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“Certainly. If I can.”

“Come with me then and bring it along.” She rushes out of the office towards the parish hall, calling back at me as she goes. “I completely forgot the vicar asked me to arrange tea and treats for today’s baking committee meeting. It’s their first, and the sale brings in the most money at the fete. It’s the biggest event of the year.”

I race after her, cake held steady in front of me.

“Hurry along. They’ll be here any minute.”

The soft strikes of her black pumps against the carpet turn to pings as she hits the wood floor. Whereas my broad, low heels make a dull, utilitarian thump as we cross the large low-ceilinged room off the back of the church to a table placed against the side wall.

“Set it there.” Peggy waves to the table and continues towards a door to the right. “If you’ll start unfolding those chairs, I’ll get a brew on.” She taps the first chair in a long row of stacked wooden ones propped against the wall, then disappears into the parish kitchen.

She returns as I’m circling up the fifth chair.

“Not like that.” She waves a hand at me again. “Most committees sit that way, but Mrs. Sharpe likes to be in charge. All ten chairs must face hers in a straight line.” Peggy quirks a half smile. “You’ll see.”

As we position the chairs, Peggy keeps talking. “You know, Gem. You should think about joining this committee and getting to know people more outside the store.”

“Believe me, I meet plenty of people inside the store. The whole village shops there.”

Peggy straightens, her hands on her hips. “It’s not the same thing and you know it. A life in Great Rollright means being part of the community.”

Before I can answer—and to be honest, I’m not sure how I could answer—she walks back to the table and starts pulling out cutlery and plates from the cupboard. “I am so sorry to do this with your cake. But I’ll take the first slice and make a wish. I promise.”

I cross the room to stand with her. “It’s your birthday gift. It’s fine.”

She cuts a slice and puts it on a plate, but we go no further as footsteps ring down the corridor. “I need the tea,” she whispers and dashes again to the kitchen.

Three ladies walk into the hall. Mrs. Sharpe, Mrs. Wynn, and, I believe, Mrs. Barker. I’ve worked hard to memorize every customer who comes into the store, but I still haven’t gotten them all sorted. I smooth down my burgundy wool dress and adjust the black patent leather belt I’ve paired with it, making sure the clasp is front and center. It’s not a fabulous dress, but it is one of my finer ones, purchased on sale last spring at Selfridges when the winter wools were marked on deep discount. I wore it because I’ll admit I was hoping to run into Charlie today—now that I’m not avoiding him.

As the three women approach I mentally recite their names again to make sure I have them right. Mrs. Sharpe. Her name is easy. With her hair pulled back so tight, ash brown liberally strewn with grey, and her storm-grey eyes that snap and spark, her person fits her name. Mrs. Wynn wasn’t so straightforward at first. Until I realized she tends to shop on a Wednesday, and remembering got easier. Mrs. Barker is a little tougher, if that’s who she is.

Then Lady Marchmont steps from the shadowed hall. Without even realizing it I reach for and squeeze Peggy’s arm as she’s pouring tea. Lady Marchmont, just like the first day I met her, is dressed magnificently. Today she’s wearing a rich brown wool skirt and a matching short fur-lined jacket. Her blond hair is swept back under a tiny hat, and her shoes and gloves match her ensemble perfectly.

“Good morning, ladies,” Peggy calls cheerfully as she straightens. She looks straight to Lady Marchmont and adds with an almost deferential nod. “My lady.”

I simply stand silent.

Peggy glances at me, notes she’ll get no intelligent support from my direction, and rushes on. “We are all ready for you this morning, and Miss Gemma Brown generously provided the cake for your meeting today.” She winks at me, then addresses the ladies once more. “We’ll be at my desk if you need anything more.”

But I can’t leave. The ladies study my cake, and I’m filled with this immense pride, almost as much as I felt when my corner bookshop sold ten books on its first day in business.

“You made this, dear?”

“How marvelous.”

“Where did you get all that coconut?”

I nod, beam, and answer that I ordered it special into the store and would be happy to do the same for any of them who wish to bake it. I also volunteer to copy out the recipe if they’d like. I am chatty, witty, and even offer to serve them. While cutting the slices I work very hard not to babble, not to tell how the magazine said the cake was a royal standard and was served at Princess Elizabeth’s last birthday party, not to tell how the recipe itself had twenty-four detailed steps, and certainly not to tell how I almost dropped it on the Hastingses’ cat, then again upon delivering it this morning. I resist telling all of that but fail with regards to Princess Elizabeth.

“The cake is said to be her absolute favorite. She had two parties for her last birthday, and it was served at both.”

“Yes, dear.” Mrs. Sharpe accepts the last slice, and Peggy pulls at my arm.

It’s past time to leave.

She squeezes it tight as we walk back to her office. “What got into you?”

Her eyes morph from teasing to panic as a horrible gagging sound reaches us and sends us running back. All I can think of is Lady Marchmont, but it’s Mrs. Sharpe making the noise. She stands, beetroot red and sputtering. Panic fills her eyes and tears run down her cheeks.