The other woman’s mouth snapped shut as the organ began to boom from the opposite end of the room. Stella let out a sigh of relief.
The scrape of shoe leather against stone resounded as the guests all stood. Outlined against the sunlight was Beth in a navy-blue dress. She wore a hat with a white net—a little bridal nod when clothing rationing made wedding dresses impossible. Stella touched the spot above her heart when she saw Mr. Penworthy holding Beth’s arm, looking proud as punch.
Stella glanced up at the altar, where Graeme stood beaming. As soon as Beth reached the top of the aisle, she looked down at her bouquet of flowers, a blush pinking her cheeks.
Father Bilson adjusted his glasses, smiled, and began to speak. “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you.”
“And also with you,” echoed everyone in the church.
After the sermon and the readings, Mrs. Symonds stepped forward to take Beth’s bouquet when it came time to exchange the rings, and Stella frowned, still in awe of how her polite friend had managed to establish such ease with the imperious Mrs. Symonds.
When the vicar declared Beth and Graeme husband and wife, Stella felt something lurch inside of her. Not jealousy or envy, but an awareness that she was witnessing something she may never experience. May never want to experience.
The congregation rose a final time to cheer the couple as they walked down the aisle and out of the church. Stella caught Beth’s smile as Beth passed her by; she’d never seen her friend so happy.
A little elbow hit her arm. Stella looked over and realized that Bobby had climbed up onto the pew.
“Bobby, get down from there,” she gasped. “We’re in church.”
“I can’t see,” he said.
“We’re going outside right now,” she said.
“I’m hungry,” he complained as she tugged his jacket into place.
“You’ll have to wait until we’re back at the house.” Then she would hand him off to the maid, Dorothy, tie on her apron, and get back to work. Even with Mrs. George’s help, a thousand things needed doing for the wedding breakfast.
“No!” Bobby shouted right in the middle of the aisle.
Dozens of heads swiveled to them.
“No!” Bobby screamed again.
“Bobby, stop it,” she hissed.
“No!” He hung on the “o,” dragging it out so that it echoed up to the arches and rose above the organ. Then he threw himself on the floor.
Stella knew she was supposed to react, but all she could do was stare. She didn’t know how to make him stop this tantrum. All she knew was that she didn’t want to deal with any of it.
I don’t want to do this. Her guilt dropped through her like a stone through water. She hadn’t asked for this child, even if he was blood.
Bobby began to writhe on the floor as people murmured, their eyes darting from the child to her and back again. As though they expected her to somehow stop this display.
“Bobby, get up,” she said, her voice weak, defeated.
He continued to squirm, hot tears rolling down his face.
“Bobby—”
“Bobby Reynolds, you will stand up this instant!”
The sharp voice of Mrs. Symonds brought Stella’s nephew to a stop. He peered up at the mistress of Highbury House with wide eyes, as though just realizing that he had an audience. He’d likely never heard Mrs. Symonds use anything but the soft, ladylike voice she employed as either a pat or a slap.
Mrs. Symonds put her hand on Bobby’s shoulder and crouched down until she was almost on her heels. “You will pick yourself up off the floor and apologize to Father Bilson. Do you know why?”
“I was yelling,” he said softly.
“Yes, you were yelling in church. That is not acceptable behavior. Do you understand?”
He nodded, and Stella watched him pick himself up off the floor. His coat was dusty and his eyes were rimmed red, but he was standing, which was more than Stella had been able to accomplish.
“I’m sorry, Father Bilson,” Bobby said to the vicar, who stood, his arms crossed over his chest.
“I accept your apology, young man. All of us have moments of weakness that we must fight against,” said Father Bilson.
“Now, will you tell me why you were throwing a tantrum?” asked Mrs. Symonds.
“He was—”
“Robin, that question was not for you,” said Mrs. Symonds, not even glancing at her son where he stood next to her.
“I’m hungry, and my jacket itches, and I’m hot and—”
Mrs. Symonds held up a hand. “I think that I have a good idea of the situation. I’m afraid you must put up with all of these inconveniences until we are home. Can you be a brave boy and do that?”
Another nod.
“Good, then go with your aunt, and she’ll see that everything is sorted out,” said Mrs. Symonds.
As her employer straightened, Stella gritted her teeth and murmured a thank-you.
“There’s no reason to thank me,” said Mrs. Symonds.
“You made him stop crying,” she said.
Mrs. Symonds offered her a little smile. “It isn’t a matter of stopping a child crying. Often it’s a question of listening to what it is that they want. If they are hungry, tell them that they will be fed. If they are hot, let them know that they will soon be somewhere cool. Bobby is a smart boy. He understands these things, but he is only five.”
“I’ll see to it that he doesn’t disturb the wedding breakfast,” said Stella.
Mrs. Symonds waved a hand. “He’ll be even more bored there than he was here. Send him to play with Robin. They can amuse each other.”
Stella hesitated but nodded. She had a wedding breakfast to finish, and it wouldn’t do to argue with a kindness on today of all days.
• DIANA •
When Diana first met Cynthia Symonds, she had been convinced that her future sister-in-law was perfect. Although not particularly pretty, Murray’s petite, delicate sister had pale blond hair and peaches-and-cream skin that never seemed to blemish. Cynthia could speak eloquently in four languages with anyone from a duke to a diplomat. She was remarkably well-read, and she could ride to hounds without letting the veneer of calm slip from her face. She went to church, but not too often. She flirted, but only a little. She was just as a lady should be.
Perhaps that was why it had been so satisfying when cracks began to show in Cynthia’s facade. It had started when Cynthia and Murray’s mother ran off to Africa with the man who was now her husband with hardly a goodbye to her own children. This forfeited Murray’s mother’s right to Highbury House. Diana had witnessed the moment Cynthia heard that the family property would pass to Murray and seen the flicker of jealousy flash over her sister-in-law’s eyes.
Then, one day at a party, Diana had realized that Cynthia had been out for quite a few Seasons, and the number of times Cynthia found herself partnered to dance had shrunk. An engagement to a baron’s son in 1936 never materialized. Then, in the spring of 1939, the National Service Act passed, and the young men who’d once flirted with the only Symonds daughter left for officers’ commissions.
Cynthia had changed after that. As the nation entered war, her purpose in life seemed to transform overnight from marriage to the war effort. She’d become almost dictatorial in her passion, hardened in her determination to win the war from Highbury House. That, and Diana’s own stubbornness about the transformation of her home, had sparked much of their discord.