Nell put a hand on her arm. “Did it change things between you and him?”

Mrs. Quince made a sorry little laugh, snapping back to reality. “After that, our meetings were more intense. He kept hinting for me to come to the herb garden with him, to see the selection and quality of produce. But before I could, he was moved to a different part of the estate. I barely saw him again, yet every time I did, it was there inside me, the shimmering blanket, the love.” She smiled. “I can even feel it now, thinking about it.”

“Don’t you ever wish you’d run away with him? Got married?”

“We had nothing,” she said simply. “We both knew that. It would have been difficult to find work outside a big manor house, where we had our room and board covered in our wages. In those days it was rare to leave—no one did it unless they were forced out, and quite often they ended up in poverty, homeless. I remember a maid who left for a young footman, and she was always coming back, begging for her job again. Neither of them could find work, and the young footman had to move back into a manor house where she couldn’t see him. She was stuck, scraping by on charity and bits of food we could sneak out for her. No, I knew enough about the world outside to stay put.”

    “But you lost the man you loved!”

Mrs. Quince picked up her recipe book, drawing the conversation to a close. “We didn’t think of love in those days. Even the lords and ladies upstairs had marriages arranged for them. Love was something you got if you were lucky.” She shrugged. “But whatever we did or didn’t have, we always had our fellow servants below stairs. We were like a family, and most of us rubbed along very well. The head cook, Mrs. Newton, she was like a mother to us all, kind and funny—always cheery and bucking up our spirits if we’d had a bad day.” A tear crept to the corner of her eye, and she wiped it hastily away.

“She sounds just like you,” Nell said, nudging her playfully.

Mrs. Quince blushed with pleasure. “Well, I try to do my best. Now then, my dear. What are we cooking for this dinner party tonight?”

“We decided on medallions of fillet steak with béarnaise sauce. Let me get the list.” Nell dashed to get the weekly menu plan from the dresser. “The beef was delivered yesterday, and we ordered extra eggs from the farm for the béarnaise.”

“It’s lucky we can get all this extra produce.”

“Don’t you think it’s rather unfair?” Nell slid back onto the stool beside her. “I mean, this contest has made me realize how hard it is on other people, having to cut back on everything.”

“If you ask me, Sir Strickland and Mr. Barlow are fiddling the books, producing more than they’re letting on.”

Nell leaned forward. “Paolo mentioned something like that. But how can they get away with it?”

    “The ministry officers are supposed to keep tabs on the farms to make sure they’re reporting everything that they produce. But Sir Strickland has appointed himself as the regional officer, which means he can ensure we don’t get checked properly. The produce that Barlow reports is taken as gospel, no questions asked. I’ll bet the farm’s actually producing a lot more than it’s letting on.”

Mrs. Quince carefully got up from the rocking chair and very slowly went over to the dresser, stopping on the way to lean on the table and take a few breaths.

“Are you all right?” Nell asked. The old woman was looking so pale these days, ill almost.

“I’ll be fine, dear. Just need to take my time.”

She shuffled to the dresser and pulled out the list of ingredients they had requested from the farm. “They must be in cahoots with a butcher, a cheesemonger, and probably various black marketeers in order to get all these ingredients.”

“I wondered where they were getting all the cheese from as it’s—”

Suddenly, the old woman let out a faint cry. She put her hand to her brow, closing her eyes.

“Are you all right?” Nell rushed across the room to her.

“Oh, it’s just a bit hot in here. I don’t feel well at all…”

Nell helped her back toward her chair, feeling the old lady wobble on her feet.

“Mrs. Quince?”

But it was too late. Nell tried desperately to hold her up as the old cook collapsed onto the stone floor, lying motionlessly in a crumpled heap.

“Mrs. Quince! Wake up!” Frantically, Nell tried to pull her up.

Why isn’t she coming around?

“Help! Is there anyone there?” Nell found herself shouting louder and louder.

“Help!”

A noise came from the stairs, footsteps coming down, and then a cross face appeared at the door.

    “What is it?” It was Brackett, the butler.

“She just collapsed.” Nell let out a small sob. “I’m not even sure she’s still alive.”

Brackett knelt down beside her, his fingertips feeling for a pulse, his ear going to her mouth, her heart. “Yes, but we must get help.” Without another word, he went back up the stairs, leaving the girl alone.

“Mrs. Quince,” she began to cry. “Wake up! Come on, wake up!”

Within minutes, Brackett was back, putting a small bottle of smelling salts under Mrs. Quince’s nose. “I telephoned Middleton Hospital for an ambulance. They’ll come as soon as they can.”

It seemed like eternity as they waited for the ambulance, but finally the clang of the doorbell echoed from upstairs.

Two ambulance women efficiently moved Mrs. Quince onto a stretcher and then carried her out through the servant’s side door and up to the ambulance.

They couldn’t tell Nell what had happened.

“There are a lot of reasons why people faint,” one of them said. “The doctors will be able to work out more once she’s in hospital.”

“We’ll take good care of her,” the other one said with a reassuring smile. “Hopefully she’ll regain consciousness soon.”

As Nell stood in the drive, watching the ambulance disappear into the lane, she felt a chill of helplessness. The air, so fraught and busy just a moment ago, was suddenly still, almost airless. The sky was packed with gray clouds, like a blanket stifling her. Was Mrs. Quince going to be all right? How was she to get on without her teacher—her friend? There were so many meals, so many dinner parties. There was the contest—who would stand on the stage with her?

Who was going to stand alongside her every other day?

With a shiver, she felt suddenly and utterly alone.

Lady Gwendoline

No problem is so big that you can’t throw a large quantity of money at it. At least, that was Lady Gwendoline’s vision of the world. After telephoning a few of her acquaintances in London to inquire about a chef, one was found and contacted. She liked the way the wealthy and well-to-do were disposed to passing along useful people. It suited both her notions of self-importance plus the need for pawns on her chessboard of life.

Although this pawn turned out to be more of a knight in shining armor.

Sir Strickland, upon hearing that Mrs. Quince had refused to help Lady Gwendoline, blamed his wife. “I know you have difficulties with the easiest of things, darling. Let me go through this in simple terms for your simple brain: The point of paying staff is that we tell them what to do, not the other way around.”

Lady Gwendoline put on her pacifying smile. She’d learned to ignore the barbed remarks. It was easier that way. “She’s gone into hospital now, darling, so she wouldn’t have been able to help anyway. In any case, I had another, far better idea. I telephoned Lady Morton and explained that we needed a top London chef for a special function or two, and would you believe it! She gave me the name of a man who helps her out with her grand banquets. His experience is perfect: head chef at one of the top London seafood restaurants, no less.”

    Sir Strickland thought it over. “Is he expensive?”

“Well, naturally, his price is high, but money means quality, don’t you always say?” She gave a hopeful smile.

He pondered, then got up, bored with the conversation, and strode toward the door. “That’s fine, darling. Just make sure you ruddy well win this time.” His eyes lingered on her, a sudden coldness in them. “And there’s an important dinner party tonight. I want you there, on best behavior. None of your ridiculous small talk.”

“Yes, darling,” she said, again the appeasing smile.

Without another word, he strode out, leaving the door open behind him, either because he felt she neither needed nor deserved privacy or simply because closing doors was something a servant should do.

She slowly went upstairs to her bedroom. She’d got what she wanted without a fight, and yet she felt degraded somehow, as if the personal cost of the victory—the remonstrations—had been too great.

They had started within days of their wedding, the put-downs and dismissals. It had been one of the most extravagant events of the year, naturally, after which they’d had a very short honeymoon due to Sir Strickland’s business. When she moved into her new home at Fenley Hall, he had shown her to her very own bedroom.