“I love that hen,” Audrey sobbed. “I love all of them.” And she sped forward to pick Gertrude up, collecting her in her arms, holding her so tight she might burst.

Gertrude, as if understanding her deliverance, seemed to snuggle into her, relaxing into her grasp and laying her small head against Audrey’s shoulder. Beneath the stringy feathers, Audrey could feel the hen’s heart beating away, the energy of life flowing through the little thing for all its might.

Tears slid down her face. “How could I even consider it, you dear, dear, thoroughly annoying hen?”

It took a good amount of hen cuddling before Audrey felt able to put Gertrude down and follow Zelda into the kitchen. She needed to remember who she was, reacquaint herself with the woman she had been before this dreadful war—a dynamic, spontaneous, and creative person who loved to cook.

Not a chaotic murderer.

    The kettle on, the pair of women sat at the kitchen table.

“Now, let’s see what you can make for your main course,” Zelda said, pulling Audrey’s notebook and pen over from the dresser.

“You can’t help me! You’re my competitor!” Audrey whisked the notebook away from her.

“I’ve already made my dish, if you must know. So you have nothing to lose.” Zelda pushed the pen across the table to her. “And I’d rather you win than the others. At least you’d stop working yourself into the ground.”

Audrey eyed her, then opened the notebook and made a few notes. “I have a lot of vegetables, but that’s about all.”

“What about mock chicken? Replace Gertrude with vegetables? Mock recipes are all the rage. You could use beans to bulk it out, add more protein.”

“That might be a good idea,” Audrey said cautiously. “My runner beans are doing ever so well. We could mold them into a roast chicken shape with mashed potatoes and other vegetables. Add some herbs and a little nutmeg to make it spicy and warming.”

“The Ministry of Food will love that!”

“Yes, and we may have some eggs left as well—perhaps the hens have gratefully laid a few extra to make sure we don’t change our minds about poor Gertrude.” She laughed a little, suddenly feeling lighter. Her hand reached over to Zelda’s. “Thank you for stopping me. Sometimes you need a friend to remind you who you are.”

Zelda squeezed her hand. “A friend.” She smiled. “I’ve never had one of those before.”

Nell

The golden afternoon sunshine threaded its way between the tree branches, speckling the clearing in front of the old hut with a mosaic of moving light, a dance in the wind.

A fire flickered exactly where it had been before, during her afternoon with Paolo.

But now she sat alone, trying to re-create that spectacular dish for Round Two, tonight.

After Nell had cleaned up after lunch in the hall, Lady Gwendoline had banished her from the kitchen so that she could use the room and equipment to make her own entry.

“She never even asked me where I was going to do my cooking,” Nell mumbled into the flames. “I don’t think it even crossed her mind.”

It had, however, given Nell a few hours of freedom: enough time to run to the farm to find out what had happened to Paolo after he was caught with her. She had crept into the farmyard, hearing the Italian voices of the other POWs.

Quickly, she hid behind a corner, peering around to see who it was, praying that Barlow wasn’t there. She didn’t fancy coming face-to-face with him. He hadn’t recognized her in the old shooting hut with Paolo, and she didn’t wish to jolt his memory now.

    Relief flooded through her as she saw a small group of Italian POWs talking and smoking.

Eagerly looking around them for Paolo, she felt the blood drain out of her face. She looked again, harder.

Where is he?

She waited for them to move closer to her, and then she stepped out.

One of his friends recognized her and stepped forward, his hands spread open to display an emptiness, futility.

“Two guards came,” he said in broken English. “They take him away.”

She let out a gasp. “Where?”

“A big farm near Canterbury. They have German POWs there. He says he will pretend not to speak English or German. Maybe they will send him back here if he can’t understand.”

The harsh shouts of Barlow came from inside the barn.

“I have to go,” Nell whispered, escaping out of the farmyard with a hasty goodbye.

Crushed, she ran as fast as she could go, down into the wood, tears streaming from her eyes. Carefully, she lit a fire beside the hut and found the pot and utensils she’d already washed and prepared.

“I’ll cook this for you, Paolo,” she murmured into the young flame. “I’ll win it for both of us.”

Her basket contained all the ingredients she needed for her main course, and one by one she brought them out. Focused like she had never been before, she began, painstakingly, to cook Paolo’s meal—their meal.

The one ingredient she couldn’t get was chicken, so she’d decided to use rabbit. With the war, some of the locals had begun breeding rabbits for the extra meat, and it only took a few inquiries at the shop and a little of the housekeeping money before she had a large one. The taste and texture were similar to chicken. It would take on the flavors perfectly.

Reliving every moment of those magical hours with Paolo, she placed the pot above the fire, searing the rabbit portions and bacon, frying the onions, crushing in the plump tomatoes. Then, she made a few changes, to make it more of a wartime dish, using less meat and more hearty vegetables, some broad beans and garlic courtesy of Audrey, roughly chopped wild mushrooms from the wood, and a fresh bulb of fennel, seared and tasty.

    Finally, she put her own mark on the dish, using her own dense stock that she’d made at the hall and a flourish of fresh herbs: thyme, marjoram, a bay leaf, and the tiniest pinch of tarragon to set off the heartiness.

Yet all the while, she thought of him.

Already the warming smell of cooked rabbit and bacon wafted liberally through the trees, bringing on a fresh bout of memories, which only served to emphasize her sense of loneliness.

With Mrs. Quince in hospital and now Paolo sent away, her life felt empty.

But it wasn’t like it had been before she met him. It was far, far worse. Now she knew what it was like to be courted, to hold someone, to feel his skin beneath her hands, the warm headiness when her lips met his.

Kneeling in front of the big pot, a tear dazzled briefly in the golden late-afternoon sun, dripping silver-clear into her Italian cacciatore. Slowly, sadly, she sang. “Are you going to Scarborough Fair…” Her voice echoing through the stillness, a lonely chant through the abyss.

When the cacciatore was cooked, she cleared the cooking utensils, stamped out the fire, and left the old hut, taking the pot with her. Back at the hall, she brought it down into the kitchen to finalize her preparations for the contest.

Had she forgotten that Lady Gwendoline was there? Or had she expected her to be finished, back upstairs getting ready for the contest?

Blundering into the room, she stopped abruptly.

There, in front of the pantry door, silhouetted by the light behind, was Lady Gwendoline, her arms wrapped around a man who most definitely was not her husband.

But Lady Gwendoline was kissing him for all she was worth.

Until she spotted Nell.

    Pulling away quickly, she turned to her furiously.

“One word about this and you’ll be out of a job with no reference,” she snapped, smoothing down her disheveled dress.

Tremors began in Nell’s legs and arms, and she hastily put her heavy pot down. “I w-won’t tell a soul,” she stammered. “I promise.”

“You’d better not.” Lady Gwendoline took a step toward her, and Nell realized with a gasp that Lady Gwendoline was scared, too.

Nell knew that Sir Strickland could be violent. She’d heard the shouting, his vicious threats, her pleading whimpers. Sometimes she’d come into an empty room to find broken crockery, upturned chairs.

“It’s all right,” Nell said, trying to stay calm. “Y-you can trust me. I’m not on Sir Strickland’s side.”

Lady Gwendoline’s face altered, transforming from rage to the fear inside. “You can’t tell him!”

Nell shook her head. “Me and Mrs. Quince, we don’t think it’s right how he treats you.”

A blush came over Lady Gwendoline’s face. She glanced back at her handsome chef, embarrassed, and then she pulled herself together, hissing at Nell, “You’d better not say a word. I can make your life a misery, too.”

It’s already a misery, Nell thought to herself, but she said quietly, “You can trust me.”

With a menacing sneer, Lady Gwendoline turned and stalked out of the kitchen. The good-looking chef scooped up a platter that was lying in readiness on the table and followed her out.

Had he been helping Lady Gwendoline with the contest?

Nell sank into a chair.

How could things get any worse? she thought bitterly.

And then, just like that, they did.

There was a movement in the corner of the room. It made her turn.

In the shadows, concealed by the dresser, stood the old butler, Brackett, watching.

He turned to look at Nell, then put his finger to his lips.

“Shh.”