Slowly, she nodded, feeling a tremor run through her. No one had ever cared enough to ask before, and it suddenly struck her how incredibly lonely she had become. How much she yearned for human contact.

“You can’t let him do this to you. My father was a cruel man. He beat my mother, yet she stayed. She wasn’t strong enough to run. As soon as I was old enough, I begged her to leave. We could escape somewhere he couldn’t touch us, somewhere we could be free. You, too, need to escape.”

“I know,” she whispered. He was right! She shouldn’t have to put up with anyone who would do this to her. This handsome chef somehow understood what she was going through—what she had been going through for years. “B-but he always says he’ll stop, that he’ll make it up to me.”

“And has he?”

“Well, no, but…” She looked around. The big house, the jewelry, the prestige, it was everything she had always wanted. “My life has always been so hard, all the way from the very beginning. I wanted this to be so right.” She felt tears prick her eyes and quickly wiped them away.

I can’t let myself go like this!

But his caring, urgent gaze was bringing it out of her.

He took each of her hands in his. “I know. We’re just the same, you and I. We have to do what it takes to get to the top. Life has been one struggle after another for both of us. We’ve both had to take advantage of opportunities, using our ingenuity and charm to get ahead.”

    She thought of how she’d planned every move in her orchestrated life, all her wit and grace for Sir Strickland’s dinners, all her attempts to ingratiate herself with the haughty upper class. How Chef James had done likewise, having to get by using resourcefulness and smiles. Feeling her heart melt, she murmured, “How I’ve yearned for someone to finally understand.”

He smiled softly at her. “We’re kindred spirits, you and I.” His arms enveloped her with a sense of belonging that flooded her with something new: a feeling that this was what it was like to truly feel alive.

And yet all the time, a coarse voice inside repeated the same question.

How could you be so disloyal?

Chef James’s Whale Meat

and Mushroom Pie

Serves 6

1 pound whale meat steak Milk, if available

Salt and pepper

1 tablespoon oil

1 tablespoon flour

2 onions, chopped

2 garlic cloves, crushed and chopped 1 pound mushrooms, chopped 1 tablespoon mixed herbs (thyme, chives, rosemary) 3 cups chopped carrots and potatoes ? cup red wine or ale 2 cups beef stock

1 teaspoon paprika

1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce or brown sauce 1 teaspoon English mustard 1 bay leaf

For the potato pastry

? cup butter or meat fat 2 cups flour

2 teaspoons baking powder 2 cups mashed potatoes 1 beaten egg or dried egg equivalent, or milk, for glaze

First prepare the whale meat. If it is frozen, thaw it quickly and use it at once—slow thawing makes the taste worse and the texture pulpy. Then soak it in water overnight to help reduce the smell and fishy taste—milk is better for soaking if you have enough. Drain it well and steam cook it for 2 hours. Cut it very thinly to allow the flavors of the sauce to penetrate the meat properly and season it well with salt and pepper.

      Brown the meat in a lightly oiled pan in two batches to prevent steaming and to ensure all sides are seared. Remove and coat the pieces in flour and put them into a deep cooking pot.

Brown the onion for 5 minutes, then add the garlic, mushrooms, and herbs for a further 5 minutes. Add them to the pot with the chopped carrots and potatoes. Deglaze the pan with a little red wine or ale, then add this to the pot.

Add the stock, paprika, Worcestershire sauce, mustard, and bay leaf. Stir well, then bring to the boil. Reduce to a simmer, cover, and cook for 1? hours.

Make the potato pastry. Preheat oven to 350°F/180°C. Rub the fat into the flour and baking powder, then add the mashed potatoes. Slowly add water until it is the right consistency. Roll it out into two parts, one to line the base of the pie dish and the other to form a top for the pie. Line a lightly greased pie dish with the pastry, and spoon in the whale meat mixture. Don’t add too much sauce as this can make the pastry bottom soggy; rather reserve it to use as a gravy accompaniment. Use a little water or milk to fasten on the pastry top. Glaze it with whisked egg or a little milk. Cook for 30 minutes, or until golden brown.

Audrey

Audrey’s vegetable garden looked as spruce as usual, bathed in late-afternoon sunshine. The runner beans were reaching up their tented poles. The beetroot leaves cascaded purple-green from great bulbous roots. The rows of vibrant green spinach, lettuce, and carrots stood upright and ready for combat. The hens clucked and scraped the ground, unaware that their numbers were about to be lessened by one, on account of The Kitchen Front Cooking Contest.

On its surface, it had been an easy decision. Audrey needed meat for her main course dish; Gertrude had never actually produced an egg. All the other hens laid one every other day or so. They were too valuable to eat.

Gertrude, however, was expendable.

As she clucked around, her squiggled beak made her look ruthless and determined, as if life was something to be relentlessly pecked at until it saw sense and gave in.

“Little does she know,” Audrey mumbled, feeling the handle of the hatchet heavy in her hand, throwing a little extra grain in the hen’s direction.

She swallowed, and then clenched her teeth with determination.

“Have you killed a chicken before?” Zelda had come up behind her. It was her afternoon off, and she’d come out to collect some herbs to take to the factory kitchen for her own main dish. Her pregnant belly was now large beneath a blue shawl lent to her by Audrey.

    Audrey turned to her, trying to keep calm. “Obviously I’ve never killed a hen—we’ve only had them a year. I’ve never killed anything! But farmers’ wives around the world do it every day. It can’t be that difficult.” Then she added more quietly, “I don’t suppose you have any experience in this department?”

Zelda took a small step back, grimacing. “I’m afraid not.”

“Well, I’ll have to do it one way or another, so I may as well get on with it.” Audrey took a decisive step forward, then paused. “Do you think we should say a prayer first or something?”

“I don’t know what people usually do, but it can’t do any harm.”

Audrey gently placed the hatchet on the ground beside her and clasped her hands together. With a final look over at Gertrude, who pecked away, unaware of her doom, Audrey closed her eyes, lowering her face to the ground.

“Dear God, please accept the spirit of dear Gertrude into your heavens. She has been a great bird, even though she never laid an egg in her life.” She paused, thinking hard about Gertrude’s other attributes. “She was quite nice to the other hens, even though she was known to peck at any who got too big for their boots. Some might say she was a good leader, some might say a tyrant, but there’s no doubt about it, her life has been full and happy.”

Taking a big breath, Audrey plunged into the final part. “Please forgive me for what I am about to do. I prefer to be a person who brings life into the world, and frankly, it doesn’t come easily to kill something—especially when there’s already so much death and carnage in the world as it is.”

She broke off, suddenly unable to control her tears. Zelda came and stood beside her. “Do you really have to cook Gertrude?”

Audrey looked over at the tough old bird, her wonky beak and beady eyes. “I’m sure she wouldn’t be awfully tender.” But then her laugh turned into a little sob. “But the contest. I don’t see any other choice.” She picked up the hatchet and said gruffly. “You don’t understand, I simply have to win this contest. It’s my only chance. Do you know how impossible my life is?” Her hands fell to her sides in frustration. “And now, after my husband has been killed on the front line, I have to kill my own hen.”

    “I’m sure if you have a good think you can come up with another dish.” It was unlike Zelda to be so thoughtful, but Audrey was so absorbed with her own immediate dilemma that she was only grateful for it. “One thing is plain. You’re not a killer, Audrey. You’re one of the good people. Someone who looks after things, cares for things.”

Audrey’s hand clenched the hatchet firmly. “But I need to be stronger, tougher. It’s the only way I can get through this ruddy war.”

“But Audrey”—Zelda looked annoyed suddenly—“you shouldn’t do difficult things if you don’t have to. Being tough changes you.” She grabbed Audrey’s hand and pulled her toward the house. “Come on. Let’s think of another dish to cook tonight.”

Zelda’s fingers reached up and slowly peeled the hatchet away from her, letting it fall to the soft trodden earth with a faint thud.