Page 31 of The Golden Spoon
A buckle is a humble sort of cake—old-fashioned in its simplicity—that she hasn’t seen around in years. Nowadays most prefer a thick layer of icing, buttercream they can decorate, or the scraped edge of a naked cake. Something meant to impress on a table or in a photograph rather than just be eaten at a family dinner or on a picnic. Secretly it’s kind of a relief to see such a normal person’s cake be given its due.
“The decoration is lacking,” Betsy tells her flatly, though the completely bare sides show an even sprinkling of blueberries, which is impressive. It can be difficult to keep berries from falling to the bottom of a cake, but these are evenly distributed throughout.
The knife glides into the cake, which has a springy sort of give to it. She cleaves a slice away, leaving a small avalanche of streusel crumbs in its wake. The cake inside is plump and golden, studded with juicy blueberries. Betsy can tell before she even takes a bite that it has been cooked to perfection.
The flavors hit her tongue and bring on a wave of nostalgia so strong that she has to steady herself against the table. It is heavenly, the sweet and sour of the blueberries wrapped in the soft vanilla-y cake. She is instantly transported back in time, back to her childhood. It is unquestionably the best cake of the bunch, simple and satisfying, the kind that if you were to bake it at home would leave you wanting more, taking secret trips to the kitchen to cut another slice. There is something else about it though, something personal. The cake is so intensely similar to one she’s eaten as a child that Betsy takes a step backward, dropping the fork on the platter noisily. Betsy suddenlyfeels sick. It is all she can do to keep from spitting the bite back out into her hand.
The cameras catch it all, zooming in closer as Betsy closes her eyes and forces the bite down her throat. Archie looks at her sideways, startled. He puts his own bite into his mouth. She looks away as he chews, his eyes squinting in pleasure.
“That is… an amazing cake. Very well done, Lottie,” he says, genuinely impressed. “I want to bring the rest up to my room.” Lottie smiles, and the others giggle jealously. Betsy feels dizzy.
“The texture is all wrong,” Betsy croaks. She watches Lottie’s face fall. “Water,” she barks out. Archie looks at her with a patronizing amount of concern, but she barely sees him. She feels instead like she is spinning, falling through time and space with nothing to grab hold of.
“I need to take a break,” she waves her arms to signal the crew to stop filming. “I’ll be back shortly,” she tells Melanie.
“You all right, Betsy?” Archie calls after her as she flees toward the manor, not sounding all that concerned. She ignores him.
Betsy’s heart thumps wildly as she rushes across the lawn and past the stone lions into the manor, taking the stairs to the East Wing as fast as she can and finally arriving, winded, at her rooms. She flings open the door to her study. The room is organized, tidy, still. Nothing looks out of place. Her desk is exactly as she’s left it—a set of embossed stationery, a jar of pens, a framed photograph of her mother and father at a party hosted by the DuPont family. A stack of fan letters still sits in a basket on her desk waiting to be read. She goes straight to the mantel, but she can see already that the recipe box is gone. Her throat constricts as she spins around the room, her eyes scanning the shelves, the windowsills, even as she knows for a fact that she hasn’t misplaced the recipes.
Betsy realizes that she hasn’t really focused on Lottie all this time. She has looked at her of course, but she hasn’t really seenher, not examined her the way she did the others. Perhaps even at her age she iscapable of ignoring other older women, of underestimating them. The thought fills her with fear. She thinks of Lottie standing before her at the judging table. She is a humble-looking sort, a green cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. Her brown clogs accentuate her thin legs and knobby knees. Her hands twist together in front of her. Her mind flips through all of the people from her past, decades’ worth of them. Her heart skips a beat. The image crystallizes of an insecure little girl waiting in the doorway of her bedroom, hands clasped to be invited to play. The recognition knocks the wind out of Betsy, and she drops to her knees on the floor of her study.
“Elizabeth Bunting,” Betsy whispers, her stomach curdling with fear.
PRADYUMNA
While Archie and Betsy retreat to their little gazebo to decide our fates, Melanie instructs us to line up in front of the judging table. It’s been like this every day, and I’ve never quite gotten used to it. You’d think they could give us a chair to sit on or something. It has always felt a bit odd and punitive to have to just stand here, as though we are awaiting something awful like a firing squad. Melanie shuffles us around, sandwiching me between Hannah and Stella and putting Lottie on the far end.
Next to me Hannah shifts uncomfortably, biting at her fingernails. It’s annoying me and I’m tempted to grab her arm and tell her to stop. Stella looks equally tense, her arms crossed tightly around herself. Of the four of us, only Lottie looks excited. She leans back behind Stella and gives me a look. Her eyes are shining, exhilarated. I smile back at her. Even if Betsy’s reaction hadn’t gone the way she’d hoped, it was good Lottie had done this and made herself known. Besides, Archie had loved the cake. I honestly can’t wait to try a bite. Stella also did well today. I’m happy for her. She needed this. Hannah, on the other hand, I can’t help but have a tiny seed of satisfaction at her lackluster performance. I’m sure that puts her and me in the bottom two. The golden girl herself, down at the bottom of the pile. I have resignedmyself to leave if I must. Of course, I’d love to stay and help Lottie out, but I know that I did not bake something so incredible that I deserve to be saved today. I’ve found my salvation in other ways during this time. This experience with Lottie, it’s given me a new perspective on life. I’ve uncovered part of myself that I always hoped was there but was afraid to try and access in case it wasn’t. Being vulnerable has made me feel braver than any sort of cheap thrill I’ve experienced, and I’m interested in exploring it even more. I’ve decided that I don’t want to drink for a while when I go home. I don’t want to be numb anymore.
The camera operators return to the tent, taking their places next to their equipment. Melanie comes by and gives us one last look-over, nudging me an inch to the left, before retreating off to the side. The lights come back on, shining at the entryway to the tent where Archie and Betsy emerge. They stand facing us, their faces plastered with good cheer.
“Well, we certainly had a lot to discuss,” Betsy begins. “But in the end, it was obvious the best baking today was from… Stella.” Next to me I feel Stella’s body collapse a bit with shock or relief.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
Betsy continues, “And though we would love to keep you all and just keep doing this forever, you all know this is a competition, and someone has to leave us today.”
“The baker going home today is…,” Archie begins, his voiced filled with regret. I brace myself, smiling for the cameras to let them know I’m ready. Archie pauses, and his eyes flick to Betsy before he turns them back to us. “Lottie.”
I should have expected it with the way Betsy stormed off after taking a bite, but I am still shocked when her name is called. The others are as well. I see their eyes widen in surprise. I shake my head, clearing my ears for a correction. There’s been some sort of mistake. Lottie doesn’t deserve to go home.
“I’m truly sorry, Lottie, you’re a great baker,” Archie says, looking back at Betsy. I watch something unspoken pass between them,but before I can sort it out, they are blocked by cameras as everyone crowds around Lottie, hugging her and saying their goodbyes. I hold back, numb. This is odd. Lottie’s cake was perfectly baked. I thought it would be Hannah to get the boot today. I wish it were the case. Lottie and I had so much more to do here. I guess I was being naive thinking that I could just go on playing my little sleuthing game indefinitely.
I catch a glimpse of Hannah cooing over Lottie. It’s for the cameras, no doubt. I’ve never seen Hannah so much as say hello to her the past few days. I get a pang of recognition remembering the legs protruding from Archie’s sheets this morning.There’s a reason for her to stay a bit longer, isn’t there, I think bitterly. I’m comforted by the idea that someone like Archie won’t let her win now. If a relationship of any sort ever came out, it would look far too bad for him giving preferential treatment to the winner.
Later I open a bottle of Chenin blanc in the library. I have drunk my way through most of the best bottles of wine by now, I realize with just the tiniest bit of embarrassment. I bring the open bottle to the sofa and sit down next to Lottie, propping my feet up on the coffee table. My mood has turned, and I feel morose. I wish there were something more I could do, a way to make her stay. She eyes the wineglass in my hand.
“I thought maybe the cake would jog her memory, but… nothing.” Lottie sighs.
“She really hated that cake,” I say. She jabs me playfully in the side with her elbow.
“Maybe I made it wrong.” Lottie shrugs sadly. “I hadn’t ever baked it before, just followed the recipe the best I could. One of the measurements could have been off.”
“I doubt that. Your mother seems like she was quite particular with her notetaking.”
Lottie nods. “Oh! I had a memory while I was baking today. I think my mother was afraid of Richard Grafton.”
I perk up. “And?”
