“The main course is less than four weeks away.”
“I will help you,” he said with aplomb. “I have a dish that will win you this contest. You have to trust me.” His eyes danced with a sudden intensity. “My grandmother, she is the master of Italian food. She has taught me how to cook the most delicious dish in all the world.”
“What is it?”
A warm smile touched his lips. “Chicken cacciatore—have you had it?”
“No. We don’t get much Italian food here.”
“It is a chicken casserole made with tomatoes, onions, capsicums, and red wine.” He kissed his fingertips with enthusiasm. “It is heavenly.” He grinned. “My grandmother, she sometimes adds mushrooms, too—she knows the hills where we live like the back of her hand, always finding new herbs and plants to try. I miss her very much.”
“She sounds lovely. What is she like?”
“Always busy! She is quite old now, but all day and evening she is in the kitchen, cooking and taking care of her grandchildren. She likes to boss us all around. I think we are all a bit scared.” He laughed at the memory. “There is a red shawl she always wears because she says she is cold, but one time she told me it is because my grandfather gave it to her before he died. She said it is like having him with her, sheltering her from the wind and the rain, anything bad that might come her way.”
“She must be lonely without him.”
“Sometimes she says that she hears him, if she listens hard enough, that he is there, everywhere she looks, in the hills where they walked, in the fruit of the trees that he planted, and in the olives from the soil that he dug.”
“It’s a beautiful idea, that someone is still there.”
“It’s true. Sometimes I feel him, too. You need to take whatever memories you can.” They had come to the edge of the wood, and he looked over toward the hill, but then he shook himself back to the present. “But we need to plan your cacciatore. Do you have fresh oregano?”
“We don’t have oregano in Britain. There isn’t enough sunshine.”
“But there is something like it, no? A plant that smells the same. Do you know it?”
Before she had time to think, he grabbed her hand and drew her off down the path skirting the wood. “I will show you. There is some over here, beside the wall. We need to hurry though, before someone sees us.”
Beside a field was a broken-down wall. “It must have been a kitchen garden, as there are a lot of herbs growing wild.” He crouched down next to a clump of mixed shrubs.
“Here.” His hand gestured to a low bush, where dense, round clusters of pinky-mauve flowers sprang joyfully up toward the sun. “I want you to smell, to taste.”
A breath of a laugh escaped her, and she took a deep smell from one of the flowers. It had a familiar floral scent.
“Now, the leaf. Try the leaf,” Paolo urged.
Picking off a little sprig of leaves, she rubbed them between her fingers then held them to her nose. An unmistakable florid pungency leaped off them like a spritely elf.
“It’s marjoram,” she whispered. “Glorious, isn’t it? We get it from a woman in the village, Audrey. She grows anything you could ever want in her garden. Mrs. Quince puts marjoram in soups and stocks—so many things.”
“Mrs. Quince, you speak about her a lot. You are fond of her, yes?”
“Very much. She’s truly the kindest person in the whole world. When I arrived at the hall, she took me under her wing, taught me all her cooking secrets. She made me feel special and wanted.” She stopped, realizing that she had almost come to take her for granted. “She’s the closest thing I have to a mother.”
“I would like to meet her. Anyone who is good to you is a friend of mine.” He picked some marjoram leaves to try. “Mar-jo-ram?” Paolo repeated, rolling the word around his mouth. “Is it not like oregano? Taste it. Go on.”
She took a fresh leaf and popped it into her mouth. Immediately the pungent flavors sprung to life inside her mouth, an earthy, floral explosion of tastes. “No, it’s definitely marjoram.” She handed him another leaf to try. “I’ve never tasted oregano. Is it like this?”
After ponderously tasting the leaf, he replied, “It is like they are the same, except your mar-jo-ram has more flowers in the taste. Oregano is stronger, more powerful, for proper Italian cooking. I will cook a magnificent chicken cacciatore for you. And then I will teach you the recipe.”
She laughed. “That would be wonderful, but I can’t see how. Remember that you’re supposed to be a prisoner here.”
Suddenly, he stood up, his eyes wide open with an idea. “I will find a way to meet you. We prisoners have Sunday afternoon off work, can you come to join me?”
“I-I suppose so.” Nell thought of how busy she was, whether Mrs. Quince would let her go. “But how can you get away?”
They began walking back to the farmyard. “There are two old men who look after us—the ‘Home Guard’ they call them. They don’t worry where we are, as long as we don’t leave the farm. I could meet you in the wood, beside the old shooting hut. Do you think you can find it again?”
A giddy exhilaration sped through her. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’ll try my best. But I’m very busy. I don’t know if I’ll be able to come.”
He pressed her fingers. “Everybody needs time off, and you deserve it.”
Gazing into his bright, optimistic eyes, she rallied. “Yes,” she agreed. “I suppose I do deserve it, don’t I?” Her heart pounded fast with her own daring.
What am I saying?
But what harm could happen to her on a Sunday afternoon? And what pleasure—what fun it could be! And what about the contest? What better way to find a good dish for the next round?
Her future depended upon it.
He scooped her hand in his, the feeling of it soft and warm. “Whatever you decide, I will be there waiting for you. Just come, even if it is only for a short time. I will show you how I cook.”
His dark eyes bore into hers.
How could Nell resist such an invitation?
As they walked on, the farm buildings came into view. Their meeting was going too fast. There was so much more to say, to do.
But there, at the corner of the barn, he briskly looked around, and then, quick as a flash, he pulled her toward him and for one moment, his mouth hovered inches away from hers, his breath hot and sweet.
And then, a flash of fear passed across his face, and he let her go. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I forget myself.”
There was a cool emptiness where his lips were, where they should have been.
Why did he pull away?
And before she knew what she was doing, she took a step forward, put a hand behind his neck, and pulled his mouth down toward hers. His lips were as soft as velvet, pressing hers, and then she hurriedly pulled away, scared and shy.
They stood frozen, looking at each other, measuring their emotion, their connection.
“Paolo!” A man’s voice came from the farmyard gate. “Paolo!”
They jumped apart, and she turned to see one of the POWs waving, then speaking quickly in Italian, beckoning him to hurry.
Paolo turned to her. “I must go. Come Sunday, at two,” he whispered, beginning to run toward the yard. “Meet me at the old shooting hut.”
Within moments, he had disappeared into the farmyard.
Nell was alone. A cold breeze blew the hair on her neck, reminding her that it was time to leave. She was late as it was. Mrs. Quince would be worried.
And then, as she turned and strode swiftly up through the meadow, a strange, exuberant thrill fired through her. The full ripeness of summer, the wild marigolds, daisies, and forget-me-nots opened fully and fearlessly to the splendor of nature. Insects buzzed, bees lapped up the sweet lushness, cascading from bloom to bloom. As she paused on the cres
t of the hill, gazing down over the farm on one side, Fenley Hall on the other, she felt a new sense of elation, tarnished by only one small detail.
What on earth was Mrs. Quince going to say?
Lady Gwendoline
Lady Gwendoline was a perfectionist. Her art teacher had decreed her sketches to be without fault. Her schoolwork was not only punctual but also double-checked and immaculately neat. Her hair, fingernails, and even her nostrils, ears, et cetera, were all spotlessly clean. It was a trait that she shared with her husband, a man who expected flawlessness from her, no matter what.
And it was this that weighed heavily upon her mind as she sat at breakfast the following morning, praying that her loss at the contest hadn’t reached her husband’s attention.
“What’s this I hear, Lady Gwendoline?” Her husband boomed from the end of the long, polished breakfast table, newspapers spread out before him. “You came in last place in the cooking competition?” He jabbed a rigid finger at the paper. “And that sister of yours won!” He looked at her accusingly. “You didn’t tell me she was in the contest.”
“I-I didn’t think—it’s only a silly contest.” She put on a little laugh, which fell flat as it echoed around the expansive room.
He’d loathed Audrey from the moment he’d met her, finding her too middle-class, too dull. But now a troubling thought needled her: Sir Strickland would never have approved of her sister, however upper-class she was. It was simply more convenient for him if her family weren’t involved in their lives.
She felt her face redden for even thinking such a disloyal thought. Loyalty was one of the cornerstones of the marriage—or rather it was his. How clever, she thought. Loyalty conveniently stops me from telling other people about…
Well, everyone knew that marriage wasn’t easy. Every couple had moments they’d rather forget. Didn’t they?
“And look who came second?” His voice boomed aggressively around the room. “Our very own cook! What kind of imbecile competes against her own cook, the woman we pay to cook superior meals?”
“It wouldn’t be right for me to take first place in every round, darling.” She pushed her smoked salmon and poached eggs around her plate.
“But you are the very best cook, my dear, or so you inform me,” he added with a large helping of sarcasm, as if she had been exaggerating her abilities. “You can’t let others step in to take first place when it should rightfully be yours. Mrs. Quince is a first-rate cook, so it’s fair that she does well, but the others—how did you let them beat you?”
“Darling, it’s hard to say why. Zelda Dupont is an experienced restaurant chef. Ambrose adores the kind of haute cuisine that she cooks.”
He stabbed a deviled lamb’s kidney and thrust it into his mouth, a dribble of the rich tomato sauce—or was it blood?—trickling out of the corner of his bulging lips. “What I don’t understand is how your sister won. I thought you’d upped our orders from her so that she didn’t have a chance.”
“I did.” Lady Gwendoline let out a huff. “It was clever of her to use wild ingredients, but I don’t know how she threw it together in only a few hours. It must have been one of our mother’s recipes.” The inside of her stomach churned acidly as she was reminded that Audrey had their mother’s recipe book, while she was left behind, as always, trying to make everything up from scratch. Audrey had been the trusted child, her mother making out that Gwendoline had been the bad penny, a difficult child to trust. A memory of her mother shouting at her after she’d ripped one of Audrey’s coats made her shudder. She’d only borrowed it to get attention, like so many of the supposedly bad things she did. It was all so confused, so misunderstood.
Her husband’s sarcastic voice cut crisply through her thoughts. “Perhaps you need a little extra help with the cooking. It doesn’t do for my wife not to come in first place. Have a word with Mrs. Quince. Get her to help you. Even if that means her cooking the damn thing for you.” This last part was said in the way of a threat rather than a suggestion.
Lady Gwendoline acquiesced quickly, although she wasn’t at all sure she liked the idea. First, it displayed her weaknesses to a fellow competitor, and second, it might be regarded as cheating. Mrs. Quince may be a servant, but she made Lady Gwendoline uncomfortable. The old woman seemed to look inside her, see every morsel of self-doubt, every secret. The judgment of her mother had made her wary of older women: Her mother had been dismissive, critical, and cruel. Lady Gwendoline knew that it wasn’t rational to paint every other elder with the same brush, but she couldn’t help worrying—could Mrs. Quince see the hurt inside her, too?
Yet an instruction from her husband could not be ignored, so she duly arranged a meeting with Mrs. Quince.
She had chosen her private reception room. It was less extravagant than the grand drawing room, almost calming with its ivory walls and the delicate silvery upholstery. Dotted around were various highly varnished pieces that Sir Strickland had bought at auction, lending the place the atmosphere of an upmarket antiques showroom.
With a short knock on the door, Mrs. Quince tottered into the room. She was looking elderly these days. There was a lilt to her walk, as if pained by a bad hip or knee trouble. Her gray hair was turning white, the pink of her scalp visible between the strands. Her skin had adopted a consistency of tissue paper, gently creasing as she smiled.
Yet beneath the mask of servitude, there was a knowing gleam in her beady little eyes, and Lady Gwendoline couldn’t help wondering what the old cook thought of her. All politeness on the outside, that glint betrayed an amusement, as if she were seeing straight through her.
I’ll show her who’s boss, Lady Gwendoline thought ruthlessly.
First, she made a show of looking at her silver wristwatch, as if to suggest that the old cook was late. Then she left her standing in front of her, even though there was a chair a few feet away. The woman needed to be taught a lesson.
“You must wonder why I’ve asked you up here.”
“Yes, m’lady.” Mrs. Quince’s eyes flickered to the chair, a hint that it would be nice to take a seat.
Lady Gwendoline ignored it. “It occurred to me that you could be of use to me in the cooking contest. I am so incredibly busy, what with the Ministry of Food’s cooking demonstrations, not to mention my work as the Fenley billeting officer, that I simply don’t have time to research and try out suitable recipes. It might also be necessary for you to prepare the dish on the night. It’s terrifically important for the war effort that my recipes are well received.”
“Oh, why’s that?” Mrs. Quince said, the smile still on her face despite a barely perceptible trace of annoyance in her tone.
Lady Gwendoline frowned. The old woman appeared not to be playing the role intended for her.
“Well, it’s because of my position in the Ministry of Food,” she said loftily. “Not to mention my leadership role in the village—in the county, too.” Lady Gwendoline swept her hands together in a concluding gesture. “I know that you would want to put your expertise to the best possible use toward the reputation of Fenley Hall.”
Mrs. Quince retained her calm smile for a moment, nodding in comprehension, thinking about what to say. “It would be an honor, m’lady, to help you. I only regret that due to my age and health problems, I will be unable to do so.”
“I beg your pardon?” Having expected a full-hearted agreement, Lady Gwendoline was put out. “You must be misunderstanding me! I need a cook, and you, surely, are paid by this establishment to fulfill that role.”
Again, the old woman stood for a moment, that calm smile on her face, and then she replied, “I haven’t yet had the need to mention my poor health to you. Nell does all the physical work in the kitchen, and I direct her from my chair. She’s such a talented cook, but I can’t possibly supervise her to cook all of the hall’s meals, Nell’s entries for the contest, and then add your cooking to
my day as well. There simply isn’t time, and I know you wouldn’t want the quality of Sir Strickland’s meals to suffer.”
“What ails you, precisely?” Lady Gwendoline asked.
“It’s just old age, m’lady. I haven’t the energy I used to have. Sometimes I have pains in my hips, my back, and I have to sit down. All the cooking fumes make me cough. Me and Nell, we get on with the cooking very well together. But I can’t help you with the contest. It’s too much.”
“In that case, both of you will help me.” Lady Gwendoline clasped her hands together in conclusion.
Again, the long pause. “Nell’s your competitor, m’lady.”
“And?”
“Well, you can’t ask her to help you. It wouldn’t be fair.”
Lady Gwendoline sat up a little straighter. “I am her employer, Mrs. Quince. It is completely fair.”
“She won’t put the heart into your dish that she puts into her own.”
“Then perhaps we should swap dishes.” Lady Gwendoline’s smile grew wide with the notion. “That would ensure that I get the very best dish.”
The smile fell from Mrs. Quince’s face. “That would be cheating.”
Her beady little gray eyes fixed on Lady Gwendoline’s with a force greater than she had thought the old woman capable. There was a marked lack of respect in her tone, the absence of the “m’lady” at the end.
Lady Gwendoline turned and picked up her notebook, as if to take down details of a wayward member of staff. “Perhaps I will let Sir Strickland know about your poor health. I can’t imagine he’ll want to keep you after he knows that.” It was a threat: Either Mrs. Quince had to help her, or she would have the old cook sacked.
Mrs. Quince’s glare was even, patient. “I believe he might have trouble in finding a replacement cook. They’re difficult to come by, with so many jobs in factories and so forth.”
“But surely, you don’t want to leave Fenley Hall…” She didn’t want to spell it out.
The silvered chime of the carriage clock echoed between them.
The Kitchen Front Page 16