The Last Garden in England(101)

“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.