Stella was about to grab Bobby’s hand and say their goodbyes before walking the long way back to the house—alone—when Mrs. Symonds said, “Robin, why don’t you run ahead with Bobby? Miss Adderton and I would like to talk.”
Bobby broke free from Stella’s grasp, laughing as he ran down the pavement with Robin, their friendship newly solidified. Her hand fell away. A child in a cook’s care did not harm the heir of the house. She should’ve reminded Bobby of that, but Stella hadn’t thought it was necessary. The separation between people like Bobby and people like Robin was so great, the rules felt self-evident.
Mrs. Symonds cleared her throat. “Miss Adderton,” she started slowly, “I believe I owe you an apology, even if my son doesn’t seem to think that one is necessary.”
“You? Owe me?” she stumbled in shock.
“I understand the very difficult position that Robin put you in by acting so disgracefully with Bobby. I can assure you that he will receive a fitting punishment.” Mrs. Symonds tilted her head as she watched the boys meander off down the road. “I think that some time spent weeding in the garden would suffice. Two weeks after school should do it, I think. Robin does so hate the wet, and this is such a wet time of year.”
“Could Bobby join him?” Stella asked.
A slight smile touched Mrs. Symonds’s lips. “I’m certain there are more than enough weeds in Highbury for two punishments.”
Mrs. Symonds began to walk, glancing back at Stella as though she expected her to join. Stella frowned deep. The stuck-up, stuffy lady who demanded preposterous things like a cheese soufflé for a Sir Something or Another and his wife wanted to walk with her.
Cautiously Stella followed, and Mrs. Symonds slowed her pace to match Stella’s.
After a few silent minutes, Stella ventured, “If you don’t mind my asking, Mrs. Symonds, do you object to the cane?”
“In schools, in homes, anywhere. I know it’s frequently used, but I don’t ever wish Robin to know it.”
Why? Stella wanted to shout. Why, when in so many other ways Mrs. Symonds seemed traditional to her very core?
“It was my late husband Murray’s wish,” said Mrs. Symonds, as though reading Stella’s mind. “He experienced a particularly brutal beating at his preparatory school. I had no desire to send Robin to such a school, much as my sister-in-law might disagree with me.”
“I see,” Stella said carefully.
“How is Bobby adjusting to life in the country?” Mrs. Symonds asked.
Stella sighed. “He’s clung to me. I think he is shy.”
“He doesn’t seem to be shy around Robin.”
He isn’t old enough to have the good sense to be.
She peered down the pathway to the two boys zigzagging, their arms stretched out like Spitfires. “No, he doesn’t.”
“You have asthma, don’t you? That is why you can’t serve?” Mrs. Symonds asked.
“Yes,” she said, preparing herself for the judgment.
“I’ve never seen Robin run before without becoming winded.”
“Maybe his lungs have grown stronger,” she suggested.
Mrs. Symonds made a noncommittal sound. “Has your sister indicated how long she wishes Bobby to stay at Highbury?”
As though it were anyone’s decision but Mrs. Symonds’s.
“No. Joan isn’t much of a letter writer unless she wants something. I’ve only had two letters since February.” She paused. “I hadn’t seen her since her husband’s funeral.”
“And yet still you took her son,” said Mrs. Symonds.
“Where else would he go?”
But even as she said the words she knew that they were only part of the truth. Yes, Bobby had no other family besides her. And yes, he was just a child. Yet it wasn’t as simple as all of that. If she could, she would be gone from Highbury. She’d take herself off to London, New York, Shanghai—she didn’t care where, so long as it wasn’t Highbury, where everyone knew her and there was no escape.
What she would do when she got there, she still didn’t know.
“This war has brought so much unhappiness, we must do anything we can to shield our children from it,” said Mrs. Symonds.
When she glanced over and found that Mrs. Symonds was gazing at her son, her eyes were blank—almost as though she wasn’t there.
“Master Robin looks very much like his father,” said Stella.
“He does.”