“Well, this is quite the scene. Mrs. Dibble told me that there was to be no custard tonight, but I didn’t expect it was because you were having a party, Miss Adderton,” the mistress said.
“This is Bobby, my nephew, and my sister, Joan,” she said.
Mrs. Symonds looked between the two of them, as though trying to find a resemblance between mousy Stella and brashly glamorous Joan. “Your sister?”
“It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Symonds,” said Joan, her hand outstretched.
Stella wanted to crawl out of her skin. A cook’s sister approaching a lady for a handshake. Joan, a domestic’s daughter and a domestic’s sister, should have known better.
Mrs. Symonds looked at Joan’s hand and flicked her gaze around the room, as though searching for someone to blame. “Can anyone please explain?”
“Joan lives in Bristol and is worried about air raids. She’s concerned about Bobby’s safety, so she’s brought him here. It’s quite the surprise to all of us,” said Stella, hoping her employer could read between those incredibly broad lines.
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.”