“Mr. Symonds was a kind man,” she offered.
“He was,” said his widow with a nod. “Some decency left the world the day he was killed, and the world needs decency right now. The convalescent home, for instance. He would have been delighted that the house had become a place of rest and recuperation for so many men. All I can see is the invasion of my home. I did ask Cynthia to speak to Mrs. George about respecting your needs, by the way.”
Stella jerked back in surprise. “You did?”
Mrs. Symonds shot a smile—tiny but sly—at her. “Some battlefields must not be lost. Given the state of rations these days, I am happy to declare the kitchen one of them.”
Stella was struck by the warmth of Mrs. Symonds’s gesture.
“If I might be so bold, madam, I think Mr. Symonds would want you to be happy.”
Something in the air shifted, and she could see Mrs. Symonds’s back straighten.
“Miss Adderton, you overstep,” Mrs. Symonds snapped. And once again, the walls were in place, the boundaries clear. One of them was the employer, and one of them was the cook.
“I do apologize. I—It’s only that I—” She tried to string together the right words.
“I expect dinner will be served at half past seven, as usual,” Mrs. Symonds said before marching off and leaving Stella very much on her own on the last strip of pavement before the village gave way to the road to Highbury House.
SPRING
? EMMA ?
APRIL 2021
Due to necessary cuts across the foundation, we have decided to place the Head of Conservation position on hold indefinitely. This is in no way a reflection of the selection committee’s feelings about you as a candidate. Indeed, please accept my personal apology…
Emma gave the email from the Royal Botanical Heritage Society’s executive director one last scan and then locked her phone. After almost three months without a word, she wasn’t exactly surprised that the position had been effectively eliminated, but it still stung that they had made her wait so long to find out. She knew she’d been a good candidate.
The more she thought about it, the more she could see the potential good she might do with a budget and the weight of the Royal Botanical Heritage Society behind her. It didn’t exactly help that she’d checked Turning Back Thyme’s business account that morning and realized that if Highbury House had any more delays, she was going to have less money in reserve than she liked at the end of the year. And that wasn’t even taking into account the advance payment on her taxes her accountant would soon be hounding her to make.
“You don’t need a job. You have a company,” she muttered, stuffing her phone into the canvas bag on the front seat of Charlie’s American-style pickup truck and cutting the ignition. Martha Reeves and the Vandellas stopped singing about a heat wave midverse, plunging the truck into silence.
She would do what she always did. Head down. Move forward. Don’t look back.
Emma thrust open the truck door and braced herself for the cold, pounding April rain that stung her face as she ran the short distance to Highbury House’s front door. The thirty clematis that she needed for the long border and the tea gardens would be fine in the bed of the truck, but if water made it through the flap of her bag, she was screwed.
Like magic, the door swung open, and she hurtled past a very dry Sydney and Bonnie and Clyde, practically skidding to a stop on the black, white, and gray tile of the entryway. Gone were the drop cloths that had littered the space when she’d first arrived, and the scent of newly applied paint still hung in the air. Highbury was making progress, and so was she.
“I saw you drive up,” said Sydney.
“Thanks,” she said, holding her bag out as she tried to wring out her hair one-handed. The dogs danced around her, thrilled as always.
“Bonnie, Clyde, down. Where’s Charlie?” asked Sydney, peering out at the truck.
“He’s patching up his narrow boat. The roof sprung a leak,” she said.
“He lives on a narrow boat?” asked Sydney, frowning.
“He stays on it when he’s on jobs near the Grand Union Canal, otherwise he’ll take a cottage like I did.”
“Does he like it?” Sydney asked.
“When the weather’s nice.”
“It’s England…”
“And the weather’s never nice for long. I know. He bought it at the height of the summer, and all he could talk about was motoring up the canals in the sun.” Fun-loving, easygoing Charlie was brilliant at troubleshooting and logistics but wasn’t exactly a forward planner.