How she loathed being here.

She didn’t belong in the country with these simpletons. She had been the deputy head chef of London’s prestigious Dartington Hotel, no less. It was a position she’d only just attained after years of struggling against the hoteliers’ bias toward male chefs. The job had come to abrupt end when four hundred pounds of Nazi cordite smashed through the Dartington’s lobby, rendering the hotel a demolition site. Chefs were on the list of reserved occupations, exempt from having to do war work, but without a job, she was forced to go to the local conscription office. The woman there had chivvied Zelda into taking the job at the army pie factory, and she, reluctantly, had taken it.

    But now she was stuck in a khaki-camouflaged factory, cooking for workers who were only interested in sausages so full of bread that they’d been renamed “bangers,” spitting and even exploding when cooked. They caused wind problems, too, giving “banger” an extra meaning. If those weren’t bad enough, the government was insisting canteens take on board other cheap forms of protein, like salt cod, which was salted on board the large fishing ships to preserve it. To Zelda, it was just plain disgusting, the texture tough and the flavor hidden by the saltiness, even after prolific soaking. Today she was trying to mask it with a curry sauce—another Ministry of Food favorite.

She couldn’t wait to be away from here, back to a real chef’s job. Every day felt as if a small, sharp paring knife were being inched into her stomach, silently and slowly killing her from the inside.

But that, unfortunately, wasn’t the only thing inside her.

She was pregnant.

Ridiculous as it was for a woman of her age and ambition to allow such a mishap, that was the truth of the matter.

In some respects, the hotel’s bombing and her new location in the countryside had made her situation easier. As she became larger, her pregnancy would be more difficult to hide—but at least her London reputation would be spared. Her new shape was currently being held in check by a corset, although she had begun to wear it loosely. No, no one need know about the baby. She’d quietly let nature take its course, have it adopted, and then move back to London, ready to take a London restaurant by storm.

The only thing she needed now was new lodging. Her godly gray-haired landlady in Middleton had noticed the pregnancy and was being increasingly uncivil about it. Names for her and the unborn child seemed to pour irrepressibly from the old woman’s lips, as well as mounting demands for cleaning, scrubbing, and bible reading to make up for her fall from grace.

    Zelda had begun pestering the Middleton billeting officer daily to find a new place—now utilizing her pregnancy to get an urgent evacuee spot. They’d have to find a bed for her somewhere, and the sooner the better.

Far from having the professional air of a proper restaurant, the factory kitchen was chaos, the untrained staff chattering and dallying. One of the worst culprits, Doris could be seen randomly throwing in herbs, not realizing the bottom of the pan was burning. Zelda grabbed the spoon from her and began to stir vigorously.

“Cooking is like life,” she said, trying to recall the spirit of her top London restaurant. “You need to feel your way through, on guard at any moment to heighten the pleasure—make its memory last.”

“On guard for what?” Doris pulled one side of her lip up uncouthly.

“Your tongue must be forever imagining a wealth of flavors, as if they’re passing through your mouth for you to select. Ingredients must be at the top of your head, a memory bank of mixtures, blended spices, and flavors exploding with power.”

The girl let out a callous giggle. “Well, this salt cod curry is certainly exploding today! And not in a good way!”

Zelda grimaced. She couldn’t believe what her life had become, cooking for the likes of these women, with their vulgar ways and distinctly lower-class accents.

Unlike hers. She’d trained every day to remove the South London cockney from her voice, to pronounce the Ts, as in “little” and “misfit,” and to shorten her vowels, say “ectually” instead of “actually.” She even added a hint of a French accent—it went along nicely with a story she put around that her mother was French.

    “From Dieppe, you understand,” she’d add with a little smile. “She taught me everything I know about French cuisine.”

And her real mother? Well, the only thing she had taught Zelda was how to get on with life by herself, by hook or by crook.

And that’s precisely what she’d done.

No one needed to know she was really Mary Doon from Deptford.

Doris yelped. “I’ll redo it right now, Miss Dupont! Hold yer horses!”

“It had better be good,” Zelda snarled.

The kitchen, which was not unlike a factory itself, was to feed 250 workers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner seven days a week. Most of the unskilled women worked ten or twelve hours, some overnight, the silent, round-faced clock on the wall marching the minutes till the end of each shift.

The machinery never stopped.

The kitchen never stopped.

The war never stopped.

As she stalked around the staff, debating who to deride next, Doris came up beside her. “The manager wants to see you in his office. Important.”

By the manager, she meant Mr. Forbes, and by his office, she meant a sparse room on the second floor of an administration building alongside the factory.

Zelda took off her apron and reached for her jacket and hat. She always felt herself straighten up with confidence when she had a good hat on her head, especially an expensive one like the maroon felt one she had bought at a sale in Selfridges. Positioned correctly, the wide rim just above the eye, it could add a real sense of class to a woman.

It showed that Zelda was a force to be reckoned with.

She walked smartly up the stairs and into the corridor outside the manager’s office. Voices were coming from inside, and she paused, listening.

    “It’s not for you to decide, Forbes.” A man’s deep baritone boomed at the manager. She recognized it instantly as belonging to Sir Strickland, the factory owner. His weekly visits were renowned for the levels of shouting involved.

“But, Sir—” Mr. Forbes could be heard begging. “It was simply a short-term measure. The women like the music while they work.”

“This is a factory, man, not a village dance! Sort it out before next week, or you’ll have to find a new job yourself.”

With that, the door was flung open, and Sir Strickland came stalking out, glancing up and down at Zelda, focusing on her hat.

“Do you call that a work uniform?” he raged at her; then, drawing a deep, angry snarl, he strode to the stairs.

Mr. Forbes scurried out after him and then, spotting Zelda, put on a wavering smile, smoothing down his hair. Since Zelda joined the factory last month, it had been obvious to all that the manager had succumbed to her obvious female charms.

“Miss Dupont!” he said, sounding more like a needy child than the upper-class twit that he was. Forbes wasn’t a natural worker, but he had to do something for the war effort, unwilling as he was to involve himself with any of that dangerous business on the front line. His wealthy father had got in touch with an old chum, Sir Strickland, to place him somewhere suitable. That’s how it worked in these circles. You scratch my back (employ my otherwise unemployable son, thus keeping him off the front line), and I’ll scratch yours (ensure that the military takes your food contracts).

Zelda strode past him into his office. Forbes may be a toff, but he was also a wimp, and she was far too clever to let perceived advantage dictate the course of any meeting.

“How can I help you?” he began nervously.

“I believe it was you who wanted to see me,” she replied with a careful pause for him to contemplate his oversight.

“Oh, yes, of course.” He blanched, putting his spectacles back on and returning to his place behind the great desk. “Do take a seat.”

Zelda went to sit down opposite him, scooping up a local newspaper that had been left on the chair by Sir Strickland. Forbes was looking through the scattering of papers on his desk, trying to remember why she was there, so she glanced down at the newspaper.

    Since the war began, the press had been obsessed with frippery—today it was all about a choir competition in Middleton. They were trying to make up for the dismal progress of the war, a lot of which couldn’t be printed because it was simply too depressing, and the Ministry of Information had banned it anyway.

The Middleton Echo was folded over to one of the inside pages, a small cross in pen beside a lower column.

    Fenley dignitary, Lady Gwendoline Strickland, talks about her duty as a home economist, helping housewives across the nation.