Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Clemmie had excused herself to find the bathroom, needing a moment to gather her thoughts. Five minutes later as she stepped back outside, Oliver was waiting for her. His expression was sheepish, almost guilty, and Clemmie immediately sensed that something was off.
‘Why didn’t you tell me she would be here?’ Clemmie asked. ‘Is that not a bit of information I should have known?’
Oliver straightened, meeting her gaze.
‘You must have known,’ she continued, her voice growing sharper. ‘If she’s Lady Rosalind’s granddaughter, you had to know she’d be here.’
‘This is your day. Don’t let her being here spoil it.’
Clemmie glanced over her shoulder, her gaze landing on Fiona, who was holding a flute of prosecco and wearing a smirk that could only be described as smug. The glint in Fiona’s eyes sent a fresh wave of irritation through Clemmie’s chest.
‘Why is she looking at me like that? It’s like she wants to tell me something, as though she thinks she has some sort of hold over me.’
Oliver followed Clemmie’s gaze. ‘Come on,’ he said softly, taking her hand. ‘Let’s go for a walk. The gardens here are gorgeous. You don’t want to miss them.’
Clemmie hesitated, glancing back towards Fiona, who was still watching them with that infuriatingly self-satisfied expression. ‘Whatever it is she’s dying to tell me,’ Clemmie said, turning back to Oliver with determination in her eyes, ‘it’s not going to ruin my day.’
They began to walk, stepping out onto the vast expanse of manicured lawns and blooming flowerbeds that stretched as far as the eye could see.
The air was fragrant with the scent of roses, and a soft breeze rustled the trees, their branches casting dappled shadows on the ground.
But even as Clemmie marvelled at the beauty around her, Fiona remained on her mind.
After a few minutes of silence, she couldn’t hold back any longer.
‘I can’t picture you with her,’ Clemmie blurted. ‘Not even for a quick fling.’
Oliver glanced at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s not your type,’ Clemmie said, her tone more frustrated than she intended. ‘She’s so … smug. I can’t picture you with someone like that at all.’
Oliver’s gaze was fixed on the path ahead. ‘I told you, our families have known each other for a long time,’ he began, his voice measured. ‘Lady Rosalind and my grandmother have been friends for decades and I think they both quietly hoped Fiona and I would end up together.’
Clemmie frowned, her steps slowing as she absorbed his words. ‘Like some sort of arranged marriage?’
‘Not quite,’ Oliver replied, ‘It was never formal. Just … an unspoken understanding, I suppose. A wish more than anything else… But there’s something you need to know,’ he shared.
Clemmie’s stomach twisted, her mind racing with possibilities. ‘What is it?’
Oliver hesitated. ‘I invested in her business.’
‘You’re partners with her in her bakery business?’
‘Yes, and if I take my money out, her business would more than likely fold. But between you and me, I want out.’
‘And how do you think that will go down?’
‘I think it’s safe to say she won’t be happy. Fiona doesn’t like losing. She’s always been competitive, which isn’t a bad thing in business, so hopefully she can get another backer. Even if I hadn’t met you, it would have been something I would have thought about doing. Come on … listen to that…’
Just then, a fanfare sounded. They quickly made their way back to the marquee.
Clemmie placed her hands over her heart, overwhelmed by the surreal sight of the royal chefs serving slices of her torte on gleaming plates.
They hurried closer, and her heart swelled with pride when she saw the bold, elegant sign beside the table:
Winning Royal Baking Competition Recipe by Clemmie Rose, The Café on the Coast, Puffin Island.
‘Go on,’ Oliver insisted. ‘You need a photo with your torte.’
Clemmie allowed herself to be ushered closer, and Oliver eagerly pulled out his phone.
She posed beside the sign, then held up a plate with a delicate slice of the torte, its chocolate clementine topping glinting in the sunlight.
Oliver captured every angle, laughing when she struck a playful pose holding a fork.
‘Perfect,’ he said, snapping a final photo. ‘These are going straight on social media – or maybe the café’s wall of fame? Because after this I bet you have lots of famous people visiting your café.’
Clemmie laughed, her nerves momentarily forgotten as she imagined her little café bustling with customers eager to try the torte that had won royal acclaim.
The thought of people flocking to Puffin Island for a slice of her great-great-grandmother’s creation filled her with both pride and disbelief.
Before she could respond to Oliver’s playful teasing about a wall of fame, a familiar voice interrupted.
‘There she is, the woman of the hour!’
Clemmie turned to see Lady Rosalind approaching alongside Oliver’s grandmother.
‘A masterpiece if ever I saw one,’ Lady Rosalind said. ‘It’s no mean feat to win The Royal Baking Competition. It takes hard work, tradition and a bit of courage, too.’
Clemmie flushed at the praise. ‘Thank you.’
Lady Rosalind picked up a plate with a slice of torte, studying it with the precision of someone who truly appreciated the art of baking. She held the fork delicately, like a wand, as though the act of tasting was something sacred. But before she took her first bite, she leaned in closer.
‘Over the years, I’ve sampled many cakes and bakes from the royal kitchen,’ she began, her voice tinged with nostalgia. ‘There was one chef in particular who was very fond of me. He used to leave me a slice of cake most days in a rather amusing hiding place. You’ll never guess where?’
Clemmie tilted her head, intrigued. ‘Where?’
Lady Rosalind laughed softly, a rich sound that hinted at countless untold stories.
‘The back of a grandfather clock, just outside the kitchens. I’d slide the little panel open, and there it would be, wrapped neatly in a linen napkin.
I suppose we thought ourselves quite clever at the time. A secret little ritual, just for us.’
Clemmie couldn’t help but laugh, the image of a younger Lady Rosalind sneaking cakes from a clock both endearing and amusing.
Lady Rosalind smiled fondly at the memory before fixing her gaze back on Clemmie. ‘Now, tell me about this recipe of yours. How did it come to be?’
As Clemmie explained, Fiona appeared at Lady Rosalind’s side.
Clemmie hesitated for a moment before continuing, a wistful smile tugging at her lips as she came to the end of her story. ‘In her recipe book, she wrote, “This will be fit for the royals!”’
‘That’s marvellous,’ Lady Rosalind said, clearly delighted. ‘Beatrice sounds like quite a woman.’
‘I believe she really was,’ Clemmie agreed.
Lady Rosalind’s smile softened. ‘A recipe like that isn’t just food, it’s history, tradition, love. It carries the spirit of the person who created it and judging by the way the royal chefs are handling it, I’d say your family would be immensely proud.’
Oliver’s grandmother reached out, giving Clemmie’s hand a reassuring squeeze. ‘Your great-great-grandmother would be thrilled to know her recipe is being enjoyed by royalty, and by us,’ she added with a smile.
Lady Rosalind finally lifted her fork and took her first bite of the torte. Her expression shifted subtly as she chewed, her brows knitting together ever so slightly. She swallowed, placing her fork down with deliberate care.
‘What do you think?’ Clemmie asked, her voice laced with nerves.
Lady Rosalind paused for a moment, her gaze thoughtful. ‘It’s … remarkable,’ she said slowly. ‘In fact, it tastes exactly like the torte I’ve tasted many times over the years.’ She glanced at Oliver’s grandmother, then back at Clemmie. ‘I would even go so far as to say it’s the same recipe.’
Clemmie blinked, taken aback. ‘The … same? It can’t be.’
Lady Rosalind nodded. ‘There’s no mistaking it. This torte tastes exactly like the one that’s been around in my family for generations, and the Royal Family, too.’
Before Clemmie could process the revelation, Fiona took a sip of prosecco, her smirk as sharp as ever.
‘Well, isn’t that interesting,’ Fiona cut in. ‘I wonder how that could be. Tell me, Clemmie, did you cheat? Did you make up that charming little story about your Café on the Coast to win votes?’
Clemmie’s cheeks flushed, a mix of shock and indignation bubbling inside her. ‘Excuse me?’
Fiona raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s all very convenient, isn’t it? A torte recipe with royal roots, passed down through generations, suddenly winning The Royal Baking Competition. Almost … too convenient.’
‘That’s enough, Fiona,’ Oliver interjected, his tone firm and unyielding. ‘You’re making baseless accusations, and you know it.’
Fiona’s eyes flicked towards him. ‘I’m simply pointing out the obvious, Oliver. No need to get defensive, unless … did you give her the recipe?’
Oliver looked bemused. ‘What are you implying?’
Clemmie composed herself. ‘For the record,’ she said, her voice steady despite the fact she felt shaky, ‘the recipe has been in my family for generations and I didn’t win because of a story, I won because of the torte itself.
If you’d like, I can share the recipe with you. Maybe it’ll help your bakery.’
Fiona’s cheeks coloured slightly, but she quickly masked it with a tight smile. ‘How generous of you,’ she said coolly.
Lady Rosalind placed a hand on Clemmie’s arm, her touch reassuring. ‘I’m sure there’s some explanation.’
‘But I think as there’s some doubt about the origin of the recipe, it needs to be brought to the attention of the adjudicators of the competition …
because that’s grounds for disqualification,’ Fiona said sharply.
‘Wouldn’t that be a scandal for your little café on the coast?
You’ll be returning home a cheat, not a hero. ’
‘That’s ridiculous. As I said, the recipe has been in my family for generations—’
‘Then prove it,’ came the reply. ‘The competition organisers may have been happy with a signed declaration via email confirming the recipe was original to your family, but given there was no actual fact-checking you should provide proof in order to clear your name. Otherwise, who’s to say you or someone from your family didn’t merely lift it from an old book or overhear it in someone else’s kitchen?
Without proof, it’s just a nice story, and nice stories don’t hold up in competitions. ’
Lady Rosalind straightened. ‘There must be something,’ she said, though a flicker of doubt passed over her face. ‘Beatrice must have left a record somewhere.’
Clemmie swallowed hard. She had the tattered recipe in the journal written in her grandmother’s hand, but was that enough? Was there a way to prove it belonged to Beatrice first?
Clemmie stared at Fiona before Oliver gently took her hand.
He tried to lead her away but Clemmie pulled her hand back.
She stiffened and looked Fiona right in the eyes.
‘My great-great-grandmother created that recipe herself, and I will not stand here and let you question her integrity – or mine. It’s an original recipe, and I can back that up with evidence.
Handwritten notes, dated journals and even her original cookbook, with her own annotations in the margins.
If you want to take it to the adjudicators, be my guest. But don’t for a second think I’ll let you rewrite my family’s legacy to suit your narrative. ’
The words hung in the air like a challenge.
As Clemmie turned and walked away, she could feel herself shaking with anger.
Her pulse pounded as she and Oliver wove through the crowd, the laughter and clinking glasses around them a stark contrast to the unease that was swirling in the pit of her stomach.
She stole a glance over her shoulder, her mind racing.
The torte. Fiona. Lady Rosalind. The Royal Family.
‘It can’t be the same recipe. It just can’t,’ she said. ‘It was written in my great-great-grandmother’s own hand.’
‘It’ll be similar, that’s all and don’t let Fiona get to you, she’s just a sore loser.’
But Clemmie hesitated, a thread of unease suddenly winding through her.
Before the advent of modern technology, most recipes were copied down by hand and then passed from one person to another.
But did that mean there was a chance that Beatrice had simply written it out from a book, or borrowed it from a friend?
The thought made her feel uneasy. No. It wasn’t possible.
The recipe was her great-great-grandmother’s. It had to be.
Clemmie’s gaze snapped back to Fiona. She was on the phone now, her expression unreadable.
‘She’s calling someone. What if it’s about the competition?’ A chill crept up Clemmie’s spine.
‘Forget her and just enjoy this moment,’ Oliver urged, but his words barely registered.
A sinking feeling settled deep in Clemmie’s stomach.
Something wasn’t right.
A scandal was brewing and she was about to be caught right in the middle of it.