The Last Garden in England(17)

Immediately Joan looked contrite. “You’re going to be angry with me.”

“What have you done?”

“It’s just that I didn’t want to write to you only for you to say no—”

“Joan…” Her tone was warning.

Joan sucked in a breath. “I need you to take Bobby.”

Stella blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

“Your nephew. I need you to take him. The bombing’s started again,” said Joan.

“So evacuate like you did at the beginning of the war,” she said.

“I have a job now at the munitions factory. I’m a vital worker,” said Joan.

News to Stella. Joan had always run from work like it was a rash, but she supposed that had been before Joan’s husband had died.

“Besides, I can’t evacuate with Bobby again,” Joan continued. “I’ll go crazy if they send me out to the countryside, but you’re here. You can take him.”

Stella looked at her nephew, who gazed up at her with enormous hazel eyes and then dipped his head.

“I can’t, Joan. I’m a cook. I work all day.”

She was running Highbury’s kitchen on her own with no help, volunteering twice a week with an Air Raid Precautions unit, and spending long hours every night hunched over the little desk in her room, toiling away at her coursework. Trying her hardest to make something of herself.

But as she looked down at the thin little boy in his little school coat and trousers with a tie that looked almost comically big on him, guilt welled up in her. How could she say no to her nephew?

“How long?” she asked.

“Oh, Estrella, thank you!” her sister cried, throwing her arms around Stella.

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet. I’ll have to ask Mrs. Symonds first, and—”

“Ask me what?”

Stella stiffened and turned to find Mrs. Symonds, perfectly pressed as always, walking through the door.

“Well, this is quite the scene. Mrs. Dibble told me that there was to be no custard tonight, but I didn’t expect it was because you were having a party, Miss Adderton,” the mistress said.

“This is Bobby, my nephew, and my sister, Joan,” she said.

Mrs. Symonds looked between the two of them, as though trying to find a resemblance between mousy Stella and brashly glamorous Joan. “Your sister?”

“It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Symonds,” said Joan, her hand outstretched.

Stella wanted to crawl out of her skin. A cook’s sister approaching a lady for a handshake. Joan, a domestic’s daughter and a domestic’s sister, should have known better.

Mrs. Symonds looked at Joan’s hand and flicked her gaze around the room, as though searching for someone to blame. “Can anyone please explain?”

“Joan lives in Bristol and is worried about air raids. She’s concerned about Bobby’s safety, so she’s brought him here. It’s quite the surprise to all of us,” said Stella, hoping her employer could read between those incredibly broad lines.

Something flashed in Mrs. Symonds’s eyes, and she fixed her gaze on Joan. “And where did you anticipate that Bobby would sleep, Mrs.…?”

“Reynolds, ma’am,” said Joan, some of her earlier boldness faltering in front of the lady of the manor. “I had thought that maybe Stella could make room for him. She told me that she has a room to herself.”

“Did she? Well, I suppose we shall have to find a cot for Bobby, then, won’t we?”

“He won’t be a bother. He can help me do little jobs around the kitchen,” said Stella.

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a child,” said Mrs. Symonds.

“He just started school in Bristol this year,” said Joan.

Mrs. Symonds strode forward before coming to a halt before Bobby and bending a bit at the waist. “How old are you, Bobby?”

Bobby’s little hand grabbed on to the skirt of his mother’s coat, watching this new lady with rapt, silent attention.

“Go on, Bobby,” said Joan, shaking his hand off. “He can be a little shy to start, but once he gets going he’s a proper chatterbox.”

Mrs. Symonds paid the mother no mind, her gaze fixed on the boy. “I have a little boy, too. His name is Robin, and he has a whole room full of wonderful toys. Would you like to see them?”

“Yes,” whispered Bobby.

Yes, ma’am, Stella scolded silently.

“Good. And maybe we can arrange for you to go to school with Robin as well. Do you like school?”

Bobby nodded.

“I’m very glad to hear that.” Mrs. Symonds straightened. “I will bring him along with Robin tomorrow and see that he’s registered.”

It was a generous gesture—placing a child at midterm could prove tricky to anyone but a lady of Mrs. Symonds’s influence—but still Stella couldn’t keep from grinding her teeth. It was so high-handed and nonchalant, sweeping in and making the decision for Stella.

“Now, why don’t you let Mrs. Dibble take you to visit with Robin and Nanny? I’m sure that your mother and your aunt have many things to speak about,” said Mrs. Symonds.

Bobby looked to his mother, who nodded. “Off you go. I’ll see you again before I leave.”