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celery, along with grated carrot—her mother-in-law would never have grated the carrot, but would have instead cut root vegetables into small cubes. She added thyme and savory to the mix, along with the meat, onto which she poured some gravy.
    The one ingredient not specified that Kezia added to each meal, and in copious amounts impossible to be weighed on the kitchen scale, was a love for her husband growing beyond affection, beyond the familiarity that led her to accept his proposal. It must be mentioned that there were those—both in the village and farther afield among others familiar with the Marchant family—who wondered if, and therefore, why, Kezia Marchant had married below her station. There was speculation that she might have envisaged spinsterhood looming and rushed into marriage at the first opportunity—though the long engagement would suggest not; indeed, the young couple had been putting money by for their future. Others thought Kezia had “settled” or that the Brissendens were attempting to better themselves. The truth was perhaps more simple. Each recognized the honesty in the other and felt—with an acknowledgement that had no need for spoken confirmation—that their trust was well placed. Their love was thus seeded in the rich soil of mutual understanding.
    While kneading, rolling, and lifting the pastry to line the pie dish, Kezia could think only of Tom, imagining him in the distance, a moving speck against the plane tree on the hill, walking down towards the farmhouse and along the road, his jacket thrown over a shoulder and held by a single finger. Tom’s hands were working hands, broadened by shovel and pick, by steadying the harness and driving a saw to coppice a few acres of woodland. Soon the kitchen would be filled with the fragrant heat of pie blended with the aroma of vegetables overcooked. With the meal almost ready, Kezia kept an eye on the window, a vigil for her spouse. When she saw him, off came her pinafore, consigned to the hook on the back of the kitchen door. She pushed back a stray hair and quickly checked her appearance in the mirror on the back wall, to ensure no flour had rubbed off on her face.
     
    “H ello, Tom.” Kezia went straight to him, always, when he entered the house, and this day was no different. She took his jacket and pressed her lips to his. Tom could not help but smile, pulling her into his arms. He had never in his life known his mother to greet his father in such a manner, and wondered if she ever had.
    “I smell a meat pie,” said Tom.
    “Ah, but a different meat pie today,” replied Kezia, putting on her pinafore once more.
    Tom washed his hands at the sink, scrubbed his nails with the brush, and picked up the clean linen towel Kezia had placed on the draining board. His father never washed his hands; never had water, soap, and a linen towel touch his skin between work and a meal.
    “What did you do this time?”
    “I’ve added a little something to the gravy, and some herbs to the vegetables—but don’t worry, I’ve massacred the greens for you.”
    Tom laughed and sat down, waiting for Kezia to set plates upon the table. The tea had been made and left to brew, so Tom reached for the pot, removed the knitted cozy—a wedding present from one of the villagers—and poured for them both. He had noticed that Kezia was thinner. Not awkwardly so, but in contrast to his own weight. One of the women working in the blackcurrant fields commented upon it, saying, “Ah, love, you’re a married man now. It’s contentment in your belly, that’s what it is.” And he’d blushed, then measured the woman’s picked fruit and moved on to the next row to check the trays.
    “You need a bit more food, Kezzie,” said Tom, pointing his fork towards her plate.
    “It’s enough for me, Tom. Plenty. What do you think of it?” Kezia waited for his appraisal of the dish before lifting her own cutlery.
    He had never heard his mother ask for an opinion upon