Without acknowledging it, a hope had risen within her that, after the winning the contest, Chef James would be keen to formalize their relationship. He’d mentioned that he had taken a room above the pub, and she’d looked forward to spending the rest of the evening together huddled in his bed. She imagined how he would tell her his life story, how he needed her to make his life complete. He would listen to her innermost thoughts and dreams, put his arms around her as she cried about Sir Strickland’s cruelty. He would tell her that everything would be all right now that he was in her life.

Something had been irreparably roused within her, and regardless of the dire risks involved, she simply couldn’t let it go. James Denton had brought out tenderness and passion, emotions that she’d never known. They had suddenly gushed forth, firing up a desire, a yearning for human contact—a human connection that she’d never had.

    But now it was ruined by that shameless hussy.

As the car swung into the drive to Fenley Hall, her mind veered chaotically back to the more pressing issue: the maid catching her and the chef together in the kitchen. Worry, closely followed by fear and panic, surged through her.

“Let’s just hope that stupid girl keeps her mouth shut,” she muttered as the car drew to a halt. But then, as she got out of the car and stood before the imposing edifice, she was filled with dejection.

“Another tedious night on my own,” she murmured, treading despondently up the grand steps.

However, that was not how the evening was to unfold.

As she opened the door to the hall, thuds and bangs accompanied by raging shouts echoed down from upstairs. The butler was nowhere to be seen, and neither were Sir Strickland’s assistants.

She looked up the sweeping, marble staircase. From the bedrooms came the unmistakable sound of Sir Strickland tearing the place apart in the most colossal rage she had ever heard.

“What now!” she mumbled, trudging up the stairs, following the sounds into—of all places—her own bedroom.

It was in chaos. He’d been pulling out drawers, emptying them everywhere, her petticoats, stockings, and lingerie spread over the rug, the bed, and the dressing table as if it had rained down in some kind of deluge. Skirts, dresses, and evening gowns had been thrown out of the wardrobe and lay scattered on the floor chaotically. An avalanche of makeup, perfumes, and hair adornments had been swept off the dressing table. The now empty chest of drawers had been knocked over, as had a tall lamp and a bedside table. On the far side of the room, a full-length standing mirror had been cracked—possibly with a fist—great spidery lines extending from a single, central blow.

Sir Strickland didn’t hear her come in. He had his back to her, inside her wardrobe. Huffing and swearing, his accent returning to his gruff native cockney, he was more furious than she’d ever seen him.

    “Darling?” she began.

He swung around, and she saw the bull-like rage in his face. His eyeballs glared white and globular against the throbbing veins beneath his deep red face, his neck tense with thick, rigid muscles.

Fear gripped her. Had the maid told him?

“What happened, darling?” She tried, and failed, to smile coercively, backing away to the door.

“You wretched whore,” he said coldly, crossing the floor toward her. “I can’t believe I never saw it before. You’re nothing but a little money-grabbing slut.” There was a dark menace in his eyes, as if he could kill her.

“What nonsense!” she took a shaky step back. “Where have you heard these silly ideas?”

His eyes narrowed. “My own butler saw you with that fancy chef, here in my own kitchen.” His face creased into a snarl. “Do you want to make a fool of me? Do you?” His voice was a hoarse whisper, his lips wet from spluttering.

“No, no—it’s a lie. He’s mistaken, darling,” She made a laugh, trying to make light of it, but it came out like a frail sob. “You know how he’s always loathed me. He’s making it up to get rid of me.”

“He told me the maid was there, too. Shall I bring her up here? Ask her?”

Would Nell keep a secret for her?

Lady Gwendoline changed tack, feigning outraged indignation. “The chef jumped on me, tried to molest me. I managed to push him away after a few minutes. I wasn’t going to bore you with it, as I knew you’d cause a scene.” She took a deep breath, as if about to burst into tears.

His voice softened sinisterly, stepping closer. “That’s not what I heard.” He grabbed her by the front of her silk blouse, pulling her close enough for her to feel his hot breath, the stench of scotch acrid and overwhelming. “I heard that you launched yourself on him. That you only stopped because the maid came in and disturbed you.”

    “She saved me from him!”

He eyed her. “You threatened her if she told anyone.”

She tried to wriggle free from his grasp. Without a shred of doubt, she knew that he’d kill her.

This was a man who was out of himself with rage. A man who didn’t follow rules.

“After all I’ve done for you.” He grabbed her hair with his free hand, yanking her head back so that he could snarl into her face. “I made you into a lady, gave you everything you ever wanted, and it was all just a game to you, wasn’t it?”

“N-no,” she gasped, pleading with him. “It was a small, small mistake. Please!”

A vengeful grimace came across his face. “No one plays games with Reggie Strickland. No one gets the better of Reggie Strickland.”

She struggled to break free, not caring that her hair was pulling painfully away from her scalp, tearing out in parts. It was life or death. “Please, Reggie, please!”

There was a catch of a laugh behind his voice as he growled, “Do you think you’re going to get away? Do you really think you can?”

She took a great gulp of air, and cried as loudly as she could, “Help!”

He laughed at her. “Who’s going to come to your rescue? My butler and my assistants are loyal to me, unlike you.” He spat at her. “Even the maid is loyal to me. You’ve never done anything to help her, have you? You’ve been thoroughly obnoxious to her, overworking her.” He let out a laugh. “Why would she risk anything to help you?”

He was right, and she knew it. She’d been vile to Nell. Why would she help?

Releasing his hand from her blouse, he struck her hard across the cheek, the pain at once electric then hot with sharp pain. Reaching across he ripped her blouse open, shredding it, tearing into her skin as he pulled it off her. “This belongs to me,” he yelled. “And this, too.” He yanked off her petticoat, glee in his eyes.

    “Stop! I bought them. They’re my clothes.”

“I bought them, and I bought you,” he said through gritted teeth, the hand on her hair moving to her neck. “And since you don’t know what that means, I’ll show you.”

He pressed her up to the wall, his hand pushing into her throat.

She gasped for breath, trying to cry out.

Her mind began reeling, the world turning around. She had to close her eyes, try to focus. Reality was blurring, spinning, becoming too much to bear.

In the distance, she heard a bang, a voice from the other side of the room.

Suddenly, the hand that pinned her against the wall was gone, and she slid to the floor.

“If you kill her”—the voice was stern—“then you’ll have to kill me, too.”

She heard her husband cross the room. “Get out! Before I murder you both!”

Opening her eyes, she gasped as she saw the owner of the voice.

It was Nell, standing at the door, a large carving knife clenched tightly in her right hand.

Audrey

The wooden clock struck midnight, and Willow Lodge was, thankfully, quiet. The boys were long since fast asleep, and Zelda had gone to bed. The only sound came from the kitchen, where Audrey stood beside the table, her hands in a deep, enamel bowl, rubbing morsels of yellow margarine into thick, gray wartime flour.

Nighttime cooking, although not yet a routine, was not unusual for Audrey, and tonight the contest had put her behind schedule.

“Maybe I should withdraw from the contest,” she muttered to herself, frustrated. “I’m not going to win, and the way that I’m going, I’ll be out of our house with nothing to show for it.”

At first, she ignored the small tap on the back door, praying that it wasn’t yet another sign that the house was, indeed, about to gently collapse.

But as she carried on mixing, it came again. This time louder.

She went to the door, calling through the pane, “Who is it?”

A quiet, familiar voice came back, “It’s Nell. We’ve got a problem. Can we come in?”

Hurriedly, Audrey unlocked the door. “Who’s out there with you?”

Nell stood gloomily on her doorstep, a small sack-like bag in her hand. Even more confusing, beside the girl was her sister, Gwendoline, looking more than a little disheveled.

    “I know I’ve been awful, Aude, but can I come in?” Lady Gwendoline’s voice was croaky.

Audrey, frankly intrigued, stood back for them to enter.

Without a word, they traipsed in and collapsed into chairs at the kitchen table. Ominously, Lady Gwendoline also had a bag in her hand, a large paper one, bulging slightly. She saw Audrey looking at it, and simply said, “It’s some of my things.”

“Ah,” Audrey replied, as if it made complete sense, when it didn’t at all. “Shall I make some tea?”