Gwendoline heaved a great sigh. “The title was never really mine. I got it because I married Reggie. It wasn’t because of anything I did, even though I felt so very clever—”

“But you are clever. You’re getting new customers, registering us with the government so that we can get ingredients off the rations from wholesalers. Even the way you managed to get Sir Strickland put away was masterful.” She made a decisive nod. “You’re just as cunning as me, Gwendoline, like it or not.”

“I’m not sure ‘cunning’ is the word I would choose. But it’s nice of you to say so.”

As they crowned the hill, Gwendoline caught her breath when she saw Fenley Hall, her old home. It looked majestic, the creamy gold outside gleaming with grace beneath the blue sky. She had always seen it merely as a stamp of class, in recent years dwelling more on its defects than its grandeur. Now, though, she realized how beautiful the old manor house truly was, how elegant and charming.

Outside, two army vans and a large black car sat in the driveway, and beside the front door, a mustached police officer stood guard, hands behind his back. He eyed them as they approached.

“This property is under investigation,” he informed them crisply.

“My name is Lady Strickland, and until very recently I lived here. I need to get some of my belongings.”

The policeman looked her up and down, taking in her navy blue suit, her designer neck scarf. “Follow me.”

Inside the house, men in army uniform strode around with clipboards, four or five forming a group in the grand hallway, their thick, black boots and khaki uniforms in sharp contrast to the aged grandeur of the place. The grandfather clock watched on, ticking with disapproval.

Gwendoline frowned at them. “What are they doing here?” she muttered to the policeman.

“The army is taking over the hall for the rest of the war. The government wanted to requisition it a long time ago, but Sir Strickland pulled strings to keep full possession. They plan to have a dozen dormitory tents going up on the lawn this time next week.”

    She frowned. “That many? It’ll be a bit of a shock for the village, don’t you think?”

He shrugged, disinterested. “They’ll get a lot more business, especially the shop, and the pub, of course. Got any good restaurants? The officers love a good meal.”

“No, the Wheatsheaf closed,” Gwendoline said absently, but then her eyes glazed over in thought and she exchanged a quick glance at Zelda. “Although you never know.”

Sir Strickland’s office was in chaos, a team of men in suits putting piles of papers into boxes to take away.

“Lady Strickland wants to pick up some belongings,” the policeman explained to one of them.

He turned and looked her up and down. “You can go ahead, provided you only take what is yours.” Then he added, “And don’t disturb anything that might be used as evidence.”

Without more ado, Gwendoline and Zelda hurried up the marble staircase to the galleried landing. The door to Gwendoline’s bedroom was open, and she stopped in the doorway. It was exactly as it had been the last time she’d seen it, and the memory of that horrific night flooded back: Sir Strickland throwing her clothes out of the wardrobe, as if he owned them, owned her.

“It feels like such a long time ago,” she murmured to Zelda.

Zelda grabbed Gwendoline’s arm and pulled her inside. “I hope you’re not having regrets—”

“No, no regrets at all. Well, no regrets about leaving. I should have done it years ago—maybe I regret having married him in the first place.”

Zelda had already begun folding the clothes strewn on the bed—she was a little too pregnant these days to stoop easily to the floor. She held up a gold sequined gown, her eyes glinting with envy. “You wanted the upper-class life with all its wealth and power, so you married a man who could give you that.”

    Gwendoline took the gown from her, admiring the embroidery, the design, before putting it back in the wardrobe. Why would she need a dress like that? “It just took me a little too long to realize that there was a price to pay. Do you know that he cut me off from my own sister?”

A derisive sniff came from Zelda. “I disowned my sister when I left home at twelve. Item by item she stole everything I had. She set my mother against me—told her I’d been stealing from her, for heaven’s sake. When I was sent out to work at the big house, I never went back. Got rid of them all. Who needs a family, eh?”

Gwendoline looked at her, hands on hips. “One thing I’ve learned through this is that family is incredibly precious. Other things may change us, but we start and end life with our family, whether it’s the one we’re born with or one of our own making. It means that you love and are loved, whoever you are.” Her eyes glazed over. “And you know you’re not on your own.”

Zelda laughed. “You lot are always talking about love. There was no love in my family, not even a sense of duty to each other. My mum loathed us for ruining her life, and me and my siblings were sworn enemies, fighting for food and space—even though I was the one who’d looked after them when they were small.” She carried on folding clothes, as if none of this mattered.

“That’s rather sad,” Gwendoline said, and then she smiled. “It’s good that you’ve found us now. We’ll look after you.”

Wordlessly, Zelda kept her head down, making piles of dresses, tailored suits, and blouses on the bed. She took the gold sequined gown back out of the wardrobe and added it to the pile. “You should bring this,” she said.

“I always had far too many clothes, didn’t I?” Gwendoline stroked the silk fabric of a long cerise evening gown. “Which ones shall we take?”

Zelda laughed. “We’ll take them all, of course. Audrey can drive the old delivery van over and collect them.”

“But what do I need all these clothes for? And where am I going to put them?”

    “Why don’t you share them out between your friends?” Zelda said with a grin. “We could all do with some extra clothes—especially Nell, if we want to get her out of that maid’s uniform!” She put another onto the pile. “And we don’t want to leave them for the army, do we?”

Laughing, they scooped the clothes into two of the bedsheets, tied them up into two massive bundles, and took them onto the landing.

But just before they headed downstairs, Gwendoline put a finger to her lips.

“There’s one last thing I need.” She went to her dressing table, and there, in the second drawer down, was a stash of letters and documents. After quickly rifling through them, she found a folded, handwritten sheet and pulled it out.

“What’s that?”

She opened it. “It’s the loan agreement for Willow Lodge, the one Audrey and I drew up when she asked for the big loan. The banks weren’t involved, so the police won’t be on the lookout for it.” Her eyes went toward the stairs. “No one will know about it if it simply ceases to exist.” And in one clean movement, she ripped the paper in two. “Now Audrey can keep her home. At least there ended up being one gift I can give her.” She beamed, tucking the remains into her handbag.

Zelda smiled. “That’ll be the best present she’s had in a long time.”

They headed down the stairs, and as they reached the vast downstairs hallway, Gwendoline lowered the sacks onto the floor and took Zelda’s arm. “Come with me.”

The two women padded through to a narrow servants’ door tucked behind the grand staircase. A full, small set of service stairs ran up and down the house, and they went down one flight into the servants’ quarters. There, they passed through the kitchen—strangely old and empty without Mrs. Quince and Nell—and went down a corridor to a room on the side.

“I think this is the one.” Gwendoline budged open the door.

    It was a small sitting room, shabby but cozy, a red woolen rug on the floor and a drab green armchair at the side, dilapidated and a little frayed at the edges. A door led into a bedroom.

“This is the head cook’s sitting room.” Gwendoline looked around at the sad little place, imagining Mrs. Quince tinkering around, sitting in the green chair after a long day. She peered through the window. All you could see was a slope of grass as the ground went up to level off around the terrace on the next floor up. This accounted for the lack of daylight in the room, the musty, slightly damp smell.

“What a sad place to be,” Zelda murmured.

On one side of the room was a small desk, bare except for a few recipe books and a small clock, quietly ticking even though the old woman was gone. On top of the books lay an especially tattered one, bloated with extra sheets of paper, the corners dog-eared and yellowing.

“There it is.” Gwendoline picked it up. “It’s Mrs. Quince’s recipe book. All her secrets, her own special magic, lie inside these pages. She wanted Nell to have it.”

Zelda sighed. “Let’s hope it’ll pull her out of her stupor. The funeral’s tomorrow. She’ll have to come out of her bedroom then, won’t she?”

They went back to the corridor and quietly closed the door behind them. “Death is a difficult thing to come to terms with.” Gwendoline patted the book. “Let’s hope this helps.”