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.”
As soon as the boy was gone, Mrs. Symonds turned to Stella. “Now, Miss Adderton, there is the matter of the menu. We agreed upon it hours ago.”
“Yes, ma’am. Only there was an accident with the eggs and—”
“An accident? I shouldn’t have to remind you how precious food is these days, Miss Adderton. You should know that more than most.”
“It was my fault, Mrs. Symonds,” said Mrs. George. “I do apologize, and I’ve told Miss Adderton that I will replenish her stock from my own allowance.”
Stella’s eyes narrowed, wondering what the woman was up to.
“Your fault, Mrs. George?” asked Mrs. Symonds.
“Yes, I was moving things around and dropped two of the eggs. It will be nothing to replace them, I assure you,” she said.
“You were moving things around?” Mrs. Symonds asked, her tone dangerously even. If Mrs. George had been an ally, Stella might have warned her that this was when her employer was at her most dangerous. Ladies never raised their voices, but the bite of Mrs. Symonds’s glare could make a general cower.
Mrs. George at least had the good sense to fold her hands behind her back and look contrite. “Again, I apologize.”
“Mrs. George, I would remind you that you and the hospital that you work for are guests in this house. I expect my property to be treated with respect. That includes the contents of my kitchen. There is no cause for you or any of your cooks to handle any of the food for Highbury House. That is meant to feed me, my son, and our staff. Have I made myself clear?”
Mrs. George’s expression hardened like stone. “I understand you perfectly, Mrs. Symonds.”
“Good. And I expect the commandant will as well,” Mrs. Symonds said as she marched out of the room.
Behind Stella, Joan sucked in a breath. “Not an easy one, is she?”
“I would say she hardened after her husband died,” Stella started.
“But… ?”
“She’s been just like that ever since I arrived at Highbury House. Come on, we’ll take Bobby’s things up to my room.”
• DIANA •
Diana Symonds’s nails bit into her palms as she climbed the stairs from the basement kitchen to the ground-floor servants’ passage, let herself out of the hidden door in the paneling next to the grand stairs, and walked straight into her morning room. Keeping her chin lifted as the door shut behind her, she moved methodically from window to window, closing the rose-gold embroidered curtains. Only once the room was plunged into semidarkness did she drop onto the sofa and let her head fall into her hands.
She hated arbitrating squabbles between her cook and the staff of the convalescent hospital that had taken over her home. But then, very little of the dream Murray had promised matched the reality.
They’d only just finished redecorating Highbury House when Germany attacked Poland and Prime Minister Chamberlain declared war. Less than a month later, Murray had come home on the train from London and told her he’d volunteered as a doctor in the army. She’d held their son Robin and wept, but Murray had convinced her he was doubly obligated to serve—first as a doctor and second as a gentleman. Then he’d promised her that he would keep himself safe.
“What would be the use of living in a building site for three years if I can’t come back to enjoy the home I built with my beautiful wife?” he’d asked with a laugh before kissing her. And because life seemed to bend to Murray’s genial will, she’d believed him.
How naive she’d been.
Diana pushed her hair back off her face and stood. Just as diligently as before, she opened the curtains, stopping only to check her face in the mirror and straighten the fine plum cashmere cardigan that she’d learned to treasure since the government had issued clothing coupons. She’d learned all sorts of things since that awful day when two khaki-clad officers had driven into the courtyard to tell her Murray had been killed en route to a field hospital.
She let herself out of her morning room’s sanctuary and made for the entryway that joined the house’s two wings. Down the corridor, two nurses in white uniforms with red crosses emblazoned on the bosom stood with their heads close together, giggling. The moment they spotted her, however, they scurried away.
She ignored them. When the government declared it was requisitioning Highbury House mere weeks after Murray’s funeral, it had taken the Voluntary Aid Detachment mere weeks to occupy most of the main house and its outlying buildings, leaving only a small suite of rooms in the western wing for the family. Still deep in mourning, Diana had emerged one day to find that the home she’d lovingly restored had transformed into wards of neat rows of hospital beds, a surgical suite, and accommodation for nurses and doctors.
It had all happened without her because Murray’s sister, Cynthia, had traveled down from London to become the commandant of the new Highbury House Hospital. Still raw from the shock of her husband’s death, Diana had viewed Cynthia’s taking charge as a kindness. Soon, however, she saw what it really was: a way for Cynthia to force her way back into the childhood home that had passed to Murray upon their mother’s remarriage. Yet if her sister-in-law had hoped Diana would remain in her suite swathed in black crepe and sadness and never show her face in the hospital, she’d been sorely mistaken.