When Mrs. Symonds read out the final “STOP,” Stella had fallen apart, at the loss of her sister, yes, but also at the death of the life she’d longed for. She would never leave Highbury. Never move to London and put to use any of her studies. Never see the places in her pictures.
Beth had told her later that Mrs. Symonds had gone up to Stella’s attic bedroom to tell Bobby. Apparently the mistress of Highbury had cradled the boy to her when he’d begun to sob.
Bobby had not been able to sleep on his own since, so neither could Stella, with him softly snuffling into his pillow. After one week of simultaneously burnt and underdone meals, Mrs. Symonds declared that Bobby would temporarily move to the night nursery with Robin, under the watchful eye of Nanny.
“Are you planning a trip?”
The familiar voice sent Stella’s eyes rolling to the ceiling of Mrs. Yarley’s shop.
“Miss Adderton?” came her employer’s slightly short tone.
She fixed as pleasant a smile as she could muster on her face and turned to the woman who paid her wages. “Hello, Mrs. Symonds. I didn’t realize you were coming into the village or I would have taken a list for you.”
Mrs. Symonds’s brow furrowed. “I enjoy a little time away from the house from time to time. Are you quite well, Miss Adderton?”
My nephew is an orphan. I hate my life, and now I can never change it. But other than that…
“I’m fine,” said Stella.
“How has Bobby been settling into his new routine?” Mrs. Symonds asked.
Stella searched the other woman’s face, looking for malice or judgment, but there didn’t seem to be any edge to her employer’s tone.
“Nanny tells me that he sometimes wakes up in the night, but he seems to be sleeping well in the cot next to Master Robin.” After a moment, she added, “Thank you for allowing it.”
“Don’t worry too much,” said Mrs. Symonds. “Children are resilient.”
A great crash of breaking glass erupted behind them. Both women spun around to see Bobby standing next to a pile of glass shards and what looked like fat quince fruit.
“Bobby!” Stella gasped, rushing forward. “What happened?”
He started to cry.
She looked around in despair at all of the broken glass. At all of the fruit and sugar—oh, the sugar!
“Were you tugging on the shelf, Bobby?” she asked, desperate for him to say no.
The question only made him cry harder.
“Bobby, please,” she said, growing increasingly conscious of the small crowd around her and the extremely red face of the shopkeeper. “Please don’t cry.”
“Stop yelling at me!” he wailed.
“I’m not yelling!” Except she was. She pushed her hair back from her forehead, at a loss for whether to shake him or hug him to her. Maybe both? She didn’t know. She didn’t know.
“Bobby,” Mrs. Symonds said in a soft voice. The elegant lady had picked her way through the glass and was now standing in a syrupy puddle of quince juice. “Are you hurt?”
Goodness, Stella hadn’t even thought to ask. Should she check him over for cuts? See if he was beginning to bruise?
“Are you hurt, Bobby?” Mrs. Symonds asked again, placing a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Sniffling, Bobby shook his head.
“That’s good, isn’t it? We wouldn’t want for you to be hurt because then you might not be able to play with Robin,” said Mrs. Symonds. “Now, can you tell me what happened? It will be all right. Just tell me.”
“I thought there was chocolate,” he said in a voice as small as a field mouse.
“I must say, that would be something. Chocolate is a treat these days. Did you try to climb on the shelves to get to it?” asked Mrs. Symonds.
Another nod.
Clucks and tuts from the other shoppers. Stella shot a fierce glare at them, and one or two took a step back.
“Mrs. Symonds, that was a dozen jars of quince in syrup,” said the shopkeeper, wringing her hands.
A dozen jars? Think of the cost, let alone the sugar coupons.
“I’ll take care of it, Mrs. Yarley. First, however, I think it’s probably best if we see to this mess, don’t you?” asked Mrs. Symonds.
Stella watched in amazement as the shopkeeper actually retreated and returned with a broom and dustpan.
“Here,” said Stella, holding out her hand.
As she swept up the glass to allow Mrs. Yarley to get at the syrup with a mop and bucket, Mrs. Symonds checked Bobby over for cuts. Stella couldn’t help but watch how gentle she was with him, wiping away his tears as she went.
When the mess was cleaned up, Mrs. Symonds said, “Now, Bobby, do you remember learning about consequences at school?”
He hesitated.
“Everything we do has an impact on something or someone. You knew that you weren’t supposed to climb on the shelves, didn’t you?”
His lip trembled, but to his credit he didn’t begin crying again. “Yes, Mrs. Symonds.”
“Good. I’m glad you aren’t hurt, but you will have to have a punishment, with your aunt’s permission.” Mrs. Symonds glanced up at her, and Stella nodded, unsure. She’d never punished a child before.
“Now, I need an assistant for a big project in the library. Every afternoon for the next two weeks, you’re to come to the library right after school and help me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mrs. Symonds,” he murmured.
“Good.” Mrs. Symonds turned to Mrs. Yarley. “Please send the bill to Highbury House, and I will settle it.”
“A good amount of sugar went into those preserves,” said Mrs. Yarley.
“I will account for the loss of sugar as well,” Mrs. Symonds promised before turning to Stella. “Now, shall we walk home?”
“Come on, Bobby,” Stella beckoned after murmuring another apology to Mrs. Yarley.
The little boy walked by her side through the village, but as soon as they were clear of Church Street, he began to twist at her hand.
“Bobby, why don’t you run ahead and see if you can catch Mr. Gilligan in the lane? He was coming into the village to see about buying some more twine for the climbing roses,” said Mrs. Symonds.
As soon as Stella released his hand, Bobby was off like a shot. She watched him run away, the edge of his shirttail coming untucked.
“I thought that Mr. Gilligan went out this morning,” said Stella.
“He did,” said Mrs. Symonds.
They walked in silence for a while, Stella aware of the great divide between them.
“I prayed for a girl.”
Stella cast her a glance. “I’m sorry?”
“When I was carrying Robin, I prayed for a little girl. I thought it would be easier because at least I knew what it was like to be girl. But the moment I heard Robin cry, I knew he was what I wanted. That doesn’t mean it hasn’t been hard, though.”
“When Mr. Symonds passed—”
Mrs. Symonds gave a little hollow laugh. “Long before that. Even before the war, Murray was back and forth to his London surgery. On Nanny’s Wednesday afternoons off, I would spend the hours wondering how I was going to make it through another moment of being alone with Robin. I would turn my back for one moment and he’d climb the nursery curtains or hop from sofa to end table.”