SHORTLY BEFORE MIDNIGHT, Marianne pressed a hand to the small of her aching back and saw the last dish stowed by the scullery maid. She bade the girl good night, sending her up to the attic quarters with a candle, then took a moment to admire the newly peaceful room in solitude.

After three days of frantic activity, the kitchen was calm again. Dark, save for Marianne’s lamp and a crescent smile of moon through the high-up window. Clean from flagged floor to plaster ceiling. The staff was proud but weary to the bone.

And they would all be up early to make breakfast and do the whole round of meals and chores again, and yet again.

The Donor Dinner had come off without a hitch—as far as the guests knew, and that was good enough for Marianne. They’d never know the burnt-cream tarts were supposed to have spun sugar on their candied tops, but that it had all melted away. They’d never know that they’d been meant to have brawn, but it hadn’t set properly, and so instead, the shreds of meat were fried to a crispy hash and stuffed beneath the pheasant’s skin.

And they’d never know that the cook had overseen her assistant and four kitchenmaids with only half her mind on the task and her heart entirely absent.

It didn’t help that the four maids Jack had hired were named Jane, Joan, Jill, and Jenny. Honestly! Names could start with letters other than J.

Marianne had peeped at the arriving guests, timing the readiness of dishes with the arrivals of the final couples. The men Mrs. Brodie invited had come in superfine and patent leather, with signet rings and gold fobs and generous bellies and loud laughs. The women had been in silks and jewels and feathers, their finery casting the glittering serving dishes into shade.

Elegant and wealthy as they all were, they were still people with appetites. The first polite demurrals past, they ate their food with the same eagerness the academy’s young ladies demonstrated. The footmen reported to the kitchen each time they came for new dishes. The guests had finished the first course down to the bones; they had drunk the wines, then eaten yet more, then drunk an absolutely amazing amount.

The performances had been a success too, reported the footmen, from the sweetly framed needlework and watercolor paintings, to the recitations of poetry and translations from French. This last had been the cause of much amusement, as the students in French were given random phrases and sentences by the guests. As more and more wine was imbibed, the suggestions grew increasingly ridiculous. When Mademoiselle Gagne’s prize student composed an ode in French to the remains on a lady’s plate—a stalk of asparagus, the delicate bones of a quail, and a few droplets of spilled wine—the company had agreed that such an effort could not be topped.

Next year, they’d all try to top it, though. And somehow they would.

Just now, the notion made Marianne tired.

No—everything made her tired. She was damned tired. Since her work was finally done, she could have her bed in her own room.

Lamp in hand, she dragged the small distance to her chamber—only to find the door open, a lit lamp already within, and a quiet figure awaiting her.

She squinted at the shadow and glare, recognizing the headmistress. “Mrs. Brodie? Is everything well?”

“Yes, very well. I only wanted to speak with you about our grand event.”

Marianne set her lamp beside the other on the washstand, then glanced around the small space. “Ah—have a seat on the bed, if you wish? I’m sorry there’s no chair.”

“There’s not much of anything in here.” The older woman settled herself on the narrow bed, her back as straight as if she were seated on an antique fauteuil. “You look as if you are planning to leave the academy at a moment’s notice.”

“My room always looks like this,” Marianne excused. “I only sleep in here.” She bent her knees a tad, pressing her lower back against the wall to relieve its ache. Just being able to lean, not to hold up her own weight for a moment, was a relief.

“I see,” said Mrs. Brodie. Not in the polite way a woman might accept a small confidence over tea, but in a quiet way, a slow and understanding way. As if she’d realized something that Marianne didn’t intend her to.

For her two years as cook, she’d occupied this room without noticing its lack or loneliness—or her own. Yet they’d been obvious to Jack. They were obvious too, it seemed, to the headmistress.

But that was all Mrs. Brodie said on the subject. “The dinner was a great success, and the credit must go to your food and to the teachers who prepared the students so well.” When she named the amount raised in subscriptions and donations, Marianne’s eyes widened.

“You’ll be able to accept more scholarship students,” she realized.

“I will. And I’ll have to raise fees for the next year; so many inquired about having their daughters attend.” She smiled, standing. “I should let you get to bed. Morning will come early for us all, and the girls will be wanting breakfast.”

On her feet, she hardly reached Marianne’s cheekbone. Yet she extended a hand, placed it on Marianne’s cheek, as comforting as a mother. “You do your best for us. Every meal, every day. Thank you for that, Mrs. Redfern.”

Marianne’s eyes watered. She squeezed them closed. “It’s not enough.”

“Not enough for what? Not enough for a cook to feed everyone at an academy?”

Not enough for me to be proud of myself. Not enough to go home.

Because she couldn’t go home until she did so in triumph. And that was the one thing she could never feel until she did return. Until she felt forgiven herself. You’re not the only one who had losses, Jack had told her, and she’d been the cause of them.

Mrs. Brodie stepped away. Marianne heard the rattle of the older woman’s lamp. She opened her eyes to see the headmistress, aglow with light from the lamp she held. “You are an exceptional young lady.”

Marianne dashed at her eyes. “It’s in the name of the academy. They all are.”

“Yes, they all are. There is no such thing as an ordinary young lady, because each is a human entirely unique.” The older woman tipped her head, as lovely as a Madonna painting. “And that includes you. Don’t you think your kitchenmaid always knew that? Not the newest ones, but the erstwhile Mr. Grahame?”

Each is a human entirely unique. The simple sentence, spoken with calm, struck Marianne like a thunderbolt.

She’d faulted Jack for placing his family’s needs above her, hadn’t she? Even though she knew they didn’t balance. She was just one person, and they were many. But it wasn’t a matter of mathematics or weight. It was a matter of people, and each was worthy.

To Jack, Marianne was. That was why he’d come to London—when he’d thought maybe, just maybe, she’d think him worthy of her.

And she’d sent him away. Just as she had cut herself off from her own family, all because of her own anger and humiliation.

“I’m not proud of what I’ve become,” Marianne said in a choked voice.

Mrs. Brodie shrugged. “Maybe not all of it, no. I could tell you what I’ve done to survive, and you’d think—well. That’s a story for another time.” She looked thoughtfully at the lamp’s globe, rubbing at a smut on the glittering glass. “But whatever comes, you’re equal to the task. Isn’t that something to be proud of?”

I deserve the best and am prepared for the worst. Whatever comes my way, I am equal to the task.

She’d heard this daily from the young ladies, believing it idly. But she hadn’t known it until Jack appeared at the tradesmen’s entrance of the servants’ quarters with a little basket of strawberries in hand. Until he was part of her life again, and then wasn’t.

He’d hidden a truth she couldn’t possibly argue with, that he wanted to visit his sick mother, and he cared about helping Marianne make a success of the Donor Dinner. Those things were...sweet. Thoughtful. If he hadn’t hidden his betrothal to Helena Wilcox eight years before, she wouldn’t have thought anything of it. She’d have chided him for the surprise of four new maids, then come around to thanking him.

But they had a history, and his swift and sudden betrothal had been part of it. The now was never just now; it was the result of everything that had come before. Their present was too new to overlay the past, and so the past had cracked through. And though she’d forgiven him for it, what was the point in forgiving him again if he hadn’t changed?

Or had he?

By hiding his betrothal until the humiliating truth came out in public, he’d spared himself alone. But by hiring four kitchenmaids to help Marianne, he’d spared her. He’d thought about what she would need in his absence. And she’d been vain to think she could do without extra help; all four of the Js, plus Marianne and Sally, had been busy since the moment of Jack’s departure.

Oh, he was worthy. He was the best. But he’d never come to her again.

She’d have to go to him. To swallow her pride, and go home, and beg forgiveness.

If that was the worst, she was prepared to do it. She was equal to the task. She’d make everything right.

Mrs. Brodie was still looking at Marianne, now with a knowing curve to her lips. “Something to tell me?”

Marianne took a deep breath. Stood up straight, realizing she’d lost the heavy, exhausted feeling that had been weighing her down. “I need to beg leave of you, ma’am. To make a trip home as soon as is possible. It might be...quite a long leave.”

“Very well. Will you be ready in the morning?”

Marianne blinked. Easy as that? “Oh—I—yes, of course! Though I hadn’t meant to depart so soon and leave you without a cook.”

“So you’ll change the course of your life to spare me the trouble of contacting an agency? That’s obliging of you.”

Spluttering with surprised laughter, Marianne granted the truth of this. “Sally—Mrs. White—will do well as cook, I think, given more experience. You might like also to hire some of the new kitchenmaids on a permanent basis. They are all good workers.”

“I’ll ask Mrs. White”—the headmistress took on the new title seamlessly—“what she would prefer, in consultation with the housekeeper. And you are always welcome here. As a cook or, if you need any honest work, a chambermaid.”

Marianne laughed. It was easier to laugh now. The easiest thing, now that there was something to do next besides cook, and cook. “I have some money awaiting me...I think.” Her sisters had been dowered, but what had her mother done with Marianne’s share of the money?

She’d never thought of it before. Never thought of Lincolnshire as a place she might return, or her sisters and their families and her mother as pieces with which she might fit again.

Or Jack, and his mother and sisters. The land, the hives, the bees.

She had so much to tell the bees. And there was so much forgiveness to beg.

“I shall see my mother and sisters,” Marianne said unsteadily. “And Mr. Grahame, if he’ll have me.”

“A woman can never have too many sisters,” said Mrs. Brodie. “You won’t forget, I hope, how many you have here.”

After suggesting a time for Marianne’s departure the next day, the headmistress bade her good night. When she took her lamp and closed the door, the little room still seemed bright. It only needed Marianne’s own lamp.

She sat on the bed, stroking the plain quilt that covered it, and looked around the simple room. She’d never made this space a home, saying the kitchen was her home. But her heart was divided. Maybe some part of her had always known she would leave again.

Without realizing it at the time, she’d always called Lincolnshire home. And she loved the idea of going toward it, not escaping. She could return home proud of what she’d learned. She knew a useful trade; she knew how to fight. She had sisters of the heart and, thank God, a home. Maybe someday she’d be able to be proud of how she mended the relationships she’d hurt.

All she could do was try.

For now, there was one more thing to do before sleep. She hung her apron on its hook, then pulled her book of recipes from the pocket. It was small in her hand, but represented much. Lessons learned, failures, successes. Experience documented, ignorance corrected.

She didn’t need it anymore. She remembered it all.

Hefting the little book one more time, she set it on the washstand. A little something to help Sally, maybe. Something to show that Marianne had been here and that she’d made something new of herself.

Mrs. Brodie’s Academy had been a good place to be, and she could come back someday if she wanted to. Because people left, and they returned. And it was all right.

If she was at peace in her own heart, and with those she loved, then it was all right.