‘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 thesamerecipe.’
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…tooconvenient.’
‘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.
