Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
They all stared at the worn, ribbon-bound bundle of letters in front of them. Betty began to untie the delicate knot that had kept the secrets within hidden for decades. Each envelope bore the same looping handwriting, addressed to Beatrice Rose, The Café on the Coast, Puffin Island.
Gently, Betty pulled the first letter from the stack and unfolded it. Her eyes skimmed the neat cursive writing.
‘Are they from the Earl of Aberford?’ asked Clemmie.
‘If his first name is Henry, then I assume so,’ replied Betty, her eyes firmly on the words on the page.
One by one, the three women read through the letters.
August 10, 1916
My Dearest Beatrice,
It has been mere days since I left the shores of Puffin Island, yet my thoughts are so fixed upon you that I feel as though I never truly departed.
In every quiet moment, I find myself back at your café, watching you as you measure flour, the soft hum of your voice and the sweet smell of sugar filling the air.
How I miss those peaceful afternoons in your company.
The world feels darkened without your light, and all the fineries of London pale in comparison to the warmth of your laugh.
Do you remember the recipe we discussed?
I’ve enclosed chef’s notes for a spiced chocolate cake he adores.
He always said that a hint of nutmeg added unexpected depth.
I cannot think of a better pairing than your fruit preserves with rich chocolate, two unlikely companions creating something rare and sweet, just as you and I have.
I will be in touch as often as I can. Until then, please hold our secret close.
Yours,
Henry
September 3, 1916
My Darling Beatrice,
Another sleepless night, and again, my thoughts turn to you and our beautiful Puffin Island.
How I wish I could walk the windswept paths of its shoreline, breathing in the salty air and talking for hours as we used to do.
I carry a heavy heart tonight, as we are surrounded by conflict here, and the weight of my duties feels nearly insurmountable.
Yet thoughts of you give me strength; how extraordinary you are, and how blessed I am to know you.
When I think of your café, I am reminded of the night we stayed late after closing, attempting to perfect that dessert together.
I swear, I will never forget the taste of your berry preserves combined with the rich, creamy filling we created.
Have you managed to recreate it yet? I imagine your hands working away, testing and tasting, perfecting it.
Perhaps we will name it something special, so I may carry a part of it with me, even when I am far from Puffin Island.
For now, if I don’t survive this war, promise me you will keep the secret safe.
With all my heart,
Henry
October 20, 1916
My Sweet Beatrice,
I find myself writing this from yet another distant place, the thought of you, your café, and our recipe the only things able to fill me with such peace.
I wonder if you know how truly remarkable you are.
How I miss your laughter, how it seemed to brighten the café and warm my heart in a way that no hearth ever could.
Last week, I dreamed of us baking together.
You were laughing as you whisked ingredients in a flurry, a dusting of flour on your nose, your cheeks flushed with joy.
In my dream, I tasted the dessert we had created – our secret – the tartness of the berries, the hint of chocolate, and I awoke with such an ache, longing to be in the café again.
When I return, we shall share it together, and I will toast to the remarkable woman who made it.
All my love,
Henry
November 15, 1916
My Beloved Beatrice,
Tonight, I sit here writing by candlelight.
I must confess, I have tried to recreate the magic of your kitchen, but my attempts pale in comparison to yours.
How I long to be back in that kitchen with you, breathing in the scent of fruit and spice, and hearing your gentle laughter over the clatter of pans.
You are my peace, Beatrice, my sanctuary amidst the storm.
As I promised, here is another recipe for you to try, a family favourite from the royal table, yet never shared with anyone beyond.
It is a custard with a dash of vanilla and a pinch of cinnamon, delicate but warming.
Imagine how lovely it might taste combined with your berry preserves.
Perhaps this will be our secret ingredient, a symbol of our trust, and a reminder of all that we share.
I entrust it into your hands, knowing you will make it even more splendid than I could ever hope.
Hold our creation close.
All my love,
Henry
December 25, 1916
My Dearest Beatrice,
Merry Christmas, my love. The snow falls softly here, How I long to walk through your door this evening, chat about things that no one else can ever know about.
I gift you the enclosed recipe from the royal household for your beautiful café on the coast. This will be a future success, of that I am sure. The torte is Chef étienne’s favourite so do guard it as you would a treasure. I hope you will make it tonight, and have a very Merry Christmas.
All my love,
Henry
Clemmie gasped. ‘So the recipe wasn’t original, it was gifted by the Earl! But the royal chef was killed in the war, so how would people in the royal palace today even remember the recipe?’
‘It’s probably been passed down through the generations, just as it was in our family,’ Betty said simply.
‘At least now you have evidence that you haven’t stolen the recipe; it was gifted,’ said Amelia.
‘I’m confused,’ stated Clemmie. ‘What do you think their relationship was? Do you think they were having an affair?’
Betty was still staring at the letters. ‘I’m not sure, but all these letters were sent during the war.’
‘When did Great-great-grandad meet Great-great-grandmother?’
‘My mother told me they met near the end of the war at a tea dance that the islanders had arranged to keep spirits up. It was love at first sight.’
Betty’s eyes softened and her voice was tinged with nostalgia as she painted the scene.
‘Picture this. The island’s village hall.
Inside, the air was alive with laughter, and the faint clink of teacups, and the melodic strains of a small orchestra playing a waltz.
Beatrice was in her early twenties and wearing a pale blue dress that shimmered like the sea under the lantern light, or so she told me.
Her auburn hair was swept up with delicate combs, and my mother said she had a way of carrying herself that caught everyone’s attention. ’
Betty’s eyes twinkled as she continued. ‘Arthur was a young officer. He wasn’t much for social gatherings, but his mates had dragged him along, saying he needed to remember what life was like beyond the trenches.
He stood at the edge of the dancefloor, feeling out of place, until he saw Beatrice laughing with her friends.
She was radiant, her laughter like a melody that outshone even the orchestra, he told me once. ’
‘Did he go straight up to her?’ Clemmie asked.
Betty chuckled. ‘Oh no, he hesitated. He was nervous, you see. War had hardened him in some ways, but the idea of asking a beautiful stranger to dance made his palms sweat. But Beatrice, oh, she was bold. She caught him staring and, instead of waiting for him to make a move, she walked straight up to him and said, “Well, are we going to dance or shall we just stand here all night?”’
Clemmie giggled. ‘What happened next?’
‘He was completely flustered,’ Betty said with a laugh.
‘But he managed to nod and take her hand. The moment they stepped onto the dance floor, it was as if the rest of the world faded away. They moved in perfect harmony, as though they’d been dancing together their whole lives.
My mother told me once that it was in that moment he knew she was the one. ’
‘How romantic,’ said Clemmie.
‘By the time the night ended, they had exchanged addresses, and they soon became inseparable. When Arthur proposed, he did so on that very same spot they’d met on Puffin Island, under the light of the same lanterns that had witnessed their first dance.
It’s stories like these that remind us where we come from, Clemmie.
Love, courage, tradition, they’re all part of who we are. ’
‘With such a beautiful story, the Earl had to be just a friend. I wonder how they met, though. Baking somehow seems to be a passion for both of them,’ chipped in Amelia.
‘Perhaps, during the war, the Earl visited Puffin Island and stumbled into the café by chance? And because of his status, their friendship had to remain under wraps.’
‘Maybe we will never know,’ added Clemmie.
Betty placed her hand over her heart and let out a nervous laugh. ‘For a moment I thought we were going to discover a huge love affair between Beatrice and the Earl.’ She gave a soft chuckle, the tension easing from her shoulders. ‘There’s one more letter,’ she stated.
Unlike the other envelopes, this one was sealed with wax. Clemmie carefully broke the seal and unfolded the letter. Her eyes scanned the page, the words jumping out at her with each line.
July 3, 1918
Dearest Beatrice,
This will likely be the last letter I send, though I cannot be certain.
Circumstances are evolving faster than I anticipated.
As you know I’ve already formally broken off my proposed engagement to Princess Alexandra.
It is only right. I could not continue to live this charade while my heart belonged elsewhere.
I’ve surrendered my title – I know I do not deserve it, not after the choices I’ve made – and I’ve stepped away from public life.