I patted the dough together and held up my sticky hands to show them to Claudia (and the camera), and then I dumped the contents of the bowl onto a floured sheet of parchment paper and began combining and folding. So natural and comfortable was the rhythm, I could talk easily. I was far less nervous than I’d been yesterday, and I hoped that came through. I wouldn’t have thought it possible that I could almost ignore the giant black lens of the camera following my every move.

  “Despite its name, Thornecroft Castle isn’t a castle, but rather a stately home. My grandmother started working as a cook’s assistant there when she was fourteen.”

  “Very Downton Abbey,” Claudia said with a light laugh.

  “According to my grandmother, it was. One day she ran into, literally, a young American solder named Eric Campbell on the streets of Yorkshire, married him when he got out of the hospital, and came to America as a young bride.”

  I patted the dough, cut the circles, and laid them on a prewarmed baking sheet.

  “Those look quite delightful,” Claudia said as the scones went into the oven. “They were quick and easy to make from ingredients most people have at hand. I’ve worked long enough in this business to know that what looks quick and easy often isn’t.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “But in this case what you see is exactly what you get. Scones really are amazingly simple and require no special ingredients or equipment.”

  “I can’t wait to try one. I see you’re using a French-style wooden rolling pin, but a solid marble one is on the shelf over there.” The camera focused on my hands and then lifted to the marble rolling pin displayed in front of a row of different sized mixing bowls. “Do you have a preference?”

  I decided not to tell her that I didn’t use the marble rolling pin anymore, the one I’d carried from job to job around New York City, since I’d wielded it to defend myself from a deranged killer. “This style fits comfortably in my hands, and the scone dough doesn’t need as much pressure as chilled pastry does.”

  “Okay,” Reilly said. “That was good.”

  The cameraman lowered his camera and gave his back a good stretch while I washed my sticky hands at the sink.

  I next prepared lemon tarts, while Scarlet chatted about her mother, who was apparently the best pie maker in all of Lafayette, Louisiana. I’d made the pastry yesterday and kept it in the fridge overnight, so now I rolled it out and cut the circles to fit into individual tartlet pans as I explained how pastry benefits from time to chill. I prepared the lemon filling and added it to the shells prior to popping the gorgeous little tarts into the oven.

  Scarlet said, “That’s it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Isn’t tart an English word for pie? I thought you were making pie. My daddy would have laughed to see those teeny tiny little things.”

  I stumbled for something polite to say.

  “Thing is, Scarlet.” Tommy stepped forward. “This type of cooking isn’t for men who’ve put in a hard day’s work. Men like your dad and mine. It’s for people—bored, spoiled society women mostly—who want to dress up and gossip with their friends and pretend they’re aristocracy.”

  I put the mixing bowls into the sink and ran water over them. When the tarts were ready to be served, I’d pipe a generous dollop of whipped cream on the top of each one. I decided this wasn’t the right time to mention that.

  “Lily?” Reilly said. “Have you got anything to say about that?”

  “You want me to reply?”

  “Uh, yeah, honey,” Scarlet said. “That’s kinda the point. I talk. You talk.”

  “We all talk.” Tommy threw me a wink.

  * * *

  The day dragged on. The judges took turns talking to me, and occasionally arguing among themselves, while I prepared shortbread, pistachio macarons, and an Earl Grey chocolate tart and tried to make intelligent conversation. Baking done, it was time to make sandwiches. I’d be serving chicken poached in Darjeeling, herbed cucumber, and roast beef on crostini. Today I’d decided to add additional herbs to give more color to the cucumber sandwiches.

  “You call that a sandwich?” Tommy said as I cut the crusts off the thinly sliced white bread containing the cucumber slices. “My dad would have had more than that stuck between his teeth after his lunch.”

  I refrained from sticking my tongue out at him.

  “Nice image, Tommy,” Scarlet said. “Not.”

  At last, I was done. Nothing left but to serve afternoon tea to the judges. Marybeth and Cheryl had spent most of the day in the dining room, allowed into the kitchen only between one batch of baking and the next to do the dishes and tidy everything up in order for me to make a mess again. Occasionally, I’d heard the voice of my agent, aka Bernie, asking Reilly or Josh how everything was going and whether I needed anything. They always replied, “Fine,” and “No.” Rose, I guessed, had gotten bored and gone home.

  The judging would take place in the dining room, and the judges would enjoy a properly served afternoon tea. We’d set the table with my personal set of Royal Doulton Winthrop, white china with a thin red trim adorned with delicate gold leaves, which had been my sixteenth birthday gift from my maternal grandparents. Fresh flowers in crystal vases and stiffly ironed red linens completed the table setting.

  If Tommy made a crack about his mother not being able to afford Royal Doulton, or if Scarlet commented that my macarons wouldn’t feed her father and his family of twenty-seven children, I’d smack them.

  We took a long break while everyone had their makeup refreshed, the crew helped themselves to the contents of the catering table set up beside the driveway, and the cameras and other gear were moved into the dining room. As I crossed the patio, heading for the makeup trailer when it was my turn, I saw Reilly and Josh huddled together next to an equipment truck. Their voices carried on the wind coming off the bay, and I could tell they were arguing, although I couldn’t hear the words. Reilly threw his hands in the air and stalked past me with angry strides, his face set into hard lines.

  “Lily? I’m ready,” Melanie called.

  As I turned to go into the trailer, I glanced back to see that Josh had a satisfied smirk curling around his lips.

  * * *

  We enjoyed a proper tea party, other than the presence of the cameras, the jumble of lights and cables and other equipment, and the circle of people watching us, some with headphones on and some with clipboards or iPads in hand. Bernie gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Reilly leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, scowling. Josh, on the other hand, looked pleased with himself. To my surprise, Allegra Griffin hovered in the background, next to Gary Powers. Before sitting down, I waved Bernie over.

  “That woman, the one by the vestibule, standing next to Gary, is from North Augusta Bakery. Can you ask Reilly if she’s allowed to be here?”

  Bernie whispered in Reilly’s ear. Reilly glanced over at the woman in question and nodded.

  “Yes,” Bernie told me. “She’s allowed to watch, and in turn, you’ll be permitted to visit the set when they’re filming at her place. Reilly isn’t happy about Gary being here but said if he minds his manners, he can stay.”

  I took my seat at the table with the three judges. Marybeth came to take our orders for tea. Claudia studied the tea menu and then put it aside and asked me which brew I’d recommend. Scarlet said, “I don’t like hot tea.” Tommy informed us that where he came from, tea was tea, the thicker and the stronger and the more sugar added, the better, and you were happy to have it.

  “I enjoy a Creamy Earl Grey at this time of day,” I said to Claudia. “So refreshing for a break after a hard day at work.”

  “I’ll have that, then, please.” She handed her menu to Marybeth with a smile.

  Marybeth’s own smile was so wide and so frozen in place, I feared it would be stuck there permanently. The camera, I noticed, never focused on her or Cheryl’s face, just their hands as they brought the full teapots—a larger one containing Creamy Earl Grey for Claudia and me, a smaller pot with English breakfast for Tommy, and a glass of iced tea for Scarlet. I keep iced tea and lemonade on hand as part of the children’s menu. I considered telling her that, then decided she might take offense.

  Next came small bowls containing strawberry jam, clotted cream, and butter, which Marybeth arranged in the center of the table. Scarlet asked me what these were for, and I explained that they went with the scones. I made sure they knew the jam was made by a woman I knew personally, from fruit grown by a Cape Cod berry farmer.

  The food was served on two three-tiered stands, arranged in the traditional manner: perfectly cut sandwiches on the bottom, plump scones in the middle, delectable desserts on the top.

  “May I?” Claudia said to me, with a nod toward the larger teapot. I nodded, and she poured for us both. Tommy served himself tea, adding a generous glug of milk and two heaped teaspoons of sugar, and the judges tucked into the food.

  I held my breath, my stomach in knots. Claudia admired the texture of the scones and explained to Scarlet and Tommy that the flaky layers were perfect for holding jam and cream. Scarlet admitted that the lemon tarts were yummy. The judges tasted everything, while I tried not to watch their faces for signs of what they were thinking. The judges made polite but vague conversation as they ate. No one offered an opinion on the quality of the food. Scarlet nibbled at everything before demurely tucking the residue aside to be whisked out of sight. Tommy tried everything and consumed it all, while Claudia enjoyed a scone, a selection of sandwiches, and a single piece of shortbread.

  “The presentation of afternoon tea is very formal, isn’t it, Lily?” Claudia said as she dabbed her lips with her napkin, indicating she was finished. Tommy leaned back in his chair, a satisfied look on his face. I dared to hope that meant he’d enjoyed it.

  “It doesn’t have to be,” I said. “Anyone can enjoy a cup of tea and a homemade scone, even a store-bought scone, in the middle of the day, but here at Tea by the Sea, I want to provide my guests with a truly extraordinary experience, to pamper them, if you like.”

  Marybeth brought a second pot of Creamy Earl Grey. She had to slip behind Tommy’s chair to get to Claudia’s place. As she did so, Tommy turned slightly; Marybeth stumbled and lurched forward. She let out a yell of surprise, and the pot went flying. She grabbed it and managed to keep it from hitting the floor, but hot liquid spilled from the spout, spraying Tommy’s lap. He leapt to his feet with a bellow of shock.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Marybeth cried. “Are you okay?” She put the teapot down and grabbed a napkin.

  “No, I’m not okay,” Tommy yelled. “What’s the matter with you? You can’t carry a teapot?”

  “I . . . I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it.” He snatched the napkin out of her hands and dabbed at his lap. “Call yourself a waitress? You’d be better out in the fields, picking the food, not serving it. I could have been seriously burned, would have been if I were a woman wearing a skirt, with bare legs, like Scarlet there. As for you, Lily,” he snarled at me, “you need to get yourself competent staff if you want your business to be in the big leagues.”

  “Bummer,” Scarlet said.

  I’d been momentarily shocked by the strength of Tommy’s reaction, but I finally found my wits and leapt to my feet. “That’s completely unfair. Accidents can happen to anyone, as any chef should know. Marybeth, are you all right?”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears; her lower lip trembled. For the first time, the camera was pointed directly at her, but I didn’t think she noticed. “I . . . I’ll be . . . I’m fine.”

  “You’d be on your way out the door if you worked for me,” Tommy yelled. “You stupid—”

  His anger was way out of proportion to what had been a minor incident. Marybeth’s face crumbled, and she burst into tears. I was about to tell Tommy to get out of my establishment, that I wouldn’t tolerate the bullying of my staff, but someone beat me to it.

  Cheryl pushed herself between her daughter and Tommy. Her eyes blazed fire, her fists were clenched, and her jaw was set. I thought of a mother cat defending her kittens. “How dare you! You tripped her. I saw it happen.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “You stuck-up English jerk. You might think you’re a fancy chef and a big-name TV star, but you’re nothing but a bully, and I don’t know why anyone stands for it.”

  The camera closed in. It swung between Cheryl’s face and Tommy’s.

  “And who might you be?” he sneered. “Another waitress working the tourist season in a small town? At least you look like you’ve been around the block a few times, pet, so you might not be totally incompetent.”

  Marybeth lifted her hands to her face and sobbed. Cheryl was struck silent. But only for a moment. “You are a very nasty man. I wonder how you can sleep at night.”

  “Oh, my dear. I have no trouble sleeping at all. If you’re asking if you can join me, sorry, but you’re too old for my taste.”

  I glanced around, expecting someone to intervene. When I saw the look on Reilly’s face, I realized that wasn’t going to happen. He looked about as happy as a child cavorting on the beach on a sunny summer’s day. Josh was nowhere to be seen.

  I took Cheryl’s arm. “Enough, please. Don’t give them what they want. Let’s go.”

  Cheryl’s mouth opened. It closed. It opened again, and she said to me, “You’re right.” She put her arm around Marybeth’s shoulders. “Come on, honey. Let’s make ourselves a cup of tea. Off you go.” She gave Marybeth a gentle push, and Marybeth headed for the kitchen. Cheryl moved to follow her, but she stopped inches away from Tommy. She looked directly into his face. “Someone, someday, will put a stop to you and your bullying.”

  “Probably,” he said.

  “And it might well be me.” She followed her daughter.

  “We’re done here,” I said when the kitchen doors had swung closed behind them.

  Reilly stepped forward. “I’d say we have what we need for today.”

  “Permanently. I don’t want you back.”

  “You signed a contract, Lily. The judges will consult amongst themselves here in your restaurant, over scones and a nice pot of tea—glass for our Southern belle—and then they’ll call you in to tell you their decision. That’ll happen tomorrow. If we need to shoot any more scenes, we will.”

  “I don’t want you people here.”

  “I don’t much care what you want,” Reilly said.

  “What’s going on here?” Josh stepped between us. “Never mind. Like the woman said, we’re done here for today.”

  Bernie, who’d been watching the whole thing from the sidelines, crossed the room with rapid strides. “Come on, Lily. Let’s go. We need to consider our options.”

  She was right, I realized. I’d accomplish nothing more by getting angrier. I looked at Tommy. He returned my stare with a duck of his head and a surprisingly bashful smile. Almost, I thought, as if he were offering me an apology.

  Bernie and I went into the kitchen to find Marybeth drying her eyes and Cheryl trying to comfort her. Bernie opened the back door. “We need air even more than we need tea. Come on, ladies. Outside.”

  We stood in the shade of the big old oak shading the entrance to the kitchen. Traffic passed on the road, and we could hear the voices of the TV crew packing up their equipment.

  “I’m sorry,” Marybeth said. “I shouldn’t have lost my cool.”

  “You were perfectly entitled to lose your cool,” I said. “He was playing for the camera the whole time.”

  “He tripped me. I’m sure of it. You know I’m not clumsy. ”

  “I believe you. It was a setup.” I wondered if that was what Reilly and Josh had been arguing about shortly before we gathered for the judging.

  “Someone should put a stop to it,” Cheryl said. “Professional bullying for entertainment’s not right.”

  “No,” Bernie said, “but it brings in the audience.”

  I checked my watch. “Look, it’s almost three. Marybeth, you go on home. Put your feet up for a little while, maybe have a glass of wine before your kids get home.”

  “We have to clean up,” she protested. “That TV crew won’t do it. Besides, I came with Mom.”

  “I’ll give you a lift,” Bernie said. “I have to get home, anyway. I’ve had a great idea for the villain in my book. I’m going to call him Thomas Yellow.”

  We burst out laughing.

  “Thanks,” Marybeth said when she could talk again. “I accept your offer. Both of your offers. I have to go to the washroom first, Bernie. Then I’ll be right out.” She went into the kitchen.

  “As your agent,” Bernie said, “I’m thinking of putting a hardship clause in your next contract.”

  “I shouldn’t have risen to the bait,” Cheryl said. “I’ve seen that show. At least once a season Tommy turns on some unsuspecting schmuck simply trying to do their job. All the better if he can get the tears to flow or lots of words they have to beep out.”

  “You protected your child, and that was the right thing to do,” I said. “No matter how old that child might be.”

  “How’d it go?” Simon came around the building, stuffing his gardening gloves into his pocket. “Looks like they’re wrapping up for the day.”

  “Don’t ask,” Bernie said.

  “You’re proof not all Englishmen are jerks,” Cheryl said.

  “What does that mean?” he asked.

  “It went well, until the very end.” I told him about the day, leaving out the dramatic finale. “They seemed to enjoy the food. They ate plenty of it, anyway, and I think Claudia, at least, liked the presentation. They’ll meet with me tomorrow, have tea again, and then tell me what they liked and what they didn’t, and give me a rating out of ten. Then they’re on to North Augusta Bakery. The highest score goes through to the next stage.”

  “Marybeth’s been a long time,” Bernie said. “Do you want me to check on her?”

  At that moment Marybeth came back out. She’d taken her apron off and was carrying her bag. I was pleased to see that her face and eyes were clear, the tears had dried, and she even had a slight smile on her face. “I’ll give you a call later, Mom. See you tomorrow, Lily.”