The smell of frying mushrooms, blended with rosemary and thyme, warmed the vaulted rooms as Nell went back to her stock, adding a dribble of wine—there might be a war on, but Sir Strickland’s wine cellars were always full.

“You can make twice as much money in the Fenley Pie Factory,” Nell mused. “And you don’t have to get up at five every morning.”

“But it’s not a nice place to work. Sir Strickland owns that factory, and I wouldn’t trust him to stick to the health and safety rules.”

The maid stirred the stock absently. “Once I’m twenty next year, I’ll have to find war work anyway because of women’s conscription—unless I’m m-married by then.” The thought of marriage fluttered chaotically through her head, like a moth around a hot lightbulb.

“War’s too dangerous for women, if you ask me,” Mrs. Quince said protectively. She dreaded losing her dear friend and only help.

“They’re not sending us to the front line.” Nell laughed gently. “Even if you’re put in the military, all you do is mend trucks, do paperwork, or ferry officers around. Otherwise, it’s munitions factories or farms. I’ve always fancied becoming a Land Girl. There are some at Howard’s Farm. I see them in the village in their brown uniforms, always laughing and linking arms. I know it’s hard work, farming, but it would be nice to be outside, back with nature.”

“You’re better off sticking with your cooking, Nell,” Mrs. Quince said. “You have a great talent, and you shouldn’t waste it.” When Nell had first arrived at the hall, the old cook had seen something in her, picked her out, and trained her up as her assistant. “You’ve got a keen perception for taste, and your quick thinking is superb. I’ve never known anyone to adapt recipes and understand techniques so thoroughly.” She looked tenderly at the girl. “You reminded me of my little sister when you first arrived—how I missed her when I left home! Such a pure and eager spirit. I always said, Nell, that I would help and guide you along your way. And look at you now! A highly skilled cook in your own right.”

    The girl gave the old cook a smile. “I-I could never stand on my own, not without you here.”

“You’ll see. You just need more confidence in yourself.” Mrs. Quince went back to her recipe book, following a handwritten recipe with a plump finger. “Be a duck and see how many eggs we have?”

Wiping her hands on her apron, Nell bustled over to the pantry, kept cool on the very corner of the building. “There’s six here from Fenley Farm.” She poked her head back out. “Seems a bit unfair that we get best pickings from the estate farm.”

“I have a feeling that Sir Strickland is stretching some rules there.” Mrs. Quince sighed. “But we should count ourselves fortunate that we can get what we need. Get the ration books for me, would you?”

There were five ration books in all. Two for upstairs: Sir Strickland and Lady Gwendoline, and now only three for downstairs: Mrs. Quince, Nell, and old Brackett the butler.

“The Stricklands need to try harder to get a new parlor maid. I think they’ve forgotten they asked me to help out. It’s too much for one person.” Nell hadn’t minded doing the parlor maid’s work at first, but it was only supposed to be a stopgap.

Mrs. Quince chortled, “Provided someone does it, they don’t care.”

“They don’t even know I exist, do they?” Nell wandered back to her stock. “It’s not that I think I’m special, but they could at least remember that I’m doing it on top of my own work.”

“Why don’t you remind them yourself? Go upstairs and have a word with her ladyship?”

Hastily, Nell began chopping some garlic and celery and throwing it into another pot, adding a little butter to soften them before putting them into the stock. “They’ll never listen,” she murmured, knowing that she’d clam up as soon as she set foot upstairs, her words jumbling or stalling completely.

    Nell loathed the Stricklands, and especially so since the Blitz began. Only fifteen miles south of London, the village of Fenley was on the path of the Luftwaffe’s nightly air raids, and Lady Gwendoline had drawn up a strict routine that was to be followed every night the bombers came over. As the air-raid siren sounded, Nell was to assist the Stricklands down to the cellar with torches. The cellar beds were to be freshly made in readiness. Mrs. Quince and Nell were given a small corner with a few blankets to spread across the stone floor while Brackett, the aging butler, had a curtained-off cubicle to himself. Nell was expected to stay awake, popping upstairs to listen for the siren played once as an “all clear.”

During the last air raid, Nell had sat awake on the uncomfortable floor imagining herself on one of the Stricklands’ soft new beds that had been carried down at the beginning of the war. Apparently, they deemed it “too uncivilized, like dogs” to sleep on the floor.

Yet it’s all right for us servants!

As she fiercely shoved the vegetables around the pan, the bitterness of the burning garlic filled the kitchen in a harsh, hot swirl.

“It’s all pointless.” She flustered, suddenly exasperated. “They think we’re nothing more than animals.”

Mrs. Quince trotted over briskly, hands waving in the air. “Nell! You’re ruining it!” She took the spoon away from her, patting her aside. “Go and sit down. Did you sleep the wrong-way-round last night?”

Plonking herself down on the window seat, Nell gazed out at the fresh green valley. Beyond, in the morning mist, lay London. “There has to be more to life than this.” She sighed. “Everyone’s talking about the new opportunities for us women with the war. No one cares where you came from anymore, or even if you were born on the wrong side of the blanket, like me. Women are getting real jobs, living free, meeting young men, marrying…” Her voice was becoming softer, more forlorn.

    Mrs. Quince looked over to her. “Don’t listen to all those stories, dear. I’m sure they don’t all have happy endings. In any case, you’re far too shy to put yourself forward like that. It’s best that you stick to cooking. You know what I always say, there’s nothing like a good day’s work to get over the glums. Now, you’re a first-class cook, and in another year or two you’ll have half the county aristocrats at your feet.”

Nell made a small laugh. “Wanting to employ me, not marry me.”

But how could she explain? Mrs. Quince had never been married herself, her title simply following the convention for senior staff to be known as “Mrs.” regardless that most of them remained single, wedded to their work whether they liked it or not. Nell sometimes wondered if Mrs. Quince had ever had that yearning for another person’s arms around her, a home of her own. A little hand in hers.

Mrs. Quince was sipping the stock. “Taste this, Nell.” She beckoned her over. “Your sadness, my dear child—you’ve let it affect your cooking. All that upset inside you, it can’t be good. You have to try to be content, not to let those thoughts in.”

Blood rushed to her face. “I’m s-sorry,” she stammered, tears in her eyes. “I-I can do it again.”

Mrs. Quince smiled and shook her head. “You don’t need to do that, dear. We’ll add a few things to balance it out. But how are we going to sort you out, eh? I won’t be here forever, you know. We need to train you up so that you can stand on your own two feet.”

Nell eyed her anxiously. She wanted things to change, but not like this—not without Mrs. Quince. Her gnawing fear of the outside world, the way she stumbled over her words every time she was scared. How would she ever get over it?

With a troubled brow, she glanced wistfully back out of the window. Tomorrow was going to be just like today: more meals, more cleaning, more obedience.

She swallowed hard.

There has to be more to life than this.

Miss Zelda Dupont

The Kitchen at the Fenley Pie Factory

“The Cordon Bleu school teaches a refined form of French cooking, Doris. Not a good stir of everything in sight.” Zelda Dupont pulled the edges of her lips down with revulsion as she handed the oversized wooden spoon to her young assistant.

“But that’s what we’ve always done, Miss Dupont.” The girl took the spoon and churned the soup vigorously. “I don’t know nothing about this cordon-blueuch stuff you’re talking about. The women in the factory, well, they don’t want none of that foreign nonsense. They like their pies and stews, like we’ve always done here.”

Zelda Dupont, head chef of the staff canteen at the Fenley Pie Factory, raised one penciled eyebrow into a dramatic point. She watched the assistant evenly with narrowing green eyes, which were surrounded by mascaraed eyelashes and green eyeshadow. Her rich blond curls—dyed by the best hairdresser in Middleton—lay flattened under a regulation headscarf. Her full lips, painted a shade of red just a touch too bright for a woman of thirty-two, drew together into a reproving pout.