Lady Gwendoline was a perfectionist. Every one of her pies was flawless, every part of her life well thought out. Indeed, she couldn’t quite work out why some people found life so difficult, like her sister Audrey, always filled with anxiety, making sure not to tread on other people’s toes, always trying to be nice, for heaven’s sake. Audrey didn’t understand that that wasn’t how the world worked. One needed to be single-minded, focused.

She alone had achieved the thing they had both coveted. Hadn’t she got the highest prize: a wealthy husband? Hadn’t she been able to persuade him that Fenley Hall was the one and only house that would do for them? Their mother would be turning in her grave.

    The dizzying wealth fueled by the food-importing industry had led to an exquisite, if not especially cheerful, life. Gwendoline’s marriage had been forged by her dogged ambition. On meeting, the pair shared a passion for success. They both had strict ideas about perfection, although sometimes his ideals seemed even more exacting than hers. His business often made him bad tempered and particular about the way things were done. It was only to be expected. You have to be ruthless to be a good businessman, after all.

Looking into the audience, her eyes scanned the seats for Audrey. A sharp twist of annoyance took hold as she realized that she wasn’t there. Her only sister hadn’t even bothered to come to see her exemplary cooking showcase. Audrey had always been heralded by their mother as the better cook, the only good cook. Gwendoline, meanwhile, had been brandished a selfish schemer, hardly a family member at all. That time when she was caught with Audrey’s cakes, their mother hadn’t given Gwendoline a chance to explain that she’d only wanted to help with the icing.

Mama couldn’t bear to witness me outshining her favorite, she thought indignantly.

With that she slipped on the oven glove, opened the portable oven, and pulled out a perfectly risen pie, the crust golden and glistening.

Rich aromas of casseroled vegetables stole around the hall as she sliced the pie open and pulled out a piece onto a waiting plate: chunks of vegetables coated in a tasty sauce, contained within a crisp, light pastry.

“And, ladies and gentlemen, here we have,” Lady Gwendoline announced, pausing for effect, “Lord Woolton Pie.” Showing it around, she added, “The only ration it uses is a little cooking fat. It’s the homegrown vegetables that make this into such a terrifically economical wartime favorite.”

    A round of applause went up, housewives craning their necks to get a better view, the gentlemen’s nostrils opening to accommodate the warm, homey smells.

“Now, do we have any questions?” she said graciously.

“How do you make the pastry if you’ve run out of butter and fat? I never have any left by the end of the week.” It was one of the lower-class women, and Lady Gwendoline smiled benevolently as other women in the audience agreed: getting butter was a dreadful problem.

“There are no easy answers, I’m afraid. The key is to use it very sparingly, just a fraction of what you would normally use. Remember that your butcher might be able to give you some extra pork lard, lamb suet, or tallow from beef cuts. Lard especially makes a good pastry. There’s fat in bone marrow, too, which is off rations.”

Suddenly, a forthright female voice rang out from the end of the second row. “Tell me, what gives you the authority to speak about cooking?”

Lady Gwendoline looked over to see an attractive woman of around thirty. Her curled long hair was dyed blond, clashing somewhat with a maroon hat that Lady Gwendoline recalled despising when she saw it at the Selfridges sale last season. Slim, striking, and well made up, the woman had the shrewd, stubborn expression of someone with a point to prove.

Standing firm, Lady Gwendoline placed a condescending smile on her face.

“The Ministry of Food sent me.” You couldn’t get more authority than that. “The Ministry was set up to make sure that we all get our fair share of food. Otherwise scarcity would push prices up, and all the poor would find themselves without a bean.” She paused, pleased with her little play on words.

A muffle of polite laughter quickly seeped away.

“The Ministry of Food thinks it own us,” the blond woman called out. It was hard to tell where she came from by her accent. It was an odd combination of upper-class English with an undertone of French and traces of cockney that she’d probably been trying to iron out.

    Lady Gwendoline smiled imperiously and said, as if reading from a government leaflet, “The Ministry of Food is here to make everything even. They employ dieticians to make sure each citizen gets what he or she needs, from pregnant women to workmen, from protein to vitamins. Farm experts have worked out that the most productive way to use the land is to keep dairy cows not beef cattle, and cereals go a lot further than meat from a few cows, sheep, or pigs. Rationing keeps prices low and makes sure that everyone gets what they need.”

The blond-haired woman tried to retaliate, but Lady Gwendoline spoke over her, loudly thanking everyone for their time and attention, drawing the show to an efficient end. Two helper girls popped out from the wings to clear away the cooking materials, while a crowd trickled up to the stage to speak to her and collect Food Facts leaflets.

“Jolly good show!” a robust woman said, slapping Lady Gwendoline heartily on the back. “I say, could we have a taste of that pie?”

More congratulations enveloped her as she began handing around plates of pie to the delighted crowd, and it was only after the women began to disperse that she spotted Ambrose Hart approaching her.

“Ambrose!” she called, as if delighted to see him. She often met BBC personalities through her husband, and they were among her people to collect; who knew when they might come in useful. “How wonderful of you to come and see me doing my bit for the war.”

“Yes, a wonderful demonstration.” He seemed distracted. “You know a lot about this rationing business, don’t you?”

She preened. “I am an expert, Ambrose. You know that.”

He should by now. She had been hinting at helping behind the scenes of The Kitchen Front since the war began.

“Actually, that is precisely why I wanted to speak to you.” He glanced around, making sure they weren’t overheard. “You see, the chaps in charge at the BBC think The Kitchen Front needs a woman’s voice, a co-presenter of sorts, someone to share recipes and advice to women at home, to strike a conversation with the listeners. They think that—”

    “I’d be delighted, Ambrose,” Lady Gwendoline cut in. “I had been thinking precisely the same—”

“Well, in actual fact, they have something else in mind.”

“What?”

“They want me to hold a local contest to find the right woman.” He shrugged, clearly disliking the BBC’s implication that his own broadcasting style had been found wanting. “You know how much these ministries like their competitions. They raise morale and give the papers something good to write about instead of all the battles we’re losing.”

“What kind of contest?” Lady Gwendoline also enjoyed competitions, especially those that she was certain to win.

“A wartime cooking challenge. They want a range of women who work with food to enter: a manor house cook, a restaurant chef, a cooking demonstrator—you know the kind of thing. Would you like to join?”

Lady Gwendoline tried to stop herself from looking too eager. It was her chance for true fame as a radio presenter. After The Kitchen Front, who could tell where her career could take her? That would show everyone—especially Audrey—where the family talent really lay. “Who else are you going to ask?”

“I wanted to talk to you about that. You see, we want to invite your head cook up at Fenley Hall to join. It isn’t usual to have both master and servant enter the same competition, but under the circumstances…”

After only a moment’s consideration, Lady Gwendoline nodded. “I’m sure that Mrs. Quince would be delighted to enter.” Having a fellow competitor under her servitude was bound to be valuable—especially one as proficient as Mrs. Quince. The cheery old cook was the embodiment of good old-fashioned servant loyalty.

How useful that could be!

Ambrose was droning on. “People are getting disgruntled because there isn’t enough meat and too many potatoes. Housewives have to become more innovative.”

    “And that is precisely what I’m good at. Tell me, how do you plan to judge the contestants?”

He waved her away, heading for the door with a slightly wary look on his face. “I’m holding a meeting at my house next Tuesday evening at eight o’clock. I’ll have worked out the details by then.”

Lady Gwendoline was left standing, thinking it all through. She could see it now, her voice on the radio program catapulting her into the spotlight of society. Sir Strickland would be pleased, wouldn’t he? Think of all the extra publicity and connections he’d get. And as for her, well, the world would see that she was more than just the pampered wife of a rich man. She knew what they said, how they spoke about her marrying for money. This would prove that she had the right kind of wartime spirit, as well as being a truly skilled and dexterous cook generously sharing her knowledge with the nation.