Cornish Sweets and Wedding Treats Read online

  "Did he? I think so." Dinah frowned. "Anyway, he's likely to win with his credentials. Then the boy gardener came, the one who was the surprise winner of the Yorkshire series, and the champion from Devon." Dinah's voice tightened a little. "Prunella Crane — the one who made the dried rosebuds out of dehydrated strawberries. Her specialty was tea trays."

  I detected possible dislike in Dinah's tone for this particular baker, whom I barely remembered as anything but one of those ultra-perfectionist types who made it look like she barely tried in order to achieve it. But I could see how a baker like Dinah, who always finished with a fine dusting of flour over her person — and a little sweat on her brow — might find it irritating to compete against someone whose apron and bake were both perfect at the end of the round.

  "She was good," I said, skipping any questions about how the judges might have felt about her bakes. "It must be exciting to have the original judges back for the second time. Not that the new guy wasn't good." I could never remember his name, although I had watched several programs he hosted.

  "Another point for nerves on that one. I never am sure of myself with Pierre. The French are perfectionists and you can't be certain whether a bit of creativity will be tres chic or tres mal," she said. "And Harriet's no better sometimes — that smile wouldn't thaw a morning frost, so you can never be sure where you stand."

  The original two judges for the program, England's matron of baking and a premiere semi-retired French baker who had been something of a heartthrob with female viewers, had parted ways with the series over time, but both now judged many of the reunion competitions. I had been partial to Pierre myself, who, despite his gruff exterior, had a surprising sense of humor and perceptiveness.

  "So what are you thinking of, recipe wise?" I asked. "What do the rumormongers say the judges will demand of you?" I sipped my tea, picturing wedding cupcakes and edible bouquets, because anything could happen in the competition.

  "Everyone expects the finale to be a full-size wedding sponge," said Dinah. "Possibly it will be the original recipe round also. Talk of Victorian wedding cake for a challenge — but there was a rumor of mini cakes in play also."

  I poured the biscuits into their package again, and offered Dinah a jaffa cake from the stash Matt kept hidden underneath the silverware tray. "I can't wait," I said. "If you need a practice spot, you know you can always turn my kitchen upside down." I looked around, seeing signs that my previous client's thorough home organization was beginning to slip away, with a blender evicted from its cupboard for a series of plastic nesting storage containers that Lady Amanda had loaned me for the fete.

  "I'll be using my cousin's kitchen this time, although for the bigger challenges I'll impose on the manor, if Mrs. Norris is making herself too busy sweeping up crumbs from the new baby to patrol the kitchen," said Dinah. "Speaking of babies, I brought a gift — one of those little footed pajama sets with bunnies on it. I saw it in a shop in autumn and thought 'either way, that will do nicely.' I know Amanda's probably groaning a bit — another boy."

  "Edwin's a handful, so I suspect Charles will be, too," I admitted. "But she wouldn't have it any other way now." If some Cornish pixie appeared and offered to swap her the much hoped-for daughter in Charles's place, she'd swat it out the window in horror.

  "Better her than me," said Dinah. "Thank you for the offer of the kitchen, which I may take advantage of after I drive Michael insane. If this is a cry for more biccies in the freezer, I'll lay you in a decent supply that will keep the little ones happy."

  "I'm thinking of me, not the kids," I answered, confessing with a grin. "Matthew and I have missed your cake since eating the last one."

  "I'll do you a bit more chocolate this time," said Dinah, brushing the cake's crumbs from her blouse. "I thought about trying a new chocolate sponge recipe I've been practicing in my head, a sort of take on the American black and white cookie, only with cake, maybe layered with cherry preserves. Rumor has it that romance will be the theme — only fitting since it's nearly Valentine's Day."

  "What better time to film a program about weddings?" I said. "Hundreds of engagement rings will be presented in a couple of weeks — with summer weddings to follow." That was the part that interested me the most these days, since I would be seeing through those carefully-planned ceremonies during the time this show was broadcast — when it would be inspiring other couples, some of whose ceremonies I would be planning come the next summer, probably.

  "Did you see Pip on your way down?" I asked. Of the two Cliffs House maids with whom Dinah originally worked, chatty Pippa had been the one who drove her craziest — and, in that weird twist of human fate, the one of whom she was fondest.

  "Only for a brief cuppa," said Dinah, pretending this question was ridiculous. "Those twin terrors of hers haven't pulled the house down yet, if that's what you're wondering."

  "I'm sure Pippa was doing well," I said.

  "Well enough. She's grown some length to her hair, I daresay it suits her as well as the boy's pixie cut she always wore," said Dinah. "She's working at a nursery school now. She must be accustomed to all the screaming after living with her brood."

  I tried not to smile. "Have you heard from Gemma lately?" I asked. Her new book was coming out in a few weeks, the one about the romance with the girl and the tennis player that she told us about when she visited last summer. The former maid had turned over a different leaf from her coworker Pippa when she achieved her secret ambition of writing romantic stories.

  "Not lately. But I suppose she's busy writing her stories," said Dinah. "I've ordered the next one. I haven't the faintest idea what it's about, but that hardly matters. I'll give it a good flip-through before I see her next. I expect that'll be ages." She put her empty teacup by the sink.

  "You can never be sure," I said. "I would have said the exact same thing about seeing you and the judges of the original Grand Baking Extravaganza in this village at the same time." With an air of excitement this palpable, however, it felt like any number of interesting things might happen during this contest.

  ___________________

  Our venue, the old stone barn we had converted and remodeled for an event space, might be spacious and rustic, but it wasn't film-ready, which is why a crew from The Grand Baking Extravaganza had been in town for the past few days, flipping our space to meet the program's format requirements.

  A string of vehicles were parked outside as I walked up its path, including a truck loaded with lots of electrical equipment, from which two men were hauling an extension cord of impossible length from a spool. A man and a woman in shirts labeled 'CREW' were unloading big lights while conversing on radio sets with somebody who was apparently checking the wiring for our ceiling.

  I was apprehensive as I stepped inside, but bare, dangling wires weren't gawping at me from the beams where our chandeliers hung. Instead, an extension ladder leaned against one wall, where another crewmember was concealing the power chords behind our beam.

  Hearing a shout behind me, I moved hastily aside, just in time for the two crewmembers tossing the long power extension cord to the man on the ladder, who was attaching some sort of safety anchor, probably for the industrial lights being carried in from the other truck.

  Lots of extra lights were going up, lots of hidden floor outlets being concealed beneath wood-patterned safety guards. An electrician was assessing voltage and talking about where to place three big shared refrigerators and five individual baking ovens towards the back, while a team measured for competition work space, marked our floor with tape where another set of temporary outlets would be placed for the contestants' mixers, blenders, portable stove eyes and other small appliances used in the contest.

  It looked like five sets of kitchen cabinetry and cook's tables were being installed in our space in the near future — a semi-circle of mini kitchens, every other one equipped with a big fridge. Right now, however, it was merely a mess of masking tape outlines and loose wires.

  "
Looks a proper tea room's elegance, doesn't it?" Kitty commented dryly, hands tucked in the pockets of her coat. Underneath it, the noticeable bulge of the future baby Somebody-or-Other Menton was asserting itself, well past the midpoint of Kitty's pregnancy. "Good thing they came early."

  "It will look great when they finish," I answered. "Except when you're standing behind all this and see the electric cords and all the spare equipment they're probably going to hide behind folding screens or something."

  "One of them was telling me they'd had a rough go setting up at the spot in York where they held last summer's champions' bakeoff," said Kitty. "Some Tudor castle or other with a Medieval kitchen and big halls that echoed, and a marquee that leaked. He said this place will be a breeze compared to all that."

  "Where's our table?" I asked, noticing that the big dining table we usually kept in the venue was gone.

  "I helped them haul it out to the shed earlier, along with the chairs and those centerpieces you were doing for the dance studio's Valentine's social," said Kitty. "We're well packed in there now, but there wasn't any other place. All they wanted left was the Welsh cupboard. Said they could decorate it as a prop, but the rest would only be in the way."

  "With any luck, we won't be needing anything from the shed for this venture," I said, biting my lip. "One of the program's staff who liasons with set dressers is supposed to give us the specs for this space after today, and for the manor's ballroom by tomorrow evening. They have some ideas, but they're giving us room to improve, so we'll try to impress them."

  "I've gathered some stuff on that score already," said Kitty. "Marian knows the sort of thing we'll be needing, so if we stay flexible we should be able to make things look summery enough. They don't want the season we're in emphasized, but the colors for the manor's ballroom could look good with Valentine's colors, I reckon."

  Her mess of dark curls was tucked partly underneath a knit orange cap, but I could see bits of greenery in her hair, signs she had been out to the wood to start cutting evergreens that would look attractive with other flowers in decorating this space shortly for the first day of filming.

  "It would help if they didn't have to film their wedding competition in wintertime," I remarked. "I guess that's why they're only holding one stage of the competition outdoors." I pictured some sort of portable central heating in the tent — or did the contestants just have to warm themselves by their oven's warmth? "They probably watch the weather reports and pick the sunniest days predicted for outdoor shots."

  "Nathan says they're trucking in some potted plants from greenhouses to give the marquee site a summery look. A crew planting hothouse daisies and the like."

  I pictured a fake English country garden created around a marquee and wondered who first came up with the genius of fake seasons. Whichever inventor thought of snow machines and dry ice fog, probably.

  Outside the open barn door, another truck pulled up — this one belonged to the carpentry crew, bringing partitions, cabinets, and other furnishings the program was installing. Rustic timber, plain white French doors with old hardware, and old wood tables that looked like a feudal lord's cook from the Tudor era probably chopped veg on them.

  "Hey, Rick, do we need to install an extra outlet for the decorators to put in twinkle lights and that sort of stuff?" someone on the electrical crew called out.

  Kitty and I looked at each other. "Sure," Kitty called back. We both giggled, wondering if anybody heard. We could tell already we were going to have to work fast to keep up with this crew. If they built sets this quickly, I imagined they expected decorating consultants to issue quick opinions and quick aesthetic solutions whenever necessary.

  By tomorrow, we might hardly know our own event space, but we could trust that its transformation would look great, since millions of people would be watching this on television a few months from now. I pictured twinkle lights and white flowers in antique lanterns, and green and white bowers along the tops of doorways and those French door partitions, with a touch of pink for warmth. It was growing easier to see the potential in decorating this new arrangement, even without all the furnishings and set props in place.

  Chapter Three

  In the Dumnonian's be-chintzed tea parlor's gilded mirror, Lady Amanda adjusted her cashmere jumper and pearls. "The last bit of baby weight always outstays its welcome," she sighed, hands resting on her waistline, where a little extra padding from Charles was disguised by the jumper's powder-blue folds. "How do I look otherwise?" She turned to me.

  "Gorgeous, as always," I answered. My former employer had a panache and sense of style that carried imperfections as if they were merely unique features, and a frame that was built to carry a few extra pounds without looking overburdened.

  "Good. I found a white strand in my hair last week. Horrifying sight," she said, adjusting the biscuit tray that was part of the decorative tea table laid for the new arrivals from the program, for whom we were the welcoming committee representing Ceffylgwyn's tourism committee. "Gingers go gray more quickly than other hair colors, I read once in my youth. Of course, I thought they meant one had to be ancient — a hundred or so — and that it was decades away. Being on the threshold of forty, however." Her nose wrinkled with distaste.

  "It happens," I said, sympathetically. Only last night, I had tweezed out of my own chestnut mane a strand that looked suspiciously like a gray hair — one I had been telling myself was a trick of the lighting until then. It was not one of the fiery strands that Matt had always admired in my tresses. "But your hair is such a lovely shade of light ginger, no one can tell in the light." If that little white lie worked for me, it should work for her, too.

  "You mean 'carrot'," said Amanda, with cheerful sarcasm. "Go on, say it. It was my Achilles heel, even when it became stylish. But never mind my looks — is this the only cake we ordered?" She noticed the chocolate gateau decorated with gilded nuts at the end of the tea table looked lonely, even with one of Dovie's tiered trays of macarons in neon Easter egg shades.

  "No, we ordered a Victorian jam sponge — one of those with the doily lace design in sugar," I said. "It wasn't quite ready yet when I got here. Dovie's bringing it in before we pour tea."

  "Here we are," trilled the inn's hostess, showing in both the sponge patterned with a ridiculous amount of confectioner's sugar and sugar-glittered strawberry points and the first arrivals to our reception. "Lovely to have them with us again, isn't it? I was just telling them how many compliments I get from guests on their photos — pride of place behind the reception desk, you know."

  Lady Amanda and I had hastily positioned ourselves in welcome mode in front of the tea table, underneath the party flags and letter banner spelling 'welcome' as the show's judges followed Dovie through, along with one of the show's producers, who introduced herself as Ursula, with a sweet smile and a brisk sense of professionalism.

  Harriet Hardy and Pierre Dupine, the original judges of The Grand Baking Extravaganza, were slightly-older versions of themselves from the ones who first stayed here. Harriet was dressed impeccably and imposingly as ever, I noticed, even with a lot more noticeable gray in her dark hair, but Pierre was still the one who struck intimidation in the hearts of bakers. I had seen him briefly last year at a book signing — since then, he had changed very little, as if Pierre had been created as a rugged fifty-something and wouldn't show noticeable age for years to come.

  "It's so kind of you to go through all this trouble," said Ursula. "It was such a long trip, and we have so much to do that this may be the last meal we have that isn't stale from the crafts services table." She talked like a young American assistant director whose wedding I had planned back when I was still with Design a Dream — who had talked casually about 'gaffers' and 'best boys' and other industry terms connected to her local Seattle documentary program while we sampled wedding cupcakes decorated with miniature sugar-glittered pansies that I had specially requested for her early spring theme.

  "It's the least we could do," I
said. "Julianne Rose — I'm a local event planner, who used to work at the manor house when it hosted the original contest."

  "Oh, right — you're one of the set consultants, aren't you? The local wedding planner helping with the program's wedding image —"

  "Lovely to see you again," said Lady Amanda, greeting the judges, who were next in line. "Ms. Hardy, I am still quite the fan of your cookery program. And Mr. Dupine — I still adore your book on pastries, even if I mostly treasure it for the photos. I'm hopeless at the pate brisee or however you pronounce it."

  "Perhaps I can offer advice," suggested Pierre, with a polite expression that didn't look entirely enthused about doing it. "Usually, it is the matter of chilling the dough that is missing."

  "With a small child demanding to know when it will come out of the oven, I think several steps are probably lacking, which I simply think I've performed at the time," joked Amanda, although the French chef didn't seem particularly amused.

  "Of course," he said. "Fortunately for you, there will be little in the way of pastry to remind you of such errors in the recipes we have planned for the contest."

  "Is that a hint?" said Lady Amanda, looking delighted. "I don't suppose you'll let me spread that rumor, will you?"

  "Of course," said Pierre. I had a feeling lots of little hints had been agreed to by the show's principle players, just to tease our excitement ... not that Pierre seemed excited by it himself.

  "We're honored to be back in your little village," said Harriet, with one of her 'butter won't melt' smiles. "It's a charming little place." She inspected the tea tray with a sweeping glance that I knew noted the heavy use of food coloring in the French sandwich cookies and the scones studded with an unusual combination of mango and dried banana. I had a feeling those wouldn't pass muster with either judge.