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 andspice, 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?’
