The Last Garden in England(49)

“I will be happy to play chaperone. I won’t be doing any dancing anytime soon,” said Father Devlin.

“I’m sure Father Bilson and Mrs. Bilson would as well, and myself, of course,” said Mrs. Symonds. “Does that satisfy you that your girls will all be well looked after, Matron?”

“It does,” said Matron.

“There you have it. If you’ll excuse me, ladies, some of the patients in Ward A have expressed an interest in studying the Bible together,” said Father Devlin as he used his crutches and the arm of his chair to haul himself up.

Miss Cynthia rose as well, still shaking her head. Matron followed her out, a small smile on her usually stern face.

As soon as they were alone, though, Mrs. Symonds said, “You were rather helpful just then, Miss Adderton. I do enjoy a chance to beat the commandant at her own game. I’ll have to ring around and find out who to speak to at the base. Please ask Miss Pedley to invite her friends.”

“You meant that?” Stella asked.

Mrs. Symonds gave her a look. “Please also remind Miss Pedley that she’s to use the gardens at her leisure. She can ask Mrs. Dibble to find me, and I will show her around.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Symonds. I think she has been a little hesitant because she did not want to impose, but I will remind her.”

A softness started to creep into her employer’s expression, but just as quick, Mrs. Symonds schooled it away. “That is all. You may clear the tea tray.”

Stella couldn’t figure Mrs. Symonds out. The dismissal was issued as easily as the praise.

Stella resumed stacking things onto the tea tray, painfully aware that she was not as graceful or quiet as a proper maid should be. Mrs. Symonds took up a book but didn’t open it. Instead, she said, “Your nephew seems to be settling in nicely.”

Stella paused, the heavy tray cutting into her palms. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for allowing him to stay.”

“Robin is very fond of him,” said Mrs. Symonds.

“Yes,” said Stella carefully.

“They performed a play for me the other day that they wrote themselves. It was very clever. Bobby in particular is a very talented mimic.”

“Oh, I hadn’t realized.” Bobby hadn’t asked her to watch the play. Or maybe he had and she was too busy to pause. “He’ll be getting the mimicry from my sister. Joan always was good at picking up the songs on the radio. She can sing just like Judy Garland or Dorothy Lamour.”

“What plans does your sister have for him?”

“Plans?” she asked.

Mrs. Symonds waved a hand. “For his education? His future?”

Stella stared at her employer. Bobby was the son of a builder who’d been killed in action and a mother who seemed more interested in dancing than mothering. What did she expect for Bobby?

“I suppose he’ll work after he leaves school,” she finally said.

“He’s a bright boy. When he’s a little older, I may be able to help place him in a good school.” Mrs. Symonds paused. “If his mother would like, of course.”

“Thank you. I’m sure Joan would appreciate that very much,” she lied. While Stella had ended up in service like her mother before her, Joan had run as far from the pull of Highbury House as she could. She doubted Joan would want anything to do with its owner after she no longer needed Mrs. Symonds’s goodwill.

“That will be all, Miss Adderton. Thank you,” said Mrs. Symonds, opening her book.

Stella pursed her lips, bowed her head, and left the lady to her leisure.





? VENETIA ?


THURSDAY, 25 APRIL 1907

Highbury House

Rain, rain, and more rain

I have never understood “gardeners” who refuse to garden because it is unseemly for a lady or gentleman to dirty their hands. Perhaps they don’t know the thrill of plunging a trowel into spring-softened soil to toss up the sweet, earthy scent of leaves and twigs and all manner of matter. By refusing to stain their aprons, they miss the sensation of damp, fresh dirt crumbling between their fingers or breathing the fresh air deeply. They don’t know the satisfaction of knocking the dust off one’s clothes when retreating into the house for a well-earned cup of tea.

Then again, they also avoid the panic of being caught in a sudden, torrential rain with little cover.

Today I was alone in the poet’s garden, staking out the southern border with flags tied to sticks when the heavens opened. Almost immediately, the rain soaked through my shirt and plastered it to my back and chest. I pulled my canvas hat lower on my brow as I did my best to gather up my bundle of sticks. But when a crack of lightning pierced the sky and rattled my very teeth, I dropped everything to hike up my skirts and run for my cottage.

I cut through the ramble, mud weighing down my hemline. A gust of wind tore my hat from my head before picking up my limp hair and thrusting it back in my face.

Around the corner of the cottage, I spotted a figure huddled under the little front porch.

“Mr. Goddard?” I asked, peering through the haze.

He looked at me from under his soaked hat, his grin sheepish. “Good day, Miss Smith. Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

He lifted a leather bag. “I come bearing gifts.” His smile fell. “But you must come out of the rain.”