Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Clemmie stared at the delicate slice of torte on her porcelain plate. Beside her, Oliver had already taken a bite, his face melting into a look of pure bliss.
‘Oh, this is divine,’ he murmured, his voice muffled by the mouthful. ‘You’ve got to try it.’
Clemmie picked up her fork, hesitating for a moment. She broke the torte’s glossy surface, the fork gliding effortlessly through its velvety layers. As the first bite melted on her tongue, she let out a quiet gasp.
‘This is nearly as good as mine,’ she joked.
Before she could savour another bite, a tall man in a pristine white chef’s coat approached them.
His appearance was impeccable, silver hair neatly combed back, a perfectly trimmed moustache, and an air of authority softened by the faintest twinkle in his eye.
He stopped a few feet from them, hands clasped behind his back, and offered a polite smile.
‘I believe you are Clemmie Rose, winner of the baking competition, I trust you are enjoying your torte?’ His voice was smooth and polished.
Clemmie and Oliver exchanged a glance before nodding enthusiastically.
The chef’s smile widened. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Chef Laurent de Vauclaire, the head pastry chef here at the palace.’
Clemmie’s eyes grew even wider.
‘I had the honour of organising my kitchen to bake your creation today,’ he said with a small bow. ‘I would love to show you, as the creator of this recipe, where the magic happens.’ He gestured towards the palace.
Clemmie’s heart leaped. ‘You mean the royal kitchen?’
‘Precisely,’ Laurent said. ‘Come, I will introduce you to the team.’
Without hesitation, Clemmie and Oliver followed Laurent through the garden, weaving between elegantly dressed guests and uniformed staff. They entered the palace through a discreet side door and descended a short staircase that opened into a sprawling kitchen.
The royal kitchen was a masterpiece in itself.
Gleaming pots and pans hung from racks suspended above pristine marble countertops.
Rows of ovens lined one wall, their dials and handles polished to a mirror finish.
A team of chefs in immaculate white uniforms moved with precision, each focused on their individual task.
The air was filled with the heavenly aroma of freshly baked pastries, caramelised sugar and roasted nuts.
‘Welcome to the beating heart of the palace,’ Laurent said with a touch of pride.
Clemmie stepped further inside, taking in every detail.
A pastry chef was delicately piping whipped cream onto a row of eclairs, while another was meticulously arranging candied fruits on a towering croquembouche.
In the far corner, a sous-chef was stirring a pot of rich, bubbling caramel, the golden liquid catching the light.
‘Everyone, may I present the winner of The Royal Baking Competition, Miss Clemmie Rose.’ The staff paused briefly to nod and smile before returning to their tasks.
‘This is extraordinary,’ Clemmie exclaimed.
Laurent led them to a large workstation in the centre of the kitchen, where a freshly baked torte sat cooling on a wire rack. ‘This, my friends, is your torte’s sibling, prepared first to make sure we got it right.’
As Laurent carried on with a tour of the kitchen, a sudden voice interrupted them. ‘Excuse me, Chef Laurent,’ said a man dressed in a sharp black suit. He was composed yet authoritative.
Laurent turned to him. ‘Ah, Mr Kensington, how may I assist you?’
The man’s gaze shifted to Clemmie and Oliver. ‘I am Her Majesty’s Personal Assistant,’ he introduced himself. ‘I was asked to escort you to her sitting room where the Queen is waiting.’
Clemmie froze. ‘The Queen?’ she stammered.
‘Indeed,’ Mr Kensington said with a polite smile. ‘If you would kindly follow me.’
Laurent gave an encouraging nod. ‘Go. It is not every day one receives such an invitation.’
With hearts pounding, Clemmie and Oliver followed Mr Kensington out of the kitchen and up a grand staircase.
As they walked, Clemmie leaned close to Oliver, her voice a nervous whisper.
‘Do you think she’s going to question me about the recipe?
If she thinks I’ve stolen it, she might say off with her head! ’
Oliver gave her a sidelong glance, stifling a grin. ‘I hear she prefers scones over executions these days.’
‘Very funny,’ Clemmie murmured.
The corridors they passed through were lined with portraits of monarchs past, their regal gazes seeming to follow them like disapproving chaperones.
Finally, they stopped outside a door guarded by two stoic footmen.
Mr Kensington knocked once, and the door was opened to reveal an elegant yet understated sitting room which was the perfect blend of grandness and comfort.
The walls were decorated with soft floral wallpaper, and the regal mantelpiece held a collection of framed photographs: smiling children, black-and-white portraits, and the occasional candid shot that hinted at family moments rarely seen by the public.
A low coffee table stood between the sofa and the Queen’s armchair, its surface draped with an intricately embroidered tablecloth and a tray laden with delicate china cups, a teapot and an assortment of biscuits neatly arranged on a silver plate.
Seated in a comfortable armchair was the Queen herself. The sight of her still took Clemmie’s breath away. Her Majesty’s kind yet piercing eyes met Clemmie’s, and a small smile played on her lips.
Clemmie’s instincts took over. She dropped into a deep curtsy while Oliver executed a respectful bow.
‘Do come in,’ the Queen said, gesturing to the sofa. ‘Please, sit.’
Clemmie and Oliver exchanged a quick glance before sitting down opposite her.
‘I needed a brief escape from the crowd. Even queens require a moment of peace, and a slice of Chef Laurent’s baking never fails to do the trick.’ The Queen’s tone was friendly and conversational. She turned towards Mr Kensington. ‘Would you please pour my guests some tea.’
After Mr Kensington poured the tea, he handed a cup and saucer each to Clemmie and Oliver then bowed towards the Queen.
‘That will be all for now. Thank you.’
Mr Kensington exited the room. The door closed with a faint click, leaving the three of them alone.
‘I hope the two of you are enjoying the party. These occasions can be a bit … overwhelming, I imagine.’
Oliver, ever the diplomat, smiled warmly. ‘It’s been a lovely afternoon, Your Majesty. Thank you for inviting us.’
Clemmie nodded in agreement, though her fingers fidgeted with the handle of the teacup. She couldn’t help feeling slightly out of place in such regal surroundings.
The Queen set her cup down, offered them a biscuit and reached for one herself. ‘I must confess,’ she began, her tone light, ‘I do like a good cup of tea and a biscuit.’ She held up the biscuit with a small smile. ‘Shortbread. A classic.’
Clemmie managed a nervous laugh. ‘My granny always says a good cup of tea fixes everything.’
The Queen’s expression softened again. ‘She sounds like a wise woman. It reminds me,’ she continued, leaning back in her chair, ‘of my own grandmother, Queen Eleanor. Did you know she was quite the baker in her day?’
Oliver and Clemmie exchanged a surprised glance. Clemmie shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t. That’s fascinating.’
‘Indeed,’ the Queen replied. ‘Stories have been passed down in our family about how she learned to bake from the palace chef, a dear friend of hers. Tragically, he was killed during the war, but his lessons stayed with her. She would spend hours in the kitchen, perfecting his recipes. This very torte we’ve been serving today reminds me of one of those recipes. ’
Clemmie glanced towards Oliver whose eyes widened.
‘I’ve even baked something very similar myself.’
‘You bake, too?’ asked Clemmie.
The Queen smiled. ‘Baking has always been a bit of a refuge for me. My mother, Queen Matilda, was much the same. I remember when I was a child, she would invite me into the kitchen to help her. Of course, the staff were always on hand, but she insisted on doing some things herself. She said it was important to stay connected to simple pleasures.’
The Queen paused, her gaze falling to the teapot as she poured herself another cup.
‘I can still recall the scent of the kitchen, the feel of dough beneath my fingers. My mother had a particular fondness for making fruit cakes. She would let me stir the mixture and sneak a taste when no one was looking. It was our little secret.’
Her voice carried a note of fond nostalgia, and for a moment, Clemmie felt as though she were peering into a private corner of the Queen’s life, one rarely glimpsed by the outside world.
‘It sounds wonderful,’ Clemmie said softly.
The Queen nodded. ‘It was. Those moments taught me that even in the midst of great responsibility, one must find time for simple joys. It’s a lesson I’ve carried with me throughout my reign.’
She reached for another biscuit, her movements unhurried. Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, she turned her attention back to Clemmie. ‘Tell me, Clemmie, does your family have any royal connections? Perhaps your great-great-grandmother did?’
Clemmie blinked, caught off guard by the question. ‘Oh, no, Your Majesty. My family has always been fascinated by the Royal Family, especially my granny, but we’ve never moved in those circles.’
The Queen’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes, a thoughtful intensity. She leaned forward slightly, her tone becoming quieter. ‘Have you, by any chance, ever come across the name of the Earl of Aberford?’