Christmas with the Queen

Chapter 13 Jack

Chapter 13

Jack

Sandringham Estate, December 1952

T he days passed in a blur as I raced around the kitchen at Sandringham for endless hours, barely noticing anyone, or anything, outside of my tasks. In the afternoons, I took lunch breaks with Mason, and in the evenings after dinner service, he’d drop me off at Ryan and Maggie’s cozy cottage. Often, Maggie and Ivy were already in bed. I’d have a brandy by the fire with Ryan, or take a cold walk alone through the pretty village—thinking, remembering, allowing the emotions I’d buried all day to wash over me.

With a week to go until Christmas, I reluctantly rolled out of bed at dawn, finding the air as crisp as a fresh apple. I shivered as I dressed and peered out the ancient bedroom window that sat crookedly in its frame. The rain from the day before had frozen, coating the grass, leaves, and even the tree bark, in a dazzling, glittery sheen. It was breathtaking, and I found it hard to tear myself away.

Andrea would have loved it here in the countryside, especially during winter. It had been her favorite season. My eyes filled with tears as I realized I’d noticed something beautiful for the first time in weeks, and I felt the smallest inkling of hope steal over me.

Downstairs, I spent a few extra minutes with my porridge and tea, lost in thought. I didn’t know whether I believed in fate or in the simple, chaotic, and cruel struggle of life. What I did know was that I was glad to be spending my days in Sandringham’s kitchen, where I could work myself to the point of exhaustion.

Mason arrived half an hour later, and together we drove to Sandringham. He chattered like a happy bird and didn’t seem bothered by my brooding silence as I watched the landscape unfold ahead. We pulled into the winding drive, parked the car, and made our way to the staff entrance. It already felt normal to be here; already felt like a familiar routine.

I was surprised to find Max waiting for me to arrive. He immediately ushered me into the dry pantry.

“Good morning,” he said, sweat already dotting his brow. The man was a workhorse. I wondered if he ever slept.

“Good morning, chef,” I replied as I tied my apron.

He met my eye. “You’ve been working hard, Jack, and you haven’t complained. I’m impressed by your attitude. So, how about we see if you can really cook.”

I nodded. “Yes, chef. What would you like me to make?”

“The staff meal. Something simple but... well, I’ll leave it to you.”

I nodded. “Thank you, chef.”

He said nothing more and shouted for the grillardin, the cook in charge of the grill.

I spun to the pantry, my mind whirring with possibilities of what I might cook. The staff meal was the main meal of the day, eaten around one o’clock in the afternoon. Max wanted simple, and it had to be relatively inexpensive—something I was already accustomed to since I’d learned to cook during a time of strict rationing—and I had to make enough to feed the large staff that serviced the estate. I also needed to balance our rations with the types of dishes that would usually be served: classic French cuisine and traditional English favorites. Something told me I should save my more innovative ideas for another time.

Pies then. Pigeon pies and tossed salad. Simple, filling, delicious.

As I gathered the ingredients, an overwhelming sensation washed over me—that grandpa was with me, gently urging me to make this meal my own, despite what Max would expect. Invention had been one of our favorite games; Grandpa would gather basic ingredients for a particular dish and then he’d challenge me to make it unique, different, more exciting. Sometimes it was a disaster, but he never chastised me.

“Experimentin’ is how we achieve genius, boy,” he’d say in his thick Louisiana drawl. “Now, how do we fix this?” He’d explain why the flavors or textures didn’t work, and we’d try again until I got it right. I didn’t need formal training with him as my guide. He was the best kind of teacher.

I returned to the pantry, scanning the shelves of seasoning and spices until I found what I was looking for: a small cylindrical glass tube labeled “cayenne pepper.” The lid was dusty and the fine crimson granules were packed nearly to the top. It seemed as if no one had been using it, at least not often. I returned to my station, a smile crossing my face. They were in for a surprise.

Pigeon pies were a lot of work, so I set about plucking and butchering the birds before pan roasting the breasts and saut é ing mushrooms in butter and cognac. Once these were cooked, I added a healthy amount of cayenne pepper to the mixture. Rather than the pie crusts I’d originally planned, I pivoted to something more interesting... more me . Buttery, southern biscuits.

As I prepared the savory fluffy dough, a memory drifted through my head: Andrea’s surprise that a southern biscuit wasn’t a sweet confection—a cookie—but was closer in taste and texture to a savory scone, only better, lighter, and much richer. Her eyes had widened as she bit into the hot biscuit which I’d slathered with peppered honey butter. She’d pronounced it to be the best thing she’d ever eaten.

I poured the pie filling into casserole dishes and topped them with the biscuit dough. Once everything was in the oven, I tossed a few bowls of greens with olive oil, salt and pepper, and added a squeeze of lemon. I was careful with measurements, precise with chopping, rolling, and then cleaning my workstation. I bent over a stubborn spot on the countertop and scrubbed for some time.

“Jack.” A hand gripped my shoulder.

I turned to see Mason. My mind had emptied of everything for a blissful moment, even if the ache in my chest knew otherwise.

“I think that spot’s clean now,” he said. “You’ve been scrubbing it like you’re trying to rub away the varnish on the wood!”

I dropped the rag. “Sorry. Got lost in my thoughts for a moment there.”

He smiled. “The pies smell great. Can’t wait to try them.”

The meal was a success. The staff were as surprised by the biscuit-topped “pie” as they were by my generous measure of cayenne.

“This is fantastic, Jack,” Max said, filling his plate with another helping.

“Thank you, chef,” I replied, feeling my first hint of pride since I’d arrived.

“I think it’s time for a promotion from errand boy. I want you to help out at the patissier’s station this afternoon.”

Mason clinked his water glass against mine. “Well done. He isn’t an easy man to impress.”

“Thanks. I’m glad the cayenne didn’t scare anyone off.”

Later that afternoon I followed my nose to the patissier’s station, where the smells of Christmas wafted all around. I admired the cakes spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg, the gingerbread men dressed for the holiday in piped white icing and sugar-coated red and green candy buttons. Sweet almond paste had been colored and molded into Christmas scenes of snow-coated evergreens, reindeer, and even a nativity scene complete with a baby Jesus and animals. I’d never been particularly talented at pastry work, but it wasn’t too late to learn. I rolled up my sleeves and followed the patissier’s instructions.

A few hours later, the housekeeper swept into the kitchen and pulled me aside. “Mr. Devereux, a message has come through for you. It sounded urgent.” She gave me a folded piece of paper.

My throat tightened as I clutched the note in my hand. What could possibly have gone wrong now? “Thank you, Mrs. Leonard.”

“And does anyone know who this locket belongs to?” she added, turning to address the whole kitchen. “Found it in the library. I’ve asked everywhere and nobody recognizes it.”

I glanced at the gold necklace. “I think that belongs to the BBC reporter who was here.” I’d noticed how Olive played with it while we’d spoken.

“Olive Carter? Oh, yes. That would make sense. I bet she’s missing it,” Mrs. Leonard said. “I’ll telephone Broadcasting House, see if they can get a message to her.”

“I’m sure she’d be grateful,” I replied politely before dipping into the pantry to read my note: Jarrod Waverly requests your immediate return to London to settle your wife’s affairs. Please telephone at your earliest convenience.

My solicitor. I sighed heavily. I’d been so devastated by Andrea’s death that I’d ignored the formalities and the paperwork—death certificates and wills—and followed Ryan to Norfolk without a second thought. And now, I didn’t have time to do it, not without throwing a wrench in the works at Sandringham. I cleaned my hands and headed to Max’s station.

“There’s a problem, chef,” I said. “The solicitor handling my wife’s affairs has called me urgently to London, to handle some paperwork. I know this is terrible timing, but it shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours if you can spare me.”

Max lightly clapped his hands against one another to brush away flecks of breadcrumbs. “I can spare you for a few hours tomorrow morning. But I’ll need you to return as soon as you can. The schedule will be especially tight for the next few days. In fact, I’ve arranged for you to stay in one of the estate cottages until New Year’s Day. We’ll be working long hours—early and late—and it’s best you’re here. Even the short drive to the village where you’ve been staying will feel far when you’re exhausted.”

“Yes, chef. Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

I returned to my station, mind racing, my heart filled with dread at the prospect of the next day’s chore and the finality it would bring.