Her future depended upon it.

He scooped her hand in his, the feeling of it soft and warm. “Whatever you decide, I will be there waiting for you. Just come, even if it is only for a short time. I will show you how I cook.”

His dark eyes bore into hers.

How could Nell resist such an invitation?

As they walked on, the farm buildings came into view. Their meeting was going too fast. There was so much more to say, to do.

But there, at the corner of the barn, he briskly looked around, and then, quick as a flash, he pulled her toward him and for one moment, his mouth hovered inches away from hers, his breath hot and sweet.

    And then, a flash of fear passed across his face, and he let her go. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I forget myself.”

There was a cool emptiness where his lips were, where they should have been.

Why did he pull away?

And before she knew what she was doing, she took a step forward, put a hand behind his neck, and pulled his mouth down toward hers. His lips were as soft as velvet, pressing hers, and then she hurriedly pulled away, scared and shy.

They stood frozen, looking at each other, measuring their emotion, their connection.

“Paolo!” A man’s voice came from the farmyard gate. “Paolo!”

They jumped apart, and she turned to see one of the POWs waving, then speaking quickly in Italian, beckoning him to hurry.

Paolo turned to her. “I must go. Come Sunday, at two,” he whispered, beginning to run toward the yard. “Meet me at the old shooting hut.”

Within moments, he had disappeared into the farmyard.

Nell was alone. A cold breeze blew the hair on her neck, reminding her that it was time to leave. She was late as it was. Mrs. Quince would be worried.

And then, as she turned and strode swiftly up through the meadow, a strange, exuberant thrill fired through her. The full ripeness of summer, the wild marigolds, daisies, and forget-me-nots opened fully and fearlessly to the splendor of nature. Insects buzzed, bees lapped up the sweet lushness, cascading from bloom to bloom. As she paused on the crest of the hill, gazing down over the farm on one side, Fenley Hall on the other, she felt a new sense of elation, tarnished by only one small detail.

What on earth was Mrs. Quince going to say?

Lady Gwendoline

Lady Gwendoline was a perfectionist. Her art teacher had decreed her sketches to be without fault. Her schoolwork was not only punctual but also double-checked and immaculately neat. Her hair, fingernails, and even her nostrils, ears, et cetera, were all spotlessly clean. It was a trait that she shared with her husband, a man who expected flawlessness from her, no matter what.

And it was this that weighed heavily upon her mind as she sat at breakfast the following morning, praying that her loss at the contest hadn’t reached her husband’s attention.

“What’s this I hear, Lady Gwendoline?” Her husband boomed from the end of the long, polished breakfast table, newspapers spread out before him. “You came in last place in the cooking competition?” He jabbed a rigid finger at the paper. “And that sister of yours won!” He looked at her accusingly. “You didn’t tell me she was in the contest.”

“I-I didn’t think—it’s only a silly contest.” She put on a little laugh, which fell flat as it echoed around the expansive room.

He’d loathed Audrey from the moment he’d met her, finding her too middle-class, too dull. But now a troubling thought needled her: Sir Strickland would never have approved of her sister, however upper-class she was. It was simply more convenient for him if her family weren’t involved in their lives.

    She felt her face redden for even thinking such a disloyal thought. Loyalty was one of the cornerstones of the marriage—or rather it was his. How clever, she thought. Loyalty conveniently stops me from telling other people about…

Well, everyone knew that marriage wasn’t easy. Every couple had moments they’d rather forget. Didn’t they?

“And look who came second?” His voice boomed aggressively around the room. “Our very own cook! What kind of imbecile competes against her own cook, the woman we pay to cook superior meals?”

“It wouldn’t be right for me to take first place in every round, darling.” She pushed her smoked salmon and poached eggs around her plate.

“But you are the very best cook, my dear, or so you inform me,” he added with a large helping of sarcasm, as if she had been exaggerating her abilities. “You can’t let others step in to take first place when it should rightfully be yours. Mrs. Quince is a first-rate cook, so it’s fair that she does well, but the others—how did you let them beat you?”

“Darling, it’s hard to say why. Zelda Dupont is an experienced restaurant chef. Ambrose adores the kind of haute cuisine that she cooks.”

He stabbed a deviled lamb’s kidney and thrust it into his mouth, a dribble of the rich tomato sauce—or was it blood?—trickling out of the corner of his bulging lips. “What I don’t understand is how your sister won. I thought you’d upped our orders from her so that she didn’t have a chance.”

“I did.” Lady Gwendoline let out a huff. “It was clever of her to use wild ingredients, but I don’t know how she threw it together in only a few hours. It must have been one of our mother’s recipes.” The inside of her stomach churned acidly as she was reminded that Audrey had their mother’s recipe book, while she was left behind, as always, trying to make everything up from scratch. Audrey had been the trusted child, her mother making out that Gwendoline had been the bad penny, a difficult child to trust. A memory of her mother shouting at her after she’d ripped one of Audrey’s coats made her shudder. She’d only borrowed it to get attention, like so many of the supposedly bad things she did. It was all so confused, so misunderstood.

    Her husband’s sarcastic voice cut crisply through her thoughts. “Perhaps you need a little extra help with the cooking. It doesn’t do for my wife not to come in first place. Have a word with Mrs. Quince. Get her to help you. Even if that means her cooking the damn thing for you.” This last part was said in the way of a threat rather than a suggestion.

Lady Gwendoline acquiesced quickly, although she wasn’t at all sure she liked the idea. First, it displayed her weaknesses to a fellow competitor, and second, it might be regarded as cheating. Mrs. Quince may be a servant, but she made Lady Gwendoline uncomfortable. The old woman seemed to look inside her, see every morsel of self-doubt, every secret. The judgment of her mother had made her wary of older women: Her mother had been dismissive, critical, and cruel. Lady Gwendoline knew that it wasn’t rational to paint every other elder with the same brush, but she couldn’t help worrying—could Mrs. Quince see the hurt inside her, too?

Yet an instruction from her husband could not be ignored, so she duly arranged a meeting with Mrs. Quince.

She had chosen her private reception room. It was less extravagant than the grand drawing room, almost calming with its ivory walls and the delicate silvery upholstery. Dotted around were various highly varnished pieces that Sir Strickland had bought at auction, lending the place the atmosphere of an upmarket antiques showroom.

With a short knock on the door, Mrs. Quince tottered into the room. She was looking elderly these days. There was a lilt to her walk, as if pained by a bad hip or knee trouble. Her gray hair was turning white, the pink of her scalp visible between the strands. Her skin had adopted a consistency of tissue paper, gently creasing as she smiled.

    Yet beneath the mask of servitude, there was a knowing gleam in her beady little eyes, and Lady Gwendoline couldn’t help wondering what the old cook thought of her. All politeness on the outside, that glint betrayed an amusement, as if she were seeing straight through her.

I’ll show her who’s boss, Lady Gwendoline thought ruthlessly.

First, she made a show of looking at her silver wristwatch, as if to suggest that the old cook was late. Then she left her standing in front of her, even though there was a chair a few feet away. The woman needed to be taught a lesson.

“You must wonder why I’ve asked you up here.”

“Yes, m’lady.” Mrs. Quince’s eyes flickered to the chair, a hint that it would be nice to take a seat.

Lady Gwendoline ignored it. “It occurred to me that you could be of use to me in the cooking contest. I am so incredibly busy, what with the Ministry of Food’s cooking demonstrations, not to mention my work as the Fenley billeting officer, that I simply don’t have time to research and try out suitable recipes. It might also be necessary for you to prepare the dish on the night. It’s terrifically important for the war effort that my recipes are well received.”

“Oh, why’s that?” Mrs. Quince said, the smile still on her face despite a barely perceptible trace of annoyance in her tone.