But more than that: She would be famous.

“What a frightfully good plan,” she murmured under her breath, hugging herself with a sensation of victory.

Sir Strickland’s chauffeur had been sent to drive her back to the hall, and as she climbed into the black Bentley, a woman’s voice called from behind her, “Wasting fuel on unnecessary journeys, are we, Lady Gwendoline?”

She recognized the blond-haired woman from the audience and chose to ignore the remark. Government propaganda slogans about fuel rations were directed at other people.

The chauffeur closed her door, and the car began its short journey home. As it turned into the grand hall drive, she felt the familiar sense of pride, although it had been dampened over the years by the nagging need for ever-greater triumphs.

The car door was opened by the chauffeur, and then the massive, oak front door of the hall was opened by the old butler, Brackett. Her high heels clipped the marble floor as she walked briskly through the galleried hall to her private reception room overlooking the gardens at the back of the house. As it was late, she had instructed Mrs. Quince that she would partake of a late supper there, and it was a relief to be able to retreat to her own comfortable space. She’d had it painted a light ivory, and the sofas were softer than those in the formal drawing rooms, the silver velvet drapes luxurious and warm compared to the starchy formality of the rest of the hall.

    Yet it was more than that.

She couldn’t bear another of those chilly dinners with her husband. From the other end of the long table, he would tell her sparse details about the coming business dinners and events she was to attend—what she was and was not allowed to do and say while the men sat discussing the war.

“All husbands and wives need time apart,” she said to herself as she sank into her favorite floral green armchair. Being alone meant time to focus on her plans, arrange her Ministry of Food demonstrations, or organize her next move in village politics. Her husband’s influence as the village’s largest employer had landed her the position of Fenley’s billeting officer, enabling her to boss her way into every house and lodging in Fenley to claim suitable spare rooms for evacuees and war workers. Billeting officers had significant power these days, and Gwendoline intended to use hers smartly. All in all, there was a lot to busy her mind.

Loneliness was something she ignored, although sometimes she could feel it tugging at her insides, like a forgotten stitch.

Ten years her senior, and already well established, Sir Strickland was an important man by the time she met him. That was part of the attraction. Although he hid his menial background, she knew he’d started his business selling pies off a barrow in the poor East End of London, slowly scaling into canned and preserved meats.

Most of his bully beef factories were in Uruguay, millions of cans shipped over the treacherous Atlantic to feed the troops in Europe. But he kept his hand in home-produced pies, and one of his smaller factories was the Fenley Pie Factory, which employed 250 workers to make cost-and ration-efficient pies. Lady Gwendoline had never asked precisely how they made meat products so economically. After all, one needed to make money, not understand how it was made.

    Recently, new canning companies had begun to erode Sir Strickland’s domination. Although she wasn’t privy to business details, Lady Gwendoline was all too aware of the slip in sales—the rush to please ministers, the lavish dinner parties to secure wavering contracts, her husband’s increasingly taut temper.

What she did know was that Sir Strickland also had a hand in domestic food production, owing to the Fenley estate’s substantial farm, which conveniently provided the hall with plenty of food, on-or off-ration. She knew that food-rationing rules were likely being bent, but didn’t everyone do that, where they could? After all, Sir Strickland had been given the post of regional officer at the Ministry of Agriculture, which put him in charge of checking that rationing rules weren’t being broken. Overseeing one’s own farm was simply a perk of the job, Gwendoline reasoned.

A little chuckle escaped her when she thought of her sister working her fingers to the bone for the love of a poor artist while she, the younger sister and black sheep of the family, had married into luxury. It was sad that Matthew had died, of course, even though she’d never liked the man. Why on earth had he become an impoverished artist when he might have gone into business or industry, what with his family and education. Audrey had made her own bed, but still, there had been moments when Gwendoline had almost felt sorry for her.

The silvered ting of the carriage clock on the mantel announced nine o’clock, time moving swiftly for once. The evening’s work had made her feel busy and worthwhile, different from other evenings, when time could plod inexorably on.

She rang the little bell for her supper. Annoyingly, the parlor maid had got a job in a munitions factory, and they were having to make do with the scrappy kitchen maid serving at table. Finding a replacement didn’t look hopeful now that all young women had to do war work.

    Within minutes, the nervous kitchen maid appeared, her eyes down at the floor as she walked quickly over with a tray bearing tonight’s dinner. Whisking off the silver dome, Lady Gwendoline saw that it was fillets of lemon sole Véronique, her favorite.

As the maid set the plate on the table, a knife dropped to the floor.

Lady Gwendoline winced. “Just give it to me.”

The girl picked up the knife for her and darted out without a word, and Lady Gwendoline sat down at the small dining table.

“Sole Véronique,” she murmured as she gently pulled apart the soft, white flesh. “Now this would make a winning dish for the contest.” It was a shame that cream was hard to come by for most ordinary homes, though.

“I’ll make the best dish in the county, with a few wartime changes for good measure,” she murmured.

The Ministry of Food’s Lord Woolton Pie

Serves 4

For the filling

4 pounds chopped vegetables (such as carrots, turnip, cauliflower, potatoes) 1 onion or leek, chopped 1 teaspoon vegetable extract, or ? pint stock 1 tablespoon oatmeal Parsley, chopped Salt and pepper

For the potato pastry crust

1 cup wholemeal flour 2 teaspoons baking powder Pinch of salt

2 tablespoons butter or cooking fat ? cup mashed cooked potatoes Milk for glaze

First cook the filling. Place the vegetables, onion or leek, vegetable extract, oatmeal, parsley, and salt and pepper into a pot and just cover with water. Bring to a boil and cook until tender, stirring occasionally to prevent sticking.

Preheat oven to 350°F/180°C. Make the pastry by mixing the flour, baking powder, and salt, and then rub in the butter or fat. Mix in the mashed potato, working it into a ball that can be rolled out. Put the vegetables into a deep pie dish and cover with the pastry. Use a little milk to brush the surface, then bake for 25 to 30 minutes, until the crust is golden brown.

Miss Nell Brown

Fenley Hall Kitchen

The kitchen at Fenley Hall was a heaving vaulted stone expanse. Half underground, a row of broad, arched windows spread light over the warm, cavernous space. It was the impressive old meal factory of a great house of the highest standing, and as Nell scuttled around she felt a kinship with maids from the past—although there would have been far more of them even twenty years ago, with a hierarchy of kitchen and scullery staff, a grand cook presiding over them.

Now there was only Nell to help the cook, old Mrs. Quince, and she had to do the work of three maids. Feeling like a young rabbit, she sped through the maze of tunnels—the main kitchen, the pantry, the scullery, the wine cellar, the ice cellar, the buttery—the authoritarian tock of the grandfather clock always hard on her heels, Go, go, go!

“Why is it always down to me to do all the work?” Nell huffed as she dashed back in from the pantry. The lively parlor maid had been gone for three long months. “Everything feels so flat now that she’s gone—and I have to clean this big place, too!”

“Oh, Nell dear, no one has a full downstairs staff anymore.” Mrs. Quince was at the kitchen table, her old cooking book open as she planned the week’s meals. “I remember when the place was packed with maids. We were like a big family—not always happy, but a family no less.” Her smile faded. Nell knew she was recalling the servants who’d been let go when the distinguished earl had been forced to sell Fenley Hall to Sir Strickland to pay off debts. Now, with the new war, anyone remaining had left to join up or to earn more doing war work.