The Last Garden in England(47)

She could sense that Miss Grant and Miss Parker across the room were doing their very best to appear that they weren’t paying attention. At least Mrs. George had the grace to watch this exchange openly, her arms crossed under her bosom.

“One of the boys at school said that the Germans blew up London and they blew up Covertee.” Bobby sobbed into her chest.

“Coventry,” she corrected. When she caught Mrs. George’s look of disapproval, she added, “What a horrid thing for that boy to say.”

“He said Mummy’s going to be bombed.” He continued to cry.

Mrs. George shook her head in disgust at the other boy’s cruelty, and Stella took comfort in knowing that at least on this front they were united.

“Bobby.” She laid a soft hand on his head. “I promise you that nothing bad is going to happen to your mother.” Joan’s far too lucky for that. “In the meantime, you get to live here. Don’t you like it at Highbury House?”

His tears soaked her shirtfront as he moved his tiny head in a nod.

“You get to play with Master Robin and all his nice toys.” When he peeled himself away from her chest, she nearly winced at the river of tears and snot on her clothes. She wanted to run straight upstairs to change, but instead she pulled out a much-laundered handkerchief and wiped his face.

“He’s nice,” said her nephew in a whisper.

“I think your mum wants you to have the best time at Highbury House so that when you go back home, you have all of these wonderful memories. Don’t you?”

“Yes.”

She leaned down so they were eye level. “So there will be no more crying today?”

He nodded.

“Good. Now, would you like another slice of bread?” she asked, although she could hardly imagine that the mealy bread would ever tempt anyone except for a five-year-old who’d never known soft white flour and well-risen loaves.

“Can I have jam, too?” He looked up at her through his lashes.

Despite herself, she snorted a laugh. “Cheeky monkey, yes you can. But just this once.”

She went to fetch the jam jar from the high shelf of the pantry—far away from little hands. Bobby knew how rare jam on his bread was. She hadn’t had more than a taste of it herself in nearly two years. The sugar was far too dear, and twice she’d found that the small Symonds family’s ration coupons didn’t add up to enough for the harvest’s canning, let alone other needs.

When she came back, she found Bobby quizzing Miss Parker about hedgehogs, befuddling the young woman from Leeds who’d likely never seen one of the creatures before coming to Warwickshire.

Stella cut another thin slice of bread and twisted off the top of the jam jar. She was just looking around for a butter knife when one slid across the worktable to her. She looked up to see Mrs. George, who was… smiling.

“That was very well done, Miss Adderton,” said the other woman.

I don’t know what I’m doing! Stella wanted to shout. Tell me what to do!

“It will get easier with time,” Mrs. George continued.

“I’m not his mother,” she said.

Mrs. George shook her head. “You’re the closest thing that boy has right now.”

Stella accepted the knife without a word.



* * *



As soon as Bobby was finished with his second snack, she shooed him out of the kitchen to go play and set about putting together Mrs. Symonds’s tea tray. Although there were fresh tea leaves for the pot, there hadn’t been much flour, so Stella had had to resort to oatmeal scones made with drippings. The last time she’d baked scones with butter had been Christmas Day.

Stella carefully carried the tray up the servants’ stairs. Really, Dorothy or Mrs. Dibble should bring it, but both were preoccupied with the laundry, which had become impossible to send out with so many washerwomen conscripted and the hospital overwhelming those who remained.

Delicately putting one foot in front of the other, she navigated the corridor past what had once been the double drawing room and the dining room until she stopped at the morning room door. She knocked and then pushed open the door, as Mrs. Dibble had taught her.

“Is that tea, Miss Adderton?” Mrs. Symonds asked from the cluster of chairs where she sat with Miss Cynthia, Matron McPherson, and a priest who was also a patient.

“Yes, Mrs. Symonds,” she said.

“You may set the tray there,” said Mrs. Symonds, waving a hand to the sideboard next to her. “Would any of you care for tea?”

“I would love a cup.” The priest smiled at Stella as she carefully made her way around the breakfast table now serving as the family’s main dining set. “What have you baked for us today, Miss Adderton?”

“Oatmeal scones,” she said, thankful she’d piled the small plate high.

“How delightful,” said the priest.

“Father Devlin, perhaps you’d like to start,” said Mrs. Symonds, shooting him a bemused look.

At an almost invisible nod from her employer, Stella bobbed an approximation of a curtsy, feeling painfully old-fashioned and resenting every moment.

Before she reached the door, however, Miss Cynthia stopped her by calling out in her thin voice, “Perhaps you could help us, Mrs.… ?”

“Miss Adderton,” Mrs. Symonds supplied, in a tone that implied her sister-in-law should know by now who cooked her meals every evening.