Christmas with the Queen

Chapter 34 Jack

Chapter 34

Jack

Buckingham Palace. London, December 1954

I pulled several pans of roasted vegetable and Gruyère bread pudding from the oven, and sliced the hearty dish into squares for the staff. I couldn’t wait for them to try it.

“Morning, chef,” I said to Max, as he reached for a plate and sat with the others at the staff table.

“Princess Margaret will be joining the children for afternoon tea today,” Max told us. “Jack, I’d like you to be on the sandwiches. Mason and Gerald will work on the pastries and biscuits and Lenny will assist me with the ordering today.”

“Yes, chef,” we all said in unison.

“The footmen are off today so, Jack, you can set up the tea cart.”

“Yes, chef.”

I was relieved it appeared to be an easy day. We were preparing to leave for Sandringham in a few days, and it had already been a hectic few weeks of guests and dinner parties for the royal family, which meant a busy time for us in the kitchens.

After nearly two years at Buckingham Palace, I still hadn’t gotten used to its grandeur and opulence, or the fact that I lived here. It was a little astonishing every time I crossed paths with someone whose face was often in the newspapers: Princess Margaret, mostly. Whenever I looked out over the rich red carpets of the Grand Hall, the creamy panels of the frescoed ceiling, and polished marble floors, I felt a sense of pride—and perhaps some guilt at being a former American Navy boy serving a British monarch. I wasn’t a royalist, or particularly interested in kings and queens and the nobility, but I was interested in a steady salary. And I was happy here—at least as happy as I could be while not running my own restaurant.

I’d thought about opening my own place a lot over the past year as I worked diligently on my cookbook. It seemed like the logical next step, and yet, I didn’t know where I would find the money, even if Mason and I combined resources.

Since the Commonwealth tour and the summer in Balmoral, it had been business as usual in the kitchens at Buckingham Palace. The rationing of meat had, at last, ended, bringing a flood of new dishes we’d been forced to sideline for years. And lately, Max had given me more responsibilities. I was assistant saucier now and had been given a book of recipes to memorize. I regularly spent extra time in the kitchen after-hours, practicing when time and supplies allowed, experimenting with a few of my own ingredients, creating my own unique recipes. Citrus-herb marinade, silky hollandaise with a bite of hot chili, sherry and dill cream, bourbon-butter crumbs for baked oysters. I wasn’t in New Orleans anymore, but the ingredients of my childhood had stayed with me. In the last few months, I’d created sauces I would never serve the royal family, testing them on the kitchen staff instead when it was my week to make the staff meal. All the while, I carefully documented each ingredient, the measurements, and notes about flavors, textures, and cooking times. One day, I hoped they’d come in handy.

That afternoon, when lunch preparations were finished, I wheeled the tea cart loaded with a tiered silver tray of teatime treats to the less formal family room where the family had afternoon tea. As I made my way along the labyrinth of corridors, I marveled at the grand hallways decorated with vaulted ceilings and the impressive collection of portraits and paintings that had been passed down from one generation to the next. I glanced at the luxurious rugs from the Orient and the beautiful decorative tables polished to a shine.

Eventually, I reached the family room. Prince Charles, Princess Anne, and Princess Margaret entered the room ahead of me. Either I was late, or they were early. Nanny Lightbody—the children’s nanny—followed. We all avoided her like the plague in the kitchens, because she was forever interfering with the children’s meals and was a general nuisance.

I pushed the tea cart inside, being careful not to look in their direction. I’d been taught not to stare at the family, or even to greet them unless spoken to first. Still, I couldn’t help but glance at the children, who were chasing each other around the room until they were told sternly by their nanny to sit down. Prince Charles was six years old. His sister, Anne, only four. The nanny would have her work cut out for her, trying to make sure they sat still and ate their meal.

“Your mother would have your hide if she saw you running in here like that. Sit down, you two,” Princess Margaret said. “And try to be quiet. I have a dreadful headache.”

I smiled to myself as I carefully unloaded the items on the cart to the sideboard. Rumors were flying about Princess Margaret and her wild social life since her lover, Peter Townsend, had been unceremoniously dispatched to Brussels. Apparently, he’d proposed to Margaret but the queen had refused to grant the couple permission to marry, and the whole palace had heard the sisters quarreling. Princess Margaret wasn’t exactly known for being discreet with her emotions.

“Hello. I’ve never seen you before.” Princess Margaret’s voice drifted across the room. “New here, are you?”

I turned and dipped my head, as I now knew was the appropriate etiquette. “I’ve worked here for almost two years, Your Highness.”

“Really? And do you have a name?”

“Jack Devereux.”

“Well, Jack Devereux, it’s awfully nice to meet you.” She fluttered her eyelashes at me. “Where have they been hiding you?”

“In the kitchens, Your Highness. And the pleasure is all mine,” I said, feeling my neck heat as her eyes followed me across the room to the door. I paused, wondering if I should say anything more or be on my way.

“You sound as if you’re from the American south,” she added. “I hope to visit there one day.”

“I am, ma’am. From New Orleans originally, though I’ve lived in London now for nine years.”

“Goodness, you gave up all that heat and sunshine for dreary old London? There must have been a good reason.” Princess Margaret leaned forward on the heel of her hand, her stunning blue eyes intent on mine. “Is she very beautiful?”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d have said she was flirting with me. Though her reputation had preceded her, it was hard to parse out what was true in the gossip rags and what was fabricated. Andrea had always complained about how unkind the newspapers were to women in particular. Margaret was beautiful, with her vivid blue eyes and charming smile. I could see why so many men fell for her.

“Aunt Margaret, can I have this many biscuits?” Princess Anne held up four fingers, staring at them to make sure she’d held up the correct number. She really was an adorable little girl, with her shining blonde hair tied neatly with ribbons.

“Have as many as you like, dear.”

The nanny tutted. “You may have one, Miss Anne, after you eat a sandwich.”

Little Anne stuck out her lip in a pout but scooted behind her aunt as she filled her plate. I smiled as Margaret secretly slipped her a second biscuit.

“Enjoy your meal, Your Highness,” I said, ducking into the hallway, anxious to be out from under her heated gaze and back in the safety of the kitchen.

Anne raced after me. “Would you like a biscuit, too?” She held out a pale oval of shortbread with one end dipped in chocolate. The chocolate had begun to melt where her little fist held it.

I smiled broadly at her. “Thank you, Miss Anne. I’d like that very much.” I accepted the half-melted cookie.

The nanny appeared behind her. “Young lady, come back here and sit down, at once!” she said, shepherding the princess inside and to her seat once more.

I chuckled to myself, and as I headed back to the kitchen, I thought again of what it might be like to have children racing around my own house. I found myself strangely sad to think that I might never know.

My thoughts inadvertently turned to Olive and her daughter, Lucy, and how difficult it must have been for Olive to raise the child on her own. I thought, too, of the handful of postcards I’d sent to Olive from the remainder of the overseas tour, and from Balmoral that summer. I hadn’t seen her since those few days in New Zealand, but I’d thought of her often. More often, it seemed, as time passed.

With the demands of my job becoming all-consuming, the weeks and months had a way of racing by, and it was nearly Christmas again. I wondered if Olive might be at Sandringham this year.

I wondered what I might do about it if she was.