Maybe she had never let go of that hope.

Maybe she had felt him to be alive, somewhere, somehow.

Maybe—this was the end of maybes.

He was dead. There was no more denying it, no more pretending it was a mistake, a dream, a wrong presumption. And now his few belongings would be making their way back to her.

“Who was that at the door?” Alexander came up behind her, and she shuffled the telegram over to him.

He unfolded it, read it. “Oh, Mum!” he uttered, putting an arm around Audrey. She was flooded with the familiar wince of regret that she relied too much on Alexander, had treated him more as a friend than a son since Matthew’s death. He had grown up too fast, gallantly trying to step into his father’s shoes to save the day.

    “What are we to do?” Audrey mumbled.

“Oh, Mum,” Alexander said again, gently. “There isn’t anything we can do. We’ll get through this together.” He hugged her, and she gratefully fell into his arms and remained there for a few minutes.

The other boys came in, and Alexander showed them the small sheet, bringing them into the circle.

“Whatever happens, Mum, you’ll always have us,” Ben said. “We’ll do the best we can to help you.”

Alexander pulled away, glancing at the mushrooms on the table. “And the first thing we need to do is win the first round of this contest.”

The telegram lay on the table.

“I don’t think I can, not after all this…” She reached for the right word. “News.”

“It’s the best thing you can do.” Alexander fetched a fresh chopping board from the cupboard under the dresser, sliding it onto the table and scooping the mushrooms onto it in readiness. “It’ll take your mind off it all. We can get ourselves ready for bed.”

Audrey took a deep breath. “Why don’t I simply tell Ambrose about the telegram. I’m sure he’ll let me off. He was Matthew’s friend, after all.”

“You can’t do that, Mum!” Alexander begged her. “If you end up winning, everyone will say it’s because of favoritism. If anything, you’re going to have to work harder than everyone else, prove you deserve this.”

“But—”

“You need to win the contest even more now, Mum. Show the world what you’re made of! I have faith in you. We all have faith in you.” The other two looked at her with big, pleading eyes. This was their future, too.

“Your food is always delicious,” Christopher said quietly, slipping his hand into hers. “All you have to do is cook one dish.”

    After a moment, Alexander peeled the other two away, and giving Audrey a final, imploring look, he took them upstairs.

She was alone at the table.

The mushrooms were right there, so succulent and fresh. She remembered how happy she’d been to find them.

That had been less than an hour ago.

She picked up a crumpled dishcloth and used it to wipe her eyes. What a mess her life was.

How she ached for Matthew to be there, just for a moment, to feel his arms around her. How she yearned for him, his soft, slender form and his smooth, large hands. Not just to hold him, but to hear his voice, to laugh with him, to feed him, to touch him, for him to reach inside her heart and warm the frightful chill that had taken hold of her.

Slowly, she began to brush each mushroom, looking at their shapes, the varied ways that they grew toward moisture, away from the light. Placing them on the board, she took her vegetable knife, so sharp it would slice the skin off your fingertip without you noticing. One by one, she sliced through each cap and then used a larger knife to rapidly chop the stalks, forming a mound of finely diced mushroom. The texture was firm but fresh and springy, the smell peaty and mature.

The onion was a sharp one. She could tell the instant that she pierced it with the pointed tip of her knife, bringing the skin off in a swift, single movement to expose the firm flesh beneath. Bright tears stung the corners of her eyes as she cut it cleanly in half, her sobs rising as she sank in her knife again and again.

Since she had no butter, she severed the fatty rind from the rasher of bacon, melting it in the pan until it browned to a crisp, a wide pool of its flavorful fat surrounding it. Then she removed the rind before carefully lining the pan with the sliced mushroom caps, scattering the chopped onions and mushroom stalks around. The scents blended together to form a rounded earthiness, like the woodland itself, a sensation that swamped the back of her nose and throat, almost strong enough to taste.

“Herbs,” she said quietly, looking toward the dresser for the tidy pile she and the boys had collected from the wood. Unpiecing it, she took out a few sprigs of cicely and pinched off the leaves with her fingernails. A fragrance similar to anise expanded around her as she coarsely chopped the leaves, pushing them to one side of the board with her knife.

    Back at her small bunch of herbs, she looked through. “Ah, meadowsweet, used in aspirin. Let’s have a bit of that, shall we? Maybe it’ll numb the pain.”

The smell seemed to permeate through her, winding fine threads of tranquility from her lungs into her fingertips and to the soles of her feet.

“One more,” she murmured, going back to her bundle of sprigs, leafing through her assortment, holding the occasional sprig to her nose. “Not quite right.” The window stood open, and her gaze fell upon the variated colors of the vegetable garden.

“I’ve got it,” she said suddenly, heading to the back door. “I have some garlic growing for Mrs. Quince.” She strode out to the edge of the vegetables, pulled up a bulb, and brought it back to the kitchen. Cutting it open and crushing a clove, she brought it to her nose. “Precisely what we need.”

The pungent smell radiated through the kitchen as she added the herbs to the softly simmering mushrooms.

“Now a drop of dry sherry to add a subtle sharpness.” She darted into the pantry, where her hand ran down the length of bottles on the top shelf, stopping and selecting a green one.

A swift glug went in, a luscious steam rising off the pan.

Next, she took a spoon of flour, stirring it briskly into the mushroom juices to thicken it.

The stock posed a quandary. Usually vegetable stock would go into her mushroom soup, but the beef one that she used for the meat pies was already made, sitting in the hay-box in the pantry. Every evening she would put it on the stove and bring it back to the boil, adding any bones and leftover meat, and then she’d replace it in the wooden box packed with hay to let it cook by itself long into the night.

“Let’s give it a try.”

The stock was glutinous and dark, an oxtail and some short ribs boiled up with onions and carrots and celery. Perfect, she thought as she ladled in just the right amount, along with a little boiled water from the kettle.

    Wafts of mushrooms blended with the robust smell of beef and the fragrant bouquet of herbs. Just one last ingredient before she would taste it.

Back in the pantry, on the big, cool marble shelf, she took the bottle of milk and checked the level. “We’ll have to drink our tea black until next week,” she said, going back to the stove and carefully pouring some in, stirring as the dark-brown bubbling mixture became swirled with white.

After bringing it back to a simmer, she took out a fresh spoon and lowered it into the pot, bringing it up to her mouth, the luscious smell powerful around her nose.

Tentatively, she tried it, letting the flavors linger in her mouth. The velvet texture of the soup dotted with chunks of delicious mushrooms, the slight curl of the tongue on the dry sherry, the fullness of the milk, and the floral undertones of the fresh herbs, they all came together to create a bold yet undeniably sumptuous combination of tastes.

“Gosh, that’s marvelous,” she whispered, leaving it on a very low heat while she dashed about trying to find a silver dome.

“I know I have one somewhere.” Pulling a chair to the dresser, she stood on it to reach the very top, pulling out a series of bowls, inside of which was a silver dome.

The tray was set. An old silver soup spoon sat beside a deep ivory bone china bowl, the dome ready to go over the top. Plunging the ladle in for the finest portion, she set it into the bowl. Then she garnished it with finely chopped cicely, giving off a touch of aniseed.

No time for changing her clothes. No time for makeup or styling her matted curls.

She had to hurry to the village hall for the contest.

Gathering up the tray, she picked up the telegram and pushed it into a pocket.

“You’ll be with me in spirit, my darling.”

And off she went.

Audrey’s Mushroom Soup

Serves 4

1 pound mushrooms, chanterelles are good 1 tablespoon butter or bacon fat 1 onion, finely chopped A few garlic cloves, minced, if available Herbs (cicely, meadowsweet, marrow leaves, if available), finely chopped A drop of sherry or wine, if available 1 tablespoon flour

1 pint stock (beef, chicken, or vegetable) ? pint milk or cream (optional)