasure,” she said, offering her hand to Bobby.
The two of them made their way out of her new office. In the hallway, a nurse and a soldier who had been flirting parted at the sight of her, making her smile. When she’d assumed the title of commandant, she’d ceased to be an object of curiosity who’d thrown a party and a wedding and had become an authority figure to be tiptoed around—with respect. With Matron’s guidance, she would show them that she could be trusted.
As they walked, soldiers making their way up and down the hall stopped to say hello to Bobby. He hugged close to Diana’s side but said a polite “Hello” to every one of them. When Father Devlin called to her from where he was sitting with a patient in Ward B, they stopped.
“Off to defeat the Nazis?” the chaplain asked.
“That was yesterday,” said Bobby.
After luncheon, Diana had taken him to the ramble for hide-and-seek. She hadn’t cared about the stained elbows of his shirts. Bobby had laughed. She’d laughed. It had felt like catharsis.
“So what is it today?” Father Devlin asked.
“We’re burying treasure,” Bobby said.
“Is that right?” asked Father Devlin. “What sort of treasure does a pirate hide in Warwickshire?”
“A lorry and playing cards and a top and pictures,” Bobby rattled off.
Father Devlin lifted his eyes to Diana’s. “Ah. Treasures, indeed.”
She crouched down, still holding the box. “Robert, be a good boy, go ask Mrs. Dibble to find us the trowel, please. And my gardening gloves.”
He skipped off—skipped!—and she straightened. “I thought it might help him to bury some of Robin’s things.”
“Him or you?” asked the chaplain.
“Both of us.”
He nodded.
“I
don’t think he understands. He knows that his aunt has gone away, but I don’t know if he’s absorbed it,” she said.
“Be gentle with him.”
She nodded, thinking about the new nanny’s stories of how Bobby thrashed in the night.
“Where are you going to bury the box?” he asked.
“In the winter garden. I never understood why it was Robin’s favorite place,” she said with a shake of her head.
“Nothing is more tempting to little boys than a locked gate.”
She gave a little smile. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Remember, I was a little boy once, too, difficult though that is to imagine.” He nodded behind her. “Your pirate returns.”
Bobby was brandishing two trowels and a set of gardening gloves. He stuck them out to her.
“Thank you very much, Robert,” she said, her tone brighter. She collected the gardening things on top of the box and ignored the loose dirt that fell from her gloves onto her cashmere sweater. “Now, shall we go?”
The rain that had been threatening all day held off for them as they moved through the garden rooms. When they reached the winter garden, she pulled out the key she’d slipped into her pocket and unlocked the gate.
“Now, where would a pirate bury this treasure?” she asked.
“Here!” Bobby shouted and ran toward the dogwood trees.
She handed him a trowel, and together they dug a hole for the box. Most of Bobby’s dirt slid back in, but he worked diligently with his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. When it was almost a foot deep, he looked at her and asked, “When is Aunt Stella coming back?”
The question hit her right in the heart. “I’m sorry, Robert. Your Aunt Stella couldn’t live at Highbury anymore, and she couldn’t take you where she was going.” There, that stuck closely enough to the truth that a child could understand.
“Is she dead?” he asked.
Another pang. “Why do you ask that?”
He dragged his trowel through the soft dirt. “When Dad died, I couldn’t go visit him. Or Mummy, either.”
“No, she didn’t die, Robert. She’s happy and healthy, just busy working, and you live here at Highbury with me now. We should get this treasure buried before it begins to rain.”