Christmas with the Queen

Chapter 1 Jack

Chapter 1

Jack

London, December 1952

Sandringham!

I stared at the word written on the kitchen calendar, circled with a heart, and smiled. Only one more week and we’d be there. I couldn’t believe I’d soon be working in the royal kitchens for Christmas. Though a temporary position—and a risk—I’d taken my wife’s feverish encouragement to heart. It was a chance for a fresh start, a new world of possibilities, she’d said with that effervescent enthusiasm of hers that I could never resist. I knew she was right.

We’d both come to resent my dead-end position at Maison Jerome with little chance to move up, a poor salary, and a boss who berated me every time the chiffonade of herbs wasn’t chopped to his liking. Andrea frequently reminded me that I was an excellent chef and deserved much more. A head chef position, or better yet, my own restaurant. That was the ultimate dream. For now, if I did my best work for the royal family, perhaps the temporary position would become something more permanent, at least until the next door opened.

I whistled merrily as I dipped a teaspoon into the rich gravy boiling on the stove and scooped it into my mouth. It was as silky as it should be, with a fullness that meant I’d gotten the fat-to-flour ratio perfect, but it needed a healthy dash of black pepper. I never, ever skimped on the pepper. My grandpa had taught me that. I smiled as I pictured him at the stove in his beloved restaurant back home in the French Quarter in New Orleans. It felt like only yesterday that we were cooking side by side, tasting another of his new dishes.

I churned the pepper grinder over the pot, gave the gravy a good stirring, and turned off the burner. Sometimes it was hard to believe it had been eleven years since my beloved grandpa had passed away and I’d left New Orleans, or that I had spent seven years in London, married to the woman I loved, with the beginnings of a new dream.

I glanced at Andrea, her head bent over a shoebox filled with postcards, letters, and photographs. Wrapped in a green woolen sweater, a red scarf tucked artfully beneath her chin, my lovely English wife looked like a Christmas present.

I grinned as I walked over to her.

“Why are you smiling?” she said, brushing her lips against mine.

“No reason, darlin.” You look like a Christmas present is all.”

“‘Darlin’.’” She mimicked me with a grin. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to your sweet southern accent.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to how beautiful you are.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Jack Devereux!”

I was rewarded with another lingering kiss, and I felt like a foolish young buck again, falling in love with his English rose.

“I thought you were packing anyway? Looks more like you’re unpacking,” I teased.

She stuck out her tongue, eyes filled with mirth. “My suitcase is ready to go. But I’ve just found this box of old photographs tucked away with our jumpers.” She smiled as she flipped through them. “Look at this one,” she said, laughing. “It’s the old gang! I wonder what everyone is doing now. We seemed to drift apart as quickly as we’d come together.”

I studied the photo. Andrea had taken it on Victory in Europe Day. As I looked at our old group of friends, it seemed like only yesterday. My best friend, Ryan; Peter Hall, whom I’d never been close to and, frankly, didn’t miss; Rosie May, the life and soul of the party; and there on the end, in a lemon-yellow dress, Olive Carter. I remembered her most of all. “Look how young we were,” I said, pushing Olive and her bright smile from my mind.

Andrea returned the photograph to the shoebox. “We were children who thought we knew it all, but knew nothing.” We both laughed at that. “Speaking of children, I have some last-minute shopping to do.”

“What can you possibly have left to buy? There are already a hundred packages under the tree.”

She swatted my arm playfully. “I need a few more things for the boys. And some of those peppermint lollipops they love.”

Andrea doted on our nephews. She wanted nothing more than to have a large, rowdy family of our own, but after several early losses, we’d almost given up hope.

“I also need to stop by the shop to drop off a gift for Mrs. Howard,” she continued. “It was so kind of her to let me take the next few weeks off at our busiest time of year. You can’t imagine how many Christmas arrangements I’ve made this week.”

“I can.” I scooped her hand in mine and kissed her battered fingertips. “All of those rose thorns leave their mark.”

“Indeed,” she said with a sigh. “But what could be more romantic than making beautiful bouquets and putting a smile on someone’s face?” She pulled on her coat. “I’ll only be gone an hour. Promise.”

“I’ll finish making lunch and start the Christmas pudding while you’re gone,” I said. “We can bring it with us to Sandringham.”

Andrea reached for her handbag. “Do you need anything?”

“Another bottle of brandy wouldn’t hurt.” A good Christmas pudding required tending, as if it were a living creature. Feeding it every so often with a splash of brandy or rum was the key to its moist, dense texture.

“Done.” She planted a ruby-red kiss on my cheek and pulled her scarf up over her mouth.

“Be careful out there,” I said, as we stood on the doorstep amid the persistent gray mist shrouding the street. It was what the English called a real pea-souper: a yellow fog with a foul odor, the air heavy with soot. It still showed no signs of lifting. I ran my fingertip across the glass panel on the front door, leaving behind a clean streak amid the grime. There were reports of cows choking in the fields, and people becoming ill in the East End where the factories were greatest in number. The government advised everyone to stay inside as much as possible , but that hadn’t stopped anyone from doing their usual holiday chores—least of all Andrea. Her nephews would be waiting for firecrackers and toy trucks and the big striped peppermint sticks they loved, and a fog wasn’t going to keep her from making her nephews happy.

“We survived a war, remember?” she said with a wink. “I think I can handle a little fog.”

I watched from the doorstep until she disappeared into the murk, her bright red hat the last I could see of her.

While Andrea was gone, I busied myself with the Christmas pudding: dried fruits soaked in brandy mixed with flour, sugar, and breadcrumbs, that would later be steamed. It would take weeks to mature properly, and I was already starting it much later than usual. When the day’s work was done, I’d wrap the pudding snugly and let it rest until Christmas Day, when I’d flambé it and serve it with a rich brandy butter.

I wondered what Grandpa would have to say about my pudding. It was so very English. For the hundredth time, I wished he was still alive, that he could meet Andrea. At least I had become a part of her very large, fun-loving family. I was an only child, an “oops baby,” as Mom had always called me. She’d gotten pregnant after one night with a man she’d never heard from again and who I could never call a father. My grandpa had been my hero instead. With a smile, I added my recipe for the Christmas pudding to the pile of Grandpa’s recipes and notes.

Once the pudding was steaming, I moved on to lunch, and soon lost myself in the cooking, as I so often did. When the mantel clock chimed, startling me from my thoughts, I realized it was getting late. Andrea had been gone for nearly two hours. I frowned and peered out the window at the pernicious fog, searching for her familiar red hat in the dim light.

I glanced at the clock again and turned off the oven, leaving the roast inside to keep it warm. Perhaps I should walk toward the market, catch Andrea on the way home.

Outdoors, I was assaulted by the fog. It coated my face and hair and chilled my hands. It was even worse than the day before, if that were possible. I looked ahead to where I’d normally see a cherry-red telephone box standing like a sentinel at the edge of the sidewalk. It was invisible now, shrouded by a curtain of gray.

Wrapping a scarf over my nose and mouth, I walked quickly past the grocer’s and the bookstore, past a couple of pubs and a pharmacy, and on to Richmond Street, where I paused, as always, to admire a two-story red-brick building. Our building , one day. The “For Sale” sign had been up for months, and still it sat empty, the windows shuttered, the painted trim peeling. Soot stained the roof near the trio of chimneys.

But I could see past the grime to a new slate roof, imagine window boxes bursting with flowers in the spring, white linen and candlelight. One day, Andrea and I would run the place together; she’d take care of the front of the house while I ran the kitchen. The menu would be exciting and fresh, not the usual predictable classics I’d been forced to make at Maison Jerome. It was nearly impossible to become head chef there—or anywhere—unless you’d attended one of the prestigious culinary schools—at least, that was what I was told over and over again. But I would change the game. We would change the game, Andrea and me.

Mrs. Howard, the elderly woman who ran the florist’s next door where Andrea worked, waved to me through the window as she took a few sprigs of holly and a cluster of mistletoe from a display. “It’s still for sale,” she said, peering around the door.

I smiled. “And I’m still dreaming about buying it.”

“Make a wish,” she said. “It’s nearly Christmas. Who knows what magic might happen.”

“I’ll need a miracle if I’m ever going to afford this place, never mind magic! But no harm in dreaming.”

She smiled and passed me the mistletoe. “Here, for Andrea. She stopped in earlier and forgot to take it with her. But first, let me steal a kiss.” She dangled the sprigs above her own head and puckered up her lips.

I laughed and pecked her on the cheek. “You’re a saucy one, Mrs. Howard!”

“Andrea got everything she needed, did she? I told her she was mad going shopping in this.”

“I’m headed to meet her now. I’ll surprise her with this mistletoe on her way back. Happy Christmas, Mrs. Howard. We’ll see you in the new year.”

As I turned away, my smile faded. I sounded more confident than I felt. No doubt Andrea had simply met someone she knew, or was waiting in a lengthy queue somewhere, but still, I couldn’t help worrying.

I tried to push the unease away and headed back out into the fog.