Free Wartime Sweethearts by Lizzie Lane Page B

her.’
    ‘Well, today I hate her. Really,’ said Ruby, shaking her head. ‘I just cannot cope with her taking against Gareth like she does.’
    ‘Perhaps she’s jealous that you’re fond of somebody else besides her.’
    Ruby reached for her stockings, rolled up together on the bedroom chair. ‘It’s all over between me and him! Bright lights here I come!’
    Having fastened her girdle and pulled up one stocking, Ruby sprang to her feet hoisting up her skirt so she could fasten her suspender, snapping it into place with an air of finality.
    Mary was glad to hear it but refrained from saying so. Ruby was rarely receptive to criticism – one of the reasons why her baking wasn’t as good as it should be.
    ‘I will miss you,’ Mary said softly.
    Ruby finished brushing down her skirt and looked at her sister. ‘I’m very grateful, you know. Really I am.’
    Mary, hands folded behind her head, sighed. ‘It was just a loaf of bread. Pies, bread, and such like, it’s only food.’
    Ruby disliked the pensive expression on Mary’s face. She badly wanted to express exactly how she felt about Mary’s generosity. She could have said that Mary had always been the better baker, but she held back.
    ‘Shame about it getting stepped on,’ Mary added. ‘Clumsy oaf. I presume it was a man.’
    Ruby was angry too and not just for his clumsiness. The way he’d declared his entry an Italian classic annoyed her, what with that and having to share a prize with him.
    ‘That man who put tomatoes into his entry. He said he should have won outright. He said the British people had no taste and no imagination when it came to food and that the apple loaf was mundane and didn’t deserve to be placed.’
    Mary sat bolt upright. ‘He said that to you?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Ruby. ‘Didn’t you notice he was a bit full of himself?’
    Mary was hesitant. ‘Not really. I was concentrating on the competition.’
    The truth was she could still hear his voice in her head and could still see those expressive eyes. But what he said about British food was inexcusable.
    ‘Well, he was downright rude when he was stood next to me up on the rostrum. Right arrogant sod he was. American, I think.’
    ‘I don’t care what he was. He’s got a cheek. What does he know about British food?’
    Ruby shrugged. ‘If he’s not British, it can’t be a lot. But he definitely had a very sarcastic attitude. Mind you, he didn’t say it too loud. He said it quietly so no one else could hear.’
    Mary immediately raised herself on to her elbows. ‘He said that and then stepped on my bread?’
    ‘Like I said, he had a foreign accent. I hear he’s staying with Mrs Hicks at Stratham House. I think they’re related.’ Ruby frowned as a suspicious thought came to her. ‘Do you think he might be one of them fifth columnists they were on about at the pub? Sent here by that bloke Hitler to find out our secrets and make us feel bad about ourselves?’
    ‘I wouldn’t have thought a spy would head for Oldland Common and enter a baking competition,’ Mary replied while trying not to laugh.
    ‘Well he did. He also said that women didn’t make good bakers and that apple bread was a peasant bread. It was his fault I dropped it. And then he stepped on it.’
    Mary sat up.
    ‘He did it on purpose?’
    ‘More or less,’ Ruby grumbled.
    She eyed her sister sidelong, waiting for Mary to get on her high horse about all things British.
    ‘The cheeky sod! He stepped on my bread!’
    The moment she was out of bed, Mary began grabbing clothes. Ruby instantly regretted expanding on the truth. The judge had said his entry was an Italian classic and Michael Dangerfield had merely confirmed it. He certainly hadn’t meant to step on the loaf she’d dropped. But once a lie was out it was hard to take it back.
    ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked not daring to admit she’d lied.
    ‘I’m off to have a word with our foreign friend. You said he was staying at