Lady Gwendoline, deciding that she’d rather not be a party to this, peeled away and then, to Audrey’s dismay, made her way across the room to her and Nell.

“I’m surprised to see you here, Audrey.” The sarcasm was thinly veiled. “Do you have time for a cooking competition?” Lady Gwendoline slowly looked down at some dirt at the hem of her slacks. “Oh, my goodness, don’t you have running water anymore?”

Audrey let out a laugh at the sheer audacity of the comment. “I wear this to scare the crows away from my berries. I’m clean underneath, I assure you!”

A wrinkle creased Lady Gwendoline’s long nose. “I’m surprised that Ambrose concluded you have enough professional experience to enter.”

“I’ve been selling my pies and cakes for over two years. I have every right to be in the competition.”

“But it would be such a shame if you had to pull out, should life become a little busier.”

“What do you mean?” Audrey was starting to feel as if the ground beneath her were pulling away. She had known Lady Gwendoline all her life. She knew what she was capable of if she put her mind to it.

    “Wouldn’t it be difficult if your lender demanded that you settle up?” Lady Gwendoline let out a little bray of a laugh as Audrey’s face fell.

Could Gwendoline—her own sister—call in the loan to force her out of the contest?

She knew it had been a mistake to borrow money from her sister, but this?

They were interrupted by the approach of Zelda, her smile not reaching her eyes.

“Zelda Dupont, pleased to meet my fellow competitors.” She put a hand out to Lady Gwendoline, who looked incredibly frumpy beside her.

“I haven’t seen you around the village,” Lady Gwendoline said crossly.

Zelda’s eyes glinted. “I moved here last month. The hotel where I worked was bombed, so I’ve been conscripted here as head chef in the pie factory. Doing my bit for the war.”

Lady Gwendoline sneered. “Did you know that my husband owns the factory?” It was a rhetorical question: Everyone knew that Sir Strickland ran the factory.

But Zelda ignored the question, making a small sniff and saying, “Fenley is frightfully out in the sticks, isn’t it?”

Lady Gwendoline, now determined to put her in her place, declared, “We have some of the finest cooks in the country here. I happen to be one of the foremost home economists for the Ministry of Food. My cooking demonstrations have inspired women all around the county.” Her mouth contorted into a haughty pout.

“Housewives need plenty of basic dishes, don’t they?” Zelda said, and with a final smug smile, she turned her attention back to Ambrose.

As Lady Gwendoline looked set to resume her inquisition, Audrey went to rescue Mrs. Quince, stranded as she was in the center of the room. But as she had a quiet chat about the old lady’s health, she managed to overhear Lady Gwendoline approach Nell.

    “I’m so pleased that you and Mrs. Quince are joining the competition. I’m very hopeful that you will be in the top two, with me—wouldn’t that be terrific news for Fenley Hall?”

“Yes, m’lady.”

“You see, if the contest is between us, we can decide among ourselves who should win, can’t we?” She paused, and there was a smile on her face that reminded Audrey of a wolf on the verge of eating a grandmother. “And with my Ministry of Food job so crucial to the war effort, so central to our victory over the enemy…whereas your work is, well, less important really, isn’t it?”

“What you’re saying is that we would have to let you win?” Nell mumbled.

“You don’t have to, of course. I’ll probably win anyway.” Gwendoline chuckled as if the whole thing were a foregone conclusion. “But, as an estate employee, it would certainly be seen as loyal.”

Nell nodded. “It would be a privilege to assist in any way n-necessary,” she said in a taut little voice, laying special emphasis on the word “privilege,” as if it were utterly ludicrous.

Lady Gwendoline, not entirely sure of this response, gave her a fixed smile, and said, “I’m so glad that we understand each other,” and stalked off to find another victim.

When Audrey returned to Nell, she muttered, “How dare she?”

“She can do whatever she likes, I suppose,” Nell mumbled. “Sir Strickland always rewards us well for these little favors.”

“But a reward isn’t good enough! You should have a fair chance of winning.”

“It’s not as if we have much of a chance anyway. We’re far too busy. At least, Sir Strickland’s reward will be something.”

Audrey stamped a foot crossly, feeling anger welling up for the poor girl. “Why does everything have to revolve around them?”

“Th-that’s the game, you see.” Nell gave her a weak smile. “You get security, good food on your plate, and a small room in a beautiful house.”

Audrey went to finish her thought. “And in return—”

“You give them your soul.”

Zelda

Zelda Dupont was not the type of person to leave things to chance. She had been aiming to be the last to leave Ambrose’s house. Any plan worth its salt would include a campaign of befriending the judge—who could tell what might be needed in the later stages of the competition? She had been hoping to flirt with him, a tactic she used often and well, but since he was obviously not a ladies’ man, that idea was jettisoned.

“What a wonderful opportunity you’re bringing to us chefs, Ambrose.”

Ambrose fumbled with his notes. “Yes, I’m glad it’s something the community is supporting.”

She laughed, pretending it was all a bit of a lark. “My job at the factory is a marvelous little role—good to do my bit for the war. Of course, it’s not at all like my previous work at the Dartington Hotel.” She applied emphasis to the last part of this statement. “Perhaps we should meet, and I could give you some proper haute cuisine tips from a top restaurant chef.”

As if from nowhere, Lady Gwendoline was suddenly beside them, looking accusingly at Zelda. “Ambrose is beyond bribing, you know!” she snapped. Then she turned to smile up at him. “A man of his caliber is fair, evenhanded, and honest. Isn’t that right, Ambrose?”

    “Quite so!” His smile had adopted a frightened wobble.

Noting it, Zelda decided it was time to politely take her leave, exiting with a dignified swirl of her dress. Once outside the front door, she cautiously looked over her shoulder to make sure no one saw her walking briskly to the bus stop. A woman of her caliber should never stoop to taking a bus.

Rain was coming down by the time she stepped off the bus in Middleton. It was an ugly town, gray and dismal with struggling businesses and small factories. The acrid smell of gunpowder seeped out of the new munitions factory, smoke hanging in the air. There would be fog in the morning again.

She passed the concrete pillbox, built to guard the town in case of invasion and painted like it was a petrol station, then took out her key to the little rowhouse on the main street. How she loathed it there. When she’d pressed the Middleton billeting officer again, emphasizing her special need due to her pregnancy, the woman had looked bemused—there was nothing about Zelda that indicated that she was, indeed, pregnant. At five months, her bump was still small and easily concealed beneath the loose corset, especially with flowing clothes or her kitchen apron. But after relentless urging, the officer had written to the Fenley billeting officer.

“Hopefully she can find somewhere close to the pie factory,” she’d said, desperate to get Zelda off her back. “I’ll get in touch as soon as I have an address for you.”

That had been last week, and there was still no news.

Bottling up her frustration, Zelda crept quietly up the stairs. But it was no good. The vile woman who owned the house was already upon her.

“Oh, you’re still here, then,” she yelled. “You and that unborn bastard inside you!”

“I explained that my pregnancy was my own matter, not yours.” Zelda snapped pointedly, her guttural cockney coming out. “Your thoughts on the subject are not my business, and vice versa.”

“But while you’re under my roof, you little trollop—”

“Call me what you will, but I’ll always make a better coq au vin than you.” With that, she briskly trotted up the stairs to her room, leaving the bitter old nag downstairs letting loose with a stream of names.

    Inside her room, Zelda leaned against the door with a groan. She looked around the desolate space, small and square with a lumpy, cold bed down one wall, a boxy dressing table down another. At the foot of the bed, a great old wardrobe stank as if something had died inside it. Before she switched on the light, she closed the blackout screen—in this case, a sheet the woman had painted black hooked over a few nails.

“Back in the lap of luxury,” she muttered as she switched on the light, the dusty drabness of her surroundings filling her with a sense of despair.