‘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-chefwas 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 sayoff 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.’
