The Last Garden in England(100)

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.