In the new silence, she walked on, her footsteps slower.

The residence of Ambrose Hart was a generous Georgian country house, bejeweled with unrestrained lilac wisteria. Set back from the street by a private lane, the front lawn was dotted with croquet hoops in readiness for an impromptu game.

It was a large house for a single man. Lavishly styled as the quintessential English village residence, it bespoke his taste for fine living and extravagant—some would say flamboyant—style. An antique brass bell hung beside the oval front door.

“Let’s see what this is all about, then.” Audrey pulled the bell, and his spindly old maid, wearing the traditional black dress with a white apron, showed her inside.

It had been years since she was last there. She’d forgotten how opulent it was. Burgundy silk wallpaper hung on the walls. Full-length drapes in ivory and gold fell luxuriously to the floor. Milky white statues of ancient Greeks were perched on plinths, overseeing the proceedings. A blaze of candles and table lamps threw flickering beams of amber and rose over the much-adorned rooms. It appeared random, but Audrey knew that Ambrose must have spent hours arranging his trophies, artworks, and photographs of himself with the likes of Vera Lynn, the king, and even Winston Churchill himself.

Knowing she was late, she glanced around for a clock. There was none. She sighed. Ambrose Hart was clearly the kind of man who felt that time should wait for him, not vice versa. How different from the frenetic exhaustion she always felt.

The first person she saw as she was shown into the drawing room was Ambrose, clearly imagining he was the height of sophistication in a purple velvet smoking jacket, a paisley cravat cleverly tied to conceal the beginnings of a double chin. In a practiced pose, he leaned against the mantelpiece smoking a cigar. A few people were dotted around the capacious room, looking uncomfortably out of place on various sofas and chaise longues.

    “Ah, Audrey, do take a seat.”

A few faces turned toward her. The first person she recognized was her sister, Lady Gwendoline, making a shrewd little nod from her seat, which was closest to Ambrose.

Then there was the old cook from Fenley Hall, Mrs. Quince. She was seated precariously on a piano stool in front of a polished grand, which had an unlikely copy of one of the more challenging Chopin études open as if Ambrose had spent the early evening tinkling away. The Fenley Hall kitchen maid, Nell, stood quivering behind Mrs. Quince, just in front of a wall-high bookshelf. Audrey went to stand beside her.

“Are you entering the contest, too?” Audrey whispered to the girl.

“Well, me and Mrs. Quince are entering together.” She had a twinkle in her eye, excited. “Lady Gwendoline said Mrs. Quince could join, but she doesn’t have the time what with all Sir Strickland’s dinner parties, so she said that we should join as a team. That way I can do all the cooking. I-I’m not much of a speaker, so she can do the talking if need be.”

Putting a hand on Nell’s shoulder, Audrey whispered, “Make sure you get the accolades, though, since you’ll be doing the cooking. Will it be you on the radio if you win?”

Nell went white. “Well, I-I’m not very g-good at s-speaking…”

Ambrose Hart gave a practiced cough, and the muffled conversations fell silent.

“Welcome every one of you to The Kitchen Front Cooking Contest. What a splendid way for our community to come together. I can’t wait to see your marvelous new recipe ideas.” Ambrose’s hands opened and folded in a much-practiced gesture of goodwill.

A noise at the door made everyone turn to see another arrival. A startlingly attractive woman stood at the threshold, her blond hair almost white from peroxide. In her early thirties, her face was rather square, with a smooth yet determined jawbone. Her eyes were wide and sensual beneath heavy mascara, and her straight, even nose sat perfectly above a full mouth. Her beauty and poise were only marred by the fact that her blond hair clashed horridly with a large maroon hat and a lot of bright red lipstick. Donned in a peacock-blue dress, she posed at the door as if she’d walked into a cocktail party. As she looked around, her smile dropped to reveal a look of hardened resolve, a presence that took up half the room. She grimaced as she looked at Audrey, taking in Matthew’s old trousers and boots.

    “Who’s she?” Audrey whispered to Nell.

But Nell just shrugged and muttered in a small voice, “I-I think she must be from London.”

With a practiced mince, the woman crossed into the very center of the room, looked around for somewhere to sit, and then perched primly on a silver velvet chaise longue, gazing up at Ambrose with practiced admiration, obviously trying to impress him.

“Zelda, Zelda Dupont,” she purred. “Cordon Bleu–trained restaurant chef.”

“Welcome.” Ambrose’s calm fa?ade was cracking. It was plain to see that he wasn’t happy about having to host a cooking contest. His world of celebrity brought him into the type of cultured circles that he enjoyed—he boasted No?l Coward and E. M. Forster as good friends. Dealing with a band of competitive local ladies—one of whom he’d be forced to humor on his precious program—must have filled him with utter dread.

“Can we get on with it?” Lady Gwendoline snapped.

Ambrose promptly recomposed himself and resumed his speech.

“Without more ado, I wish to set out the rules. There will be three rounds of the competition: Round One a starter, Round Two a main course, and Round Three a dessert, pudding, or cake. Each person may use only their own rations and should strive to keep the cost down. She should speak coherently about each dish, as if she were presenting on The Kitchen Front. Extra points will be given for the ingenious use of the rations.”

“How will you decide the winner?” Lady Gwendoline was being especially forthright.

“After every round I will award a score out of ten to each competitor, and then at the end we will simply add them up. The person with the top mark will be the winner, who will become a regular presenter on The Kitchen Front.” His eyes flickered over to Mrs. Quince, but it seemed impossible to read them.

    A murmur buzzed around the room and Lady Gwendoline took the opportunity to remind Ambrose that she naturally had a superior speaking voice.

Zelda Dupont watched them contemptuously. Audrey was certain she’d never laid eyes on the woman in her life. What was she doing there?

Ambrose continued. “The winner will enjoy plenty of press attention and undoubtedly an array of new opportunities in addition to the BBC offer.” He looked eagerly around the room. “This could be the moment to make your mark, as well as doing your very special bit for the war effort.”

Audrey felt her heart miss a beat. She had never registered how much she yearned for validation, for her cooking, for her hard work, for losing her husband to this horrific war. How much she needed a boost! A win might very well keep her going.

Ambrose continued. “The first round will be held on the second Saturday next month, in the hall at seven o’clock—unless there’s an air raid, in which case we will need to reschedule. The rounds will be a month apart: one in July, one in August, and one in September. You must prepare your dish at home and then bring it along under a silver dome to keep it hot.”

The door opened, and Ambrose’s elderly maid shuffled into the room bearing a platter with a number of small sherry glasses, each with approximately one thimbleful of sherry. Ambrose stepped forward, and instead of taking the trembling tray from the old woman, relieving her of her burden, he simply took a glass and gestured for the others to do likewise.

He then raised his glass to make a toast, announcing grandly, “To The Kitchen Front Cooking Contest!”

Everyone stood in a circle, dutifully repeated his toast, and raised their glasses before taking a sip of the sherry, which was just about all there was in each glass.

    Lady Gwendoline sidled up to Ambrose with an alarming attempt to smile.

“How marvelous, Ambrose, of you to share your radio success with us.”

He eyed her with suspicion. Lady Gwendoline was notorious in the village for two things. The first was roping people into doing things they didn’t want to do, like helping at her cooking demonstrations or giving up their spare rooms to evacuees and war workers. The second was concluding every conversation she had with some kind of gossipy criticism, such as Mrs. Quince’s ever-increasing girth or the vicar’s drink problem.

“Lovely.” Ambrose’s smile wavered. “Lovely.”

Not to be outdone, Zelda Dupont was on the other side of him, evidently also trying to impress. “Did you know that, in France, every chef concocts his or her own blend of herbs? With my French background…”