The Kitchen Front

by Jennifer Ryan

  Something had been irreparably roused within her, and regardless of the dire risks involved, she simply couldn’t let it go. James Denton had brought out tenderness and passion, emotions that she’d never known. They had suddenly gushed forth, firing up a desire, a yearning for human contact—a human connection that she’d never had.

  But now it was ruined by that shameless hussy.

  As the car swung into the drive to Fenley Hall, her mind veered chaotically back to the more pressing issue: the maid catching her and the chef together in the kitchen. Worry, closely followed by fear and panic, surged through her.

  “Let’s just hope that stupid girl keeps her mouth shut,” she muttered as the car drew to a halt. But then, as she got out of the car and stood before the imposing edifice, she was filled with dejection.

  “Another tedious night on my own,” she murmured, treading despondently up the grand steps.

  However, that was not how the evening was to unfold.

  As she opened the door to the hall, thuds and bangs accompanied by raging shouts echoed down from upstairs. The butler was nowhere to be seen, and neither were Sir Strickland’s assistants.

  She looked up the sweeping, marble staircase. From the bedrooms came the unmistakable sound of Sir Strickland tearing the place apart in the most colossal rage she had ever heard.

  “What now!” she mumbled, trudging up the stairs, following the sounds into—of all places—her own bedroom.

  It was in chaos. He’d been pulling out drawers, emptying them everywhere, her petticoats, stockings, and lingerie spread over the rug, the bed, and the dressing table as if it had rained down in some kind of deluge. Skirts, dresses, and evening gowns had been thrown out of the wardrobe and lay scattered on the floor chaotically. An avalanche of makeup, perfumes, and hair adornments had been swept off the dressing table. The now empty chest of drawers had been knocked over, as had a tall lamp and a bedside table. On the far side of the room, a full-length standing mirror had been cracked—possibly with a fist—great spidery lines extending from a single, central blow.

  Sir Strickland didn’t hear her come in. He had his back to her, inside her wardrobe. Huffing and swearing, his accent returning to his gruff native cockney, he was more furious than she’d ever seen him.

  “Darling?” she began.

  He swung around, and she saw the bull-like rage in his face. His eyeballs glared white and globular against the throbbing veins beneath his deep red face, his neck tense with thick, rigid muscles.

  Fear gripped her. Had the maid told him?

  “What happened, darling?” She tried, and failed, to smile coercively, backing away to the door.

  “You wretched whore,” he said coldly, crossing the floor toward her. “I can’t believe I never saw it before. You’re nothing but a little money-grabbing slut.” There was a dark menace in his eyes, as if he could kill her.

  “What nonsense!” she took a shaky step back. “Where have you heard these silly ideas?”

  His eyes narrowed. “My own butler saw you with that fancy chef, here in my own kitchen.” His face creased into a snarl. “Do you want to make a fool of me? Do you?” His voice was a hoarse whisper, his lips wet from spluttering.

  “No, no—it’s a lie. He’s mistaken, darling,” She made a laugh, trying to make light of it, but it came out like a frail sob. “You know how he’s always loathed me. He’s making it up to get rid of me.”

  “He told me the maid was there, too. Shall I bring her up here? Ask her?”

  Would Nell keep a secret for her?

  Lady Gwendoline changed tack, feigning outraged indignation. “The chef jumped on me, tried to molest me. I managed to push him away after a few minutes. I wasn’t going to bore you with it, as I knew you’d cause a scene.” She took a deep breath, as if about to burst into tears.

  His voice softened sinisterly, stepping closer. “That’s not what I heard.” He grabbed her by the front of her silk blouse, pulling her close enough for her to feel his hot breath, the stench of scotch acrid and overwhelming. “I heard that you launched yourself on him. That you only stopped because the maid came in and disturbed you.”

  “She saved me from him!”

  He eyed her. “You threatened her if she told anyone.”

  She tried to wriggle free from his grasp. Without a shred of doubt, she knew that he’d kill her.

  This was a man who was out of himself with rage. A man who didn’t follow rules.

  “After all I’ve done for you.” He grabbed her hair with his free hand, yanking her head back so that he could snarl into her face. “I made you into a lady, gave you everything you ever wanted, and it was all just a game to you, wasn’t it?”

  “N-no,” she gasped, pleading with him. “It was a small, small mistake. Please!”

  A vengeful grimace came across his face. “No one plays games with Reggie Strickland. No one gets the better of Reggie Strickland.”

  She struggled to break free, not caring that her hair was pulling painfully away from her scalp, tearing out in parts. It was life or death. “Please, Reggie, please!”

  There was a catch of a laugh behind his voice as he growled, “Do you think you’re going to get away? Do you really think you can?”

  She took a great gulp of air, and cried as loudly as she could, “Help!”

  He laughed at her. “Who’s going to come to your rescue? My butler and my assistants are loyal to me, unlike you.” He spat at her. “Even the maid is loyal to me. You’ve never done anything to help her, have you? You’ve been thoroughly obnoxious to her, overworking her.” He let out a laugh. “Why would she risk anything to help you?”

  He was right, and she knew it. She’d been vile to Nell. Why would she help?

  Releasing his hand from her blouse, he struck her hard across the cheek, the pain at once electric then hot with sharp pain. Reaching across he ripped her blouse open, shredding it, tearing into her skin as he pulled it off her. “This belongs to me,” he yelled. “And this, too.” He yanked off her petticoat, glee in his eyes.

  “Stop! I bought them. They’re my clothes.”

  “I bought them, and I bought you,” he said through gritted teeth, the hand on her hair moving to her neck. “And since you don’t know what that means, I’ll show you.”

  He pressed her up to the wall, his hand pushing into her throat.

  She gasped for breath, trying to cry out.

  Her mind began reeling, the world turning around. She had to close her eyes, try to focus. Reality was blurring, spinning, becoming too much to bear.

  In the distance, she heard a bang, a voice from the other side of the room.

  Suddenly, the hand that pinned her against the wall was gone, and she slid to the floor.

  “If you kill her”—the voice was stern—“then you’ll have to kill me, too.”

  She heard her husband cross the room. “Get out! Before I murder you both!”

  Opening her eyes, she gasped as she saw the owner of the voice.

  It was Nell, standing at the door, a large carving knife clenched tightly in her right hand.

  Audrey

  The wooden clock struck midnight, and Willow Lodge was, thankfully, quiet. The boys were long since fast asleep, and Zelda had gone to bed. The only sound came from the kitchen, where Audrey stood beside the table, her hands in a deep, enamel bowl, rubbing morsels of yellow margarine into thick, gray wartime flour.

  Nighttime cooking, although not yet a routine, was not unusual for Audrey, and tonight the contest had put her behind schedule.

  “Maybe I should withdraw from the contest,” she muttered to herself, frustrated. “I’m not going to win, and the way that I’m going, I’ll be out of our house with nothing to show for it.”

  At first, she ignored the small tap on the back door, praying that it wasn’t yet anothe
r sign that the house was, indeed, about to gently collapse.

  But as she carried on mixing, it came again. This time louder.

  She went to the door, calling through the pane, “Who is it?”

  A quiet, familiar voice came back, “It’s Nell. We’ve got a problem. Can we come in?”

  Hurriedly, Audrey unlocked the door. “Who’s out there with you?”

  Nell stood gloomily on her doorstep, a small sack-like bag in her hand. Even more confusing, beside the girl was her sister, Gwendoline, looking more than a little disheveled.

  “I know I’ve been awful, Aude, but can I come in?” Lady Gwendoline’s voice was croaky.

  Audrey, frankly intrigued, stood back for them to enter.

  Without a word, they traipsed in and collapsed into chairs at the kitchen table. Ominously, Lady Gwendoline also had a bag in her hand, a large paper one, bulging slightly. She saw Audrey looking at it, and simply said, “It’s some of my things.”

  “Ah,” Audrey replied, as if it made complete sense, when it didn’t at all. “Shall I make some tea?”

  “That would be very kind,” Nell said. “We’re sorry to bombard you like this, only we didn’t have anywhere else to go. Lady Gwendoline didn’t want to disturb you, but I thought it would be all right.”

  With a hefty sigh, Audrey pulled up a chair beside them and prepared herself for a long story. “Well, let’s start at the beginning, shall we?”

  She was right. By the time they had come to the end of their story, seven cups of progressively weaker tea, three of the scones (meant for the Middleton café), and one small glass of sherry had been consumed.

  “So what happened after Nell entered the bedroom?” Audrey asked her sister.

  “He started harrumphing around, because he knew that he couldn’t do anything—save killing us both, but he’d never get away with that. The butler would have known it was him, if it wasn’t patently obvious already.” Lady Gwendoline was feeling a little more herself after the sherry. “Then he shouted at us to get out, telling me that he was going to divorce me, strip me of my wealth and title, and I’d be labeled an adulteress for the rest of my days.”

  “What did you say back to him?”

  “Well, I told him that one kiss—regardless how delightful—did not make me an adulteress, and that if he wanted the world to know that his wife needed to look elsewhere, then he should go ahead.”

  “Then he stopped raging,” Nell said. “He just seemed to collapse after that, saying that the world didn’t need to know about his private life.”

  Audrey slapped them both on the back. “Bravo, Nell! What an incredibly brave thing to do! And, Gwendoline, nice to see you going out with your head held high.”

  “And that’s precisely what I did. I grabbed a few clothes, looked at Nell and said, ‘Come on! I think it’s time to leave.’ ”

  Nell leaned forward. “We ran down the back stairs to the kitchen, then I quickly packed some things, and here we are.”

  Audrey looked from one to the other, the realization dawning. “Do you mean to stay? Here?”

  Gwendoline suddenly looked sheepish. “I know that you don’t have to take me in, especially after all that’s happened between us, but please take Nell. The only reason she’s homeless is because she rescued me. Just let us stay one night, and then we can see what to do tomorrow.”

  That crushing sensation came down upon Audrey, that feeling that she couldn’t cope. She scraped her fingers through her hair, pulling it as she reached the ends. “Why can’t anyone understand?” she wailed, trying not to wake the boys asleep upstairs—that was the last thing she needed. “I can barely look after myself and the boys, let alone take more people in. I already have the pregnant evacuee, and she’s due to have the baby soon.”

  No one knew that the pregnant evacuee was Zelda. Audrey had decided that, in light of them being in the same contest, it was better kept a secret. Since it had been organized by the Middleton billeting officer, Lady Gwendoline never knew the pregnant evacuee’s name, which meant that no one need know.

  Also, Zelda was worried that if anyone found out that she was pregnant she would be thrown out of the cooking contest. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that. Audrey had grown used to having Zelda there, and her rent and fuel money were useful.

  “It won’t be for long,” Nell pleaded. “We could stay in the one of the outbuildings.”

  “You don’t understand, I simply can’t have anyone else here—in the outbuildings or not. I’m just too busy, there’s no food on the table, and not enough money coming in.” She slammed her hands down on the table. “My husband has died. He’s dead, you know. He’s not coming home. Not now, not ever.”

  Silence hung in the air for a few moments, dust settling back down, the measure of midnight and the sheer magnitude of their situations bearing down on them all.

  “I’m sorry, Aude,” Gwendoline whispered. “I didn’t think—”

  “You never think.”

  Silence again.

  Then slowly, softly, Gwendoline said in a low voice, “I have an idea.”

  They looked at her.

  “What is it?” Audrey said, in a way that indicated that no idea could ever be good enough.

  “We can help you, Audrey. I may not seem to be awfully good at a lot of things, but organizing has always been something of a talent. Even though living with Sir Strickland hasn’t been easy, I have learned one or two things about business and bureaucracy. I could help you with your pie business, if you give me a chance. It would make up for us landing on you like this.”

  Nell continued for her. “And I can bake for your business.”

  “We can step in so that you have time to heal, time to grieve. That is what you need to do. Until you do, you’ll never find any sense of peace. We will be Audrey for you, Audrey.”

  Audrey’s eyes glazed over as she looked at her sister. “You—you two—will be me?” Then she let out a sad, short laugh. “You can’t do it! You have no idea how much I have to do, how much cooking, my techniques for making the rations go further, how to make the pies so delicious that my customers have to keep paying me, how to help the hens lay, how to talk to the bees.” She began counting things off on her hand, waving it almost hysterically. “And the boys—they need me, I’m their mother. You can’t take the place of that.”

  “You’ll still be here. The boys will still see you, still talk to you, but I can keep them organized, clean, and fed, make sure they go to bed at a good time.” Gwendoline shrugged. “I know you think I’d be dismal at looking after children, but I’ll do the best I can—and Nell can help, too.”

  “You can tell me how you want me to cook,” Nell added softly. “Mrs. Quince always says that I’m quick to pick things up.”

  Audrey sighed. “Stay for tonight. We can talk about the rest in the morning. I think we could all do with a good night’s sleep.” She looked at her sister, whose hand was soothing her reddened throat, her face flinching with the pain and memory of it.

  In all her rancor, Audrey had forgotten what her sister had been through.

  She leaned forward. “We should put some cream on your neck. It looks sore.”

  “No, no.” Gwendoline pulled her hand away quickly. “It’s nothing.”

  Yet Audrey could see the fear in her sister’s eyes. She couldn’t help wondering what being married to Sir Strickland had been like all these years, whether he had done anything like that before. But she knew these were questions for another day. She suddenly felt a strange relief that she’d had Matthew—for as long as she had.

  “Let’s find some beds for you,” she said, helping Gwendoline to her feet.

  And together, the three women went upstairs.

  Gwendoline

  Back in the house of her childhood, Gwendoline felt the warmth of familiarity as
she followed Audrey upstairs. The place was tatty and unkempt, far from the pristine finish of Fenley Hall, yet it was cozy, friendly—safe.

  Audrey found some old blankets in a cupboard and took them into a spare room with an old, wrought-iron double bed in the middle. A vague smell of damp permeated around them.

  “I’m afraid this is the best of the empty rooms, Nell. At least the roof is fixed.”

  “I’ll be fine in here.” Nell quickly took the blankets from Audrey. “I don’t know how to thank you, Audrey.”

  She waved away the thanks, backing out with a conclusive, “Goodnight, then. Sleep well.”

  After closing the door, she turned to Gwendoline. “For tonight, you can sleep in the double bed with me. The other room is in terrible condition, as I remember explaining to you when you foisted a pregnant evacuee on me.” There was an edge of bitterness to her voice. “At least I’m not so heartless as to force you to sleep in there.”

  Gwendoline didn’t reply. She could hardly bear to think about how horrid she had been. How shortsighted and arrogant it was to think that she might never need the help of her only sister.

  The master bedroom was at the front of the house. The old-fashioned gold drapes were already drawn, and a battered, beige rug coated the vast space between the end of the double bed and the window. The dark mahogany wardrobe and dresser wore the fatigue of antiques, and the shade of the floor lamp trailed a disintegrating fringe. The bed was unmade, the cover hastily pulled up where Audrey had left the bed that morning.

  “Thank you, Aude,” Gwendoline said softly, quietly taking off her shoes, wriggling her skirt off, sliding into the bed in her slip, pulling up the disheveled covers.

  Audrey spent longer getting ready for bed, vanishing out for a while to the bathroom, returning to the room and carefully undressing. Then she came over to Gwendoline and whispered, “Could you sleep on the other side?”