Still, if she were in the market for another husband—albeit a challenging one—and was as nicely turned-out as Mrs. Bright always was (perspiration and flushed cheeks weren’t permitted for the likes of Phyllida Bright), Harriet Puffley might be doing a good amount of extra cooking in order to capture Bradford’s attention—just as she had done for Mr. Puffley, long before he realized he would be marrying her. He’d been the type to tinker around about engines and motors, too. Perhaps that was why she liked Joshua Bradford so much; in some ways he did remind her of Mr. Puffley.

Come to think of it, Mrs. Bright never did talk about her own husband. If there even had been one.

All housekeepers took on the honorific Mrs. whether or not they had been a bride, so it was impossible to know for certain. Perhaps that was why Mrs. Bright didn’t seem interested in Bradford—it was possible Mr. Bright was still a factor in her life. Although, Mrs. Bright had been dining at the café with that nice Dr. Bhatt several times over the last few months, so it would seem she was open to at least some male attentions. Mrs. Puffley did not think for one moment that Dr. Bhatt was merely looking for a dining companion.

As efficient and capable as she was, and as pleasant and reasonable as she acted, Mrs. Bright was still rather a mystery to Mrs. Puffley. Even though they’d been working together at Mallowan Hall for three years, they were cordial colleagues, but not what one would call friends. Of course, Mrs. Bright was one of the upper servants, and they normally didn’t fraternize much with the lower servants. But she’d never given the impression to Mrs. Puffley that she thought herself above her—certainly not. The woman simply kept her own counsel regarding her past—although Mrs. Bright certainly did not keep her opinions to herself about anything other than her past, Mrs. Puffley thought with a short laugh. She was fairly certain Mrs. Bright was younger than her own forty-five years, and had somehow landed the coveted position as housekeeper at a relatively young age.

Propelled by these ruminations, Mrs. Puffley had by now reached the top of the hill. She pushed her bicycle past the BMW sedan parked in the drive, eyeing it with appreciation, for Mr. Puffley’s love of automobiles had rubbed off on her.

Moments later she was knocking at the back door.

“Why, Harriet! What a nice surprise!” cried Mrs. Dilly, wiping off her flour-dusted hands with her apron. “I daresay I have a suspicion why you’ve come by this afternoon,” she added in a lower voice, looking about conspiratorially.