“I don’t trust Gwendoline not to blab about my pregnancy,” she muttered to Audrey while they were clearing up the breakfast things. “Regardless how much she says she’s changed, she still thinks I stole her precious chef. What’s more, you know how much she wants to win this contest. Wouldn’t it be convenient for her if one of the contestants had to drop out?”

“She promised she won’t tell anyone. In any case, she’s turned over a new leaf.” Audrey leaned toward her. “And she knows I’d kick her out if she does.”

After a few days, Zelda realized that Audrey was right. Gwendoline was helping around the house and, more usefully, bringing in more business. In addition to that, having Nell there was nothing but a boon for Zelda. She helped clean and cook just at the time that Zelda was starting to slow down.

Which brought her to her next problem: How was she going to get through the last round of the contest? She would be eight months’ pregnant by then. Even with her scarf and draped clothes, it would be impossible to hide it completely.

    Which was why, one morning, on the way to work, she decided to pay Ambrose a visit. Putting on a light tan raincoat, she carefully left it open, arranging her scarf over the top to hide the bulge.

In the morning light, Ambrose’s cottage looked impossibly quaint, the garden dappled with late summer flowers and a bird feeder nourishing an overzealous squirrel. She paused, wondering if she’d only be making things worse.

“No, I’ll win him over,” she muttered determinedly, and marched up the path to ring the bell. “I haven’t any other choice.”

The wizened old maid showed her into the drawing room to wait.

“May I take your coat?” she said, as if exhausted by the thought.

Zelda shook her head. “No, I’ll keep it on, thank you.” Her task was to convince Ambrose that they could keep it under wraps—even with all the newspaper photographs—so she had to present the case well.

“Hello? Zelda?” Ambrose walked in, taken aback at seeing her there so early in the morning.

“Lovely to see you, Ambrose.” Zelda stepped forward and put out a hand. “I hope it’s not too early.”

He took her hand gingerly, evidently worried about what this meeting might bring. “Not at all. Do sit down.”

She perched on a sofa. “I have something of a, well, personal nature that I would like to discuss.”

Ambrose grimaced briefly, then quickly smiled and took a seat in a chair opposite. “Is it about the contest?”

“I am unsure of some of the rules per se, but wouldn’t it be terrifically unfair should the BBC want to eliminate me—especially so close to its conclusion? It would quite disrupt the natural order of things, wouldn’t you agree?”

“But why should it?” Ambrose looked befuddled.

“Because I’m pregnant.” As she divulged this, she pulled open one side of her coat to reveal the bump.

He choked, getting to his feet in alarm. “W-when did that happen?” he muttered, aghast.

    “I’ve been pregnant all along. It didn’t matter when it didn’t show, and I didn’t think—well, I just didn’t think.” Zelda felt her voice drop, and her eyes looked into his beseechingly. “The contest is such a massive opportunity for me, and I couldn’t bear to be knocked out now, just because of a, well, temporary situation.”

“But the aim of the contest is to find a woman presenter for The Kitchen Front. How can you do that if you have a child?” Ambrose’s face reddened with uneasiness.

Zelda looked at her hands. “Well, I plan to give the baby up for adoption. You see, I am not married.”

Ambrose made a heavy sigh and stalked to the window. “Oh dear, I don’t know what my producer will say.”

She followed him over. “But the people in the BBC don’t need to know, do they?”

He turned around to look at her. “Of course they’ll know.” And then his face scrunched, uncertain. “Wouldn’t they?”

“The only person of rank who is actually at the contest is you, Ambrose. You could tell the technicians to draw a blind eye—I’m sure they would. After all, losing one of your four contestants so late in the contest might cause more trouble than it’s worth, especially if the press got wind of the scandal.”

“But what about the photographs?”

She glanced down at her coat, cleverly concealing the bump again. “I can wear something to hide it—I know it’s more difficult now that it’s larger, but I can make sure I stand behind someone or something to cover it. I am planning on making a spectacular dessert, something truly special—it will be well worth keeping me on, Ambrose.” She gave him a smile of excitement—surely he couldn’t resist the promise of such a great dish?

He seemed to weigh it up in his mind. “What is it?”

She grinned. “I can’t tell you that, Ambrose. You only need to know that it will conveniently cover everything in front of me, and that it will be not only magnificent, but also utterly delectable.”

“But—oh dear! I have to say that the whole idea of just ignoring it is terribly tiresome. What would happen if the BBC officials decided to drop by?”

    “You can simply say that you didn’t realize—that for all you know I might have put on a little extra weight.” She eyed him carefully and swallowed before playing her trump card. “Tell them that you’re not much of a ladies’ man.”

That made him turn around.

His eyes looked into hers anxiously. “What do you mean?”

“We all have secrets that we’d like people to ignore.” It wasn’t said in a threatening way, just a simple statement—a plea for him to understand her circumstance. “It wouldn’t be fair to disqualify me because of my temporary condition. Sometimes people can be so biased—especially if one steps outside the norm, gets pregnant without being married, or does something that polite society frowns upon.” Her eyes pierced his meaningfully.

“Well, if you put it like that…” Ambrose took out a handkerchief to dab his brow.

“If you give me a chance in this contest, Ambrose, you’re being fair. You’re showing that society’s rules don’t define us.” She looked at him pleadingly. “You’re showing that you’re not one of the ones making judgment on everyone, damning people for stepping out of turn.”

They stood watching each other, suddenly stripped down to individuals, both with things they wished to hide, both potentially outcasts.

“Do you really believe you can get away with no one finding out?” he asked.

She nodded. “No one will know for certain, and the newspaper photographs won’t show a thing—I’ll make sure of that.”

He glanced at the finery around the room—the statues and the photographs on the piano—possibly contemplating all that he’d accomplished.

“You could share your success by helping another marginalized person. It would be fair, honorable.”

There was a pause, and then he said, “All right, provided you do your best to cover it up.” He looked her up and down with a nod. “And if they do find out, not a word about this conversation.”

    “Thank you, Ambrose.” And before she knew it, she had leaped over and given him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you so very much.”

As she beamed at him, he couldn’t help smiling back, and the thought crossed her mind that perhaps there was good in people, after all, a hope for a fairer, kinder future.

With thanks and promises that she wouldn’t let him down, she bid him goodbye and made her way to work. Inspired by a sense of righteousness, her stride widened, lighter and almost jubilant as she headed to the Fenley Pie Factory.

The kitchen was in chaos. The dishwashing area had flooded during the night—goodness knows how—and as well as finishing the breakfast, she had to coordinate a clean-up. It was past ten o’clock, when she finally had a short break, that Doris tapped her shoulder. “You’re wanted in the office.” She looked aggravatingly pleased with the notion.

A breath of annoyance escaped Zelda as she headed to see the manager.

With a derisive sniff, she made a curt knock on the door and briskly entered without waiting to be called.

“Good morning, Mr. Forbes.” She took the seat opposite him, looking at him impatiently. “You asked to see me.”

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Forbes said. “Miss Dupont.” He began to rummage around his desk for a sheet of paper, which he duly produced, offering it to her across the table. “Orders, I’m afraid.”

The letter contained the following message.

    Dear Miss Dupont,

Re: Your dismissal

Since it has been brought to our attention that you are now in the family way, we hereby give you notice that your employment at Fenley Pie Factory will be terminated with immediate effect.

Yours Sincerely,

Mr. H. Forbes

    Zelda’s chin jerked to the side indignantly. “Who, in heaven’s name, told you this?” She looked down at the letter. “It was that silly girl Doris, wasn’t it?”

A rush of red surged into his face. “Well, not precisely. But there are always a lot of criticisms about your shouting and so forth, and I think she felt—”

“You’ve got to shout at the girls to get them to do anything!” Zelda yelled, standing up furiously. “Are you going to let them get away with this?”