Lady Gwendoline frowned. The old woman appeared not to be playing the role intended for her.

“Well, it’s because of my position in the Ministry of Food,” she said loftily. “Not to mention my leadership role in the village—in the county, too.” Lady Gwendoline swept her hands together in a concluding gesture. “I know that you would want to put your expertise to the best possible use toward the reputation of Fenley Hall.”

Mrs. Quince retained her calm smile for a moment, nodding in comprehension, thinking about what to say. “It would be an honor, m’lady, to help you. I only regret that due to my age and health problems, I will be unable to do so.”

    “I beg your pardon?” Having expected a full-hearted agreement, Lady Gwendoline was put out. “You must be misunderstanding me! I need a cook, and you, surely, are paid by this establishment to fulfill that role.”

Again, the old woman stood for a moment, that calm smile on her face, and then she replied, “I haven’t yet had the need to mention my poor health to you. Nell does all the physical work in the kitchen, and I direct her from my chair. She’s such a talented cook, but I can’t possibly supervise her to cook all of the hall’s meals, Nell’s entries for the contest, and then add your cooking to my day as well. There simply isn’t time, and I know you wouldn’t want the quality of Sir Strickland’s meals to suffer.”

“What ails you, precisely?” Lady Gwendoline asked.

“It’s just old age, m’lady. I haven’t the energy I used to have. Sometimes I have pains in my hips, my back, and I have to sit down. All the cooking fumes make me cough. Me and Nell, we get on with the cooking very well together. But I can’t help you with the contest. It’s too much.”

“In that case, both of you will help me.” Lady Gwendoline clasped her hands together in conclusion.

Again, the long pause. “Nell’s your competitor, m’lady.”

“And?”

“Well, you can’t ask her to help you. It wouldn’t be fair.”

Lady Gwendoline sat up a little straighter. “I am her employer, Mrs. Quince. It is completely fair.”

“She won’t put the heart into your dish that she puts into her own.”

“Then perhaps we should swap dishes.” Lady Gwendoline’s smile grew wide with the notion. “That would ensure that I get the very best dish.”

The smile fell from Mrs. Quince’s face. “That would be cheating.”

Her beady little gray eyes fixed on Lady Gwendoline’s with a force greater than she had thought the old woman capable. There was a marked lack of respect in her tone, the absence of the “m’lady” at the end.

    Lady Gwendoline turned and picked up her notebook, as if to take down details of a wayward member of staff. “Perhaps I will let Sir Strickland know about your poor health. I can’t imagine he’ll want to keep you after he knows that.” It was a threat: Either Mrs. Quince had to help her, or she would have the old cook sacked.

Mrs. Quince’s glare was even, patient. “I believe he might have trouble in finding a replacement cook. They’re difficult to come by, with so many jobs in factories and so forth.”

“But surely, you don’t want to leave Fenley Hall…” She didn’t want to spell it out.

The silvered chime of the carriage clock echoed between them.

“As it happens,” Mrs. Quince said calmly, “I have been offered a job at Rathdown Palace. I didn’t want to take it—the move would be hard on me—but the wages are good, and Lady Morton would make a very fine employer. If needs must, I will accept the position.”

That knocked Lady Gwendoline back a little. Rathdown Palace was a grand, opulent establishment, one that she had her eye on for herself one day. How embarrassing for her, should Mrs. Quince accept a position there, having been dismissed from Fenley Hall!

And there was Sir Strickland to consider, too. He would be incensed if she was responsible for handing their precious Mrs. Quince over to a rival great house—he was determined that Fenley Hall be the best in all respects.

Think as she might, she couldn’t come up with any other means of coercing the cook, who remained standing, now an openly impatient look on her face.

How mortifying that her own cook was now able to get the better of her.

Suddenly breaking the fraught air, Mrs. Quince made a conciliatory suggestion. “I’m sure a lady like yourself has plenty of friends in high-up places. Why don’t you ask if one of them has a cook or a chef who can help you?”

    This immediately struck Lady Gwendoline as rather a good idea. Her eyes narrowed as she imagined herself telephoning Lady Morton herself, making a little small talk, letting her know that she was on the lookout for a top chef for special Ministry of Food work. “Hmm, well, perhaps that might be the best answer.”

“Can I go then, m’lady?” Mrs. Quince was sagging in her shoes. “I need to get back to the kitchen.”

Lady Gwendoline’s eyes fixed on the old woman. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Quince,” she said with the formal smile of an upstanding employer. “And don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about your health matters, provided you don’t mention today’s meeting to anyone, including the kitchen maid.”

Mrs. Quince gave a little bob. “Right you are, m’lady,” she said and limped back across the long room to the door.

Lady Gwendoline watched her leave, smarting briefly at the woman’s impudence, before reaching for her notebook. “Now where did I put Lady Morton’s telephone number?”

She would find herself a chef who would win this contest for her once and for all.

Audrey

Audrey was with the hens, collecting eggs, when the package arrived. She had picked the last of the roses from the remaining bushes, and they lay, pink and red, on the ground beside her, as if marking the end of an era. As the hens pecked around her, Audrey mopped her brow.

“Why aren’t there as many eggs as usual?” she muttered. Had something happened to disturb them? They say that hens are deeply affected by unhappiness, by stress. It struck her that maybe her own emotions were upsetting them. Had they realized the precariousness of the Landon family’s finances, knowing that perhaps they’d all be evicted, hens, pig, and bees included, within a month should Audrey’s pie and cake sales slide?

“Oh, why are you holding back your eggs this week, hens? When I need them more than ever.”

Squiggle-beaked Gertrude was pecking furiously at the ground beside her. “Not that you ever lay any eggs, Gertrude.” She let out a sigh. “Could you try a little harder, squeeze one out to help with the cakes for the café in Middleton?”

She began cleaning their coop, relocating Cyril the hedgehog, who she found in their wooden hut, and spreading out new straw. The boys were out, the younger two with neighborhood friends and Alexander helping in the village shop for some extra pennies. She was enjoying the peace and quiet. The next round of the contest was just around the corner. Her mind was busy thinking through different main courses.

    What dish would display her knowledge, her skills, her feeling for food?

The lad from the post office was already at the gate by the side of the house, letting himself in. He was wearing the same too-short trousers and a shirt that looked as if it hadn’t been washed in a while. Audrey knew that her own boys’ clothes were the same. Clothes rationing had made it almost impossible to get hold of even secondhand clothes. Fuel and soap rations meant that clothes went unwashed for as long as possible. It was a relief for Audrey as well as plenty of other mothers that folks had stopped wagging fingers at one another or whispering behind their hands. Dirt was an acceptable part of life.

“Got a parcel for you, Mrs. Landon,” he called, making his way up the path between the vegetables.

Audrey wiped her hands on her trousers and opened the mesh wire door of the coop as he passed it over to her and ambled back to the gate.

A stamp on the box informed her that it was from the Royal Air Force.

Her hands began to shake.

“It’ll be the things found on Matthew’s body,” she murmured, backing into the chicken coop and sitting haphazardly on the grubby floor. She didn’t care.

Suddenly nothing seemed to matter.

Her fingers trembled as she untied it, unwrapped it, and opened it.

The first thing she saw was his wallet, the old black leather pouch so familiar, yet almost from a different era now. It looked older, a touch of mildew on the side as if it had spent a while out in the cold.