Nell

Curled up in bed, the past few days felt like a split second and a million years. Every time Nell opened her eyes, the dreadful truth arrived once again: She was living in a world that no longer contained Mrs. Quince.

Then had come the arrival of Mrs. Quince’s old recipe book.

“I’ll just pop it here on the bedside table,” Gwendoline had said, leaving a cup of tea beside it.

There it had remained for the rest of the morning, the tea untouched and the curtains unopened. She didn’t want the book. She wanted Mrs. Quince to be alive there with her.

That the book now belonged to Nell only compounded the feeling of devastation.

And now I have to take her place—become the cook, no longer the student.

How could she, young Nell, step into the shoes of such a wise and dexterous cook?

But by afternoon, her slim white hand pushed out of the covers to touch it. She couldn’t help herself. The book was the only part of Mrs. Quince left in the world—it was a portal through which she still existed.

The essence of her collective skill and knowledge.

As soon as her fingers made contact, the frayed cover so familiar to her, she felt a calm settle upon her, like a soft snowfall soothing everything around and inside her. It was as peaceful and real as if it were Mrs. Quince’s hand itself.

    Within minutes, she couldn’t help but pull the book under the covers with her, holding it to her chest as she wept silently.

An hour later, she lay quietly, completely still. The tears had stopped, as if she simply couldn’t cry anymore, and suddenly she was filled with a yearning to open the book, read the old woman’s words.

Sitting up, she pulled the book onto her lap and opened to the first page.

Mrs. Newton

Fenley Hall

Nell’s heart began pounding. Had this book belonged to someone else?

Hurriedly, she looked back to the page.

That’s when she spotted the date at the bottom.

September 1875

That was over sixty years ago. The book had belonged to a different cook before it became Mrs. Quince’s.

Wedged between the cover and the first page was a single yellowing sheet of folded paper, tattered around the edges with age. Nell carefully took it out.

It was a letter.

    My dear Eileen,

Wasn’t Eileen Mrs. Quince’s first name? Was it written to the young Mrs. Quince? Nell read on.

    I know that by the time you read this letter, I won’t be with you any longer. It was a good thing I taught you how to read, otherwise I wouldn’t have any way of talking to you. How strange it must feel to have me speak to you from the other side of the grave. Now, I know you’re going to be sad, but you will be the very best cook the county has ever known, so don’t despair, and whatever you do, don’t let yourself slip into a stupor. Work hard, that’s what I always say. There’s nothing like a good day’s work to get over the glums.

     Here is my recipe book, for you, my dear. As your teacher and friend, it is both my duty and my pleasure to pass it into your safe, competent hands. Please take care of it, carry on my good name, and perhaps you, too, will have someone special to pass it on to at the end of your life—hark at me! You’re still so young and pretty I can’t imagine you ever becoming old and gray like me. Look after the book well. Fill it with your finest new recipes, and always, always remember that being a cook is both a blessing and a joy. You are spreading both nourishment and delight to the world. You are the most blessed of people.

I will miss you, but wherever I am, I will be watching over you, waiting to see you there one day.

God bless you, dearest Eileen.

Mrs. Newton

Tears pricked Nell’s eyes. Mrs. Quince had had a teacher, just like she had! And the book had been inherited from her, and was now being passed on again, like a family heirloom handed down through servants, who had no children of their own, to the ones that they adopted along the way.

An idea thrust its way through her.

“Did Mrs. Quince leave me a letter?”

She flicked through to the next page, and then the next, opening all the slips of paper that had been tucked into the book. There were recipes for trout mousse, aspic jelly, bacon and mushroom tart. Sheets of paper detailed methods for lamb cutlets, fish quenelles, and lobster soup. Leafing through, she saw recipes she’d never seen before, never tried, but she quickly passed over them, her fingers trembling with nerves.

    She was coming to the end of the book, and still there was nothing, until, right there, slipped inside the back cover, was a new, folded sheet of paper.

    Dearest Nell,

Please don’t be sad, my dear little Nell. I know that you’ll think you’re lost without me, but truth be known, you’ve been doing everything by yourself these last few years. You’re the very best cook in Kent—probably the whole of England. It’s time to stand up for yourself and your cooking, as you will go far, my dear, very far indeed.

I don’t know if you saw the letter that dear Mrs. Newton wrote to me when she left me the book, but this was passed down to me, just as I’m passing it down to you. I know what you’re going through, Nell. I was torn apart when Mrs. Newton died. I was a little older than you perhaps, but she had taught me everything I knew. When you came along, it was like I was reliving it all over again, only this time I was Mrs. Newton, and you, Nell, you played the part of me. I loved to watch you grow and learn—you were the perfect pupil, always attentive and so very skillful. You brought my life a new joy that I thought I would never have again after Mrs. Newton died, a kind of family of sorts. You made my life worth living.

Now remember that, my dear, and know that someone else will come along—maybe a young kitchen maid, or perhaps you’ll even have a husband and children of your own—and you’ll find a new kind of happiness with them. I know you’ll be upset, but know that I am in a good place now, looking down over you, and bestowing all the love that I have in my heart, until you are here with me again.

With all my love always, Mrs. Quince (Eileen)

Nell let the page fall from her hand as she bent over with tears. Her dear, dear friend, writing to her, speaking of love and happiness, of all that she’d meant to her, and it suddenly felt overwhelming, like a current was pulling her under and she’d never be able to escape.

But suddenly she felt a surge of energy inside her. Thrusting the bedclothes back, she got out of bed, quickly dressed, and ran down the stairs, the recipe book under her arm. She headed straight into the kitchen, where Audrey and Zelda were cooking the day’s pies.

    With a certainty as old as the hills, she knew that there was only one thing she could do.

She had to cook.

As Nell burst into the kitchen, Zelda looked up, baking pan and floury rolling pin stopped in midair.

“Are you all right, Nell?” She put the rolling pin down and went over to her.

Nell shrugged her off. “I’m fine,” she said in a manner that indicated that she really wasn’t.

Sliding the recipe book onto the table, she sat down incredibly straight and began flipping through quickly.

“We need to cook for the funeral tomorrow.” Her fingertip raced down each page, looking for the right recipes. “We need this to be a funeral feast that would make her proud.”

Audrey pulled out a chair. “Good thinking. I’m assuming everyone will come back here for cake and so forth.”

“Cake? We need to make this a feast. This is to be a celebration of her life—and what better way to celebrate than with food. We’ll have to make the best spread anyone’s had for the whole war!”

Zelda raised a penciled eyebrow. “We’re running a little short on ingredients. These pies are for the new customer in Middleton. We can’t tell them that we couldn’t manage it.”

“We’ll just have to do our best,” Audrey said. “Use all the tricks of the trade to get around it.”

The list was hastily drawn up, as Nell was eager to get cooking.

Zelda leaned forward to whisper, “Do you think she’s well?” as she and Audrey watched Nell simultaneously whisk up egg white, fold baking parchment into a makeshift piping bag, and boil potatoes for mashing.

“I think it’s all part of her own individual grieving process,” Audrey whispered back. “Perhaps you could get Gwendoline to pop back to Fenley Hall to see if there’s any oil left over there—in fact, tell her to bring any ingredients she can find back here. We can do with anything we can get.”