“The ducks we can kill because we farm them, but the rest…Barlow, he don’t worry about rules. He says, ‘Sir Strickland wants this or that,’ so we get it.”

    “That’s illegal, and terrible for the stocks of wild birds,” she muttered, puzzled. “Mrs. Quince would have a thing or two to say if we got pheasant out of season.”

Paolo leaned forward. “They are given to Sir Strickland’s friends, or Barlow sells them on the black market.” He gestured toward the birds on the wall. “I catch these myself. I have to use traps as we are not allowed guns,” Paolo said. “But I am used to trapping. It is our way of life.”

He took down a brace of ducks, bringing them over and folding them into her basket. “Your ducks, madam.” He grinned.

“Thank you.” She felt blood rush to her face again with the closeness of him in the small space, and a shot of fear went through her.

But he opened the door for her. “We should go back.”

She passed through, watching him make a small bow. “You have very good manners.”

“You need them to work at our restaurant.” He led her back out of the wood, down to the path.

“How did you become a prisoner?”

“Mussolini, he made us go to fight the British in Egypt. But we don’t have enough men or tanks, and there are not enough of us to cover so much land. One day we are cut off from the others and suddenly we are surrounded by the British. We surrendered, and they took us here.” He looked around at the scenery. “We are lucky to be here. The work is not hard, and there is always food—what we can’t get we can catch or fish. I never break even a small rule because I know many places are not as good as this. Barlow, he is nice. He knows we don’t want trouble, that we want to do our work and stay here. We are given some freedom. And the food is much better here than on the front.” He laughed softly, taking her hand and swinging it gently as they walked. “But you have to taste Italian food. You will love it. I know.” He took a deep breath, as if smelling it cooking right there in front of him. “But I talk too much. What happened to your contest? How was my hare?”

    She grinned. “We came in second—nine points out of ten. Your hare was delicious, such a depth of flavor.”

“But it is not my hare that won. It is your excellent cooking. How did you cook it?”

The story began slowly, but as she went on, Paolo began to ask questions, and before she knew it, she was giving him a blow-by-blow account of the entire event, ending with an ecstatic rendition of Ambrose Hart’s final results.

“Who could believe that I—a kitchen maid—could come in second place in a cooking competition?”

“I believe it.” He stepped toward her and took her hands between his fingers, pressing them for emphasis. “Will you be on the radio now?”

“Not yet. We have two more rounds to go.” Her smile fell as uncertainty once again reared its head. “In any case, my radio voice isn’t very good. I had to speak into the microphone, and I felt as if I might faint with fear. I-I get so scared I can’t help stumbling over my words.”

He raised her chin so that he could look into her eyes. “You need to have faith in yourself. Think of all the useful things you know about cooking—how everyone can learn from you.” He pressed her fingers. “Promise me you will try to speak out. No one minds if you stumble a little.”

“If you put it like that”—she laughed gently—“I’ll promise to try.”

He grinned. “Now when is the next round?”

“The main course is less than four weeks away.”

“I will help you,” he said with aplomb. “I have a dish that will win you this contest. You have to trust me.” His eyes danced with a sudden intensity. “My grandmother, she is the master of Italian food. She has taught me how to cook the most delicious dish in all the world.”

“What is it?”

A warm smile touched his lips. “Chicken cacciatore—have you had it?”

    “No. We don’t get much Italian food here.”

“It is a chicken casserole made with tomatoes, onions, capsicums, and red wine.” He kissed his fingertips with enthusiasm. “It is heavenly.” He grinned. “My grandmother, she sometimes adds mushrooms, too—she knows the hills where we live like the back of her hand, always finding new herbs and plants to try. I miss her very much.”

“She sounds lovely. What is she like?”

“Always busy! She is quite old now, but all day and evening she is in the kitchen, cooking and taking care of her grandchildren. She likes to boss us all around. I think we are all a bit scared.” He laughed at the memory. “There is a red shawl she always wears because she says she is cold, but one time she told me it is because my grandfather gave it to her before he died. She said it is like having him with her, sheltering her from the wind and the rain, anything bad that might come her way.”

“She must be lonely without him.”

“Sometimes she says that she hears him, if she listens hard enough, that he is there, everywhere she looks, in the hills where they walked, in the fruit of the trees that he planted, and in the olives from the soil that he dug.”

“It’s a beautiful idea, that someone is still there.”

“It’s true. Sometimes I feel him, too. You need to take whatever memories you can.” They had come to the edge of the wood, and he looked over toward the hill, but then he shook himself back to the present. “But we need to plan your cacciatore. Do you have fresh oregano?”

“We don’t have oregano in Britain. There isn’t enough sunshine.”

“But there is something like it, no? A plant that smells the same. Do you know it?”

Before she had time to think, he grabbed her hand and drew her off down the path skirting the wood. “I will show you. There is some over here, beside the wall. We need to hurry though, before someone sees us.”

    Beside a field was a broken-down wall. “It must have been a kitchen garden, as there are a lot of herbs growing wild.” He crouched down next to a clump of mixed shrubs.

“Here.” His hand gestured to a low bush, where dense, round clusters of pinky-mauve flowers sprang joyfully up toward the sun. “I want you to smell, to taste.”

A breath of a laugh escaped her, and she took a deep smell from one of the flowers. It had a familiar floral scent.

“Now, the leaf. Try the leaf,” Paolo urged.

Picking off a little sprig of leaves, she rubbed them between her fingers then held them to her nose. An unmistakable florid pungency leaped off them like a spritely elf.

“It’s marjoram,” she whispered. “Glorious, isn’t it? We get it from a woman in the village, Audrey. She grows anything you could ever want in her garden. Mrs. Quince puts marjoram in soups and stocks—so many things.”

“Mrs. Quince, you speak about her a lot. You are fond of her, yes?”

“Very much. She’s truly the kindest person in the whole world. When I arrived at the hall, she took me under her wing, taught me all her cooking secrets. She made me feel special and wanted.” She stopped, realizing that she had almost come to take her for granted. “She’s the closest thing I have to a mother.”

“I would like to meet her. Anyone who is good to you is a friend of mine.” He picked some marjoram leaves to try. “Mar-jo-ram?” Paolo repeated, rolling the word around his mouth. “Is it not like oregano? Taste it. Go on.”

She took a fresh leaf and popped it into her mouth. Immediately the pungent flavors sprung to life inside her mouth, an earthy, floral explosion of tastes. “No, it’s definitely marjoram.” She handed him another leaf to try. “I’ve never tasted oregano. Is it like this?”

After ponderously tasting the leaf, he replied, “It is like they are the same, except your mar-jo-ram has more flowers in the taste. Oregano is stronger, more powerful, for proper Italian cooking. I will cook a magnificent chicken cacciatore for you. And then I will teach you the recipe.”

    She laughed. “That would be wonderful, but I can’t see how. Remember that you’re supposed to be a prisoner here.”

Suddenly, he stood up, his eyes wide open with an idea. “I will find a way to meet you. We prisoners have Sunday afternoon off work, can you come to join me?”

“I-I suppose so.” Nell thought of how busy she was, whether Mrs. Quince would let her go. “But how can you get away?”

They began walking back to the farmyard. “There are two old men who look after us—the ‘Home Guard’ they call them. They don’t worry where we are, as long as we don’t leave the farm. I could meet you in the wood, beside the old shooting hut. Do you think you can find it again?”

A giddy exhilaration sped through her. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’ll try my best. But I’m very busy. I don’t know if I’ll be able to come.”

He pressed her fingers. “Everybody needs time off, and you deserve it.”

Gazing into his bright, optimistic eyes, she rallied. “Yes,” she agreed. “I suppose I do deserve it, don’t I?” Her heart pounded fast with her own daring.

What am I saying?

But what harm could happen to her on a Sunday afternoon? And what pleasure—what fun it could be! And what about the contest? What better way to find a good dish for the next round?