Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
As soon as they arrived back at the cottage, Clemmie decided to indulge in some much-needed relaxation and take a bath.
After turning on the taps, sending a stream of hot water rushing into the tub, she grabbed a jar of lavender-scented bubble bath and poured in a generous splash, watching as soft, frothy bubbles spread across the surface.
The scent was dreamy, floral, fresh, and way better than her pyjama bottoms, which reeked of pond water and were now spinning around in the washing machine in the utility room.
She dipped a hand in to check the temperature, then slipped out of the rest of her clothes and stepped into the tub with a happy sigh.
The bubbles wrapped around her like a warm hug, and the faint scent of lavender mixed with the fresh air from the open window made it feel like she’d stepped into another time entirely.
On a whim, Clemmie glanced towards the bottle of champagne she’d spotted earlier. ‘Why not?’ she murmured to herself. Wrapping herself in a plush towel before padding barefoot across the room, she retrieved the champagne and returned to the bath.
With a satisfying pop, she uncorked the bottle and poured herself a glass. The bubbles sparkled like tiny diamonds, and she took a long sip, the crisp, effervescent taste adding to the indulgence. She leaned back against the edge of the tub, closed her eyes and allowed herself to fully relax.
Her mind wandered as she soaked, replaying the day’s events. The awkward horse ride, the Queen’s unexpected appearance and, of course, the lake incident. It was all so ridiculous and yet so wonderfully surreal. The memory of Oliver laughing as he carried her in his arms made her smile.
After a much-needed long, luxurious soak, Clemmie climbed out of the tub and dried herself.
Her dress for dinner, a simple yet elegant navy number, was already laid out on the bed.
She quickly blow-dried her hair and began applying her make-up, giving herself a more sophisticated look.
As she swiped on some lipstick, her phone buzzed with an incoming FaceTime call from Betty.
‘Granny!’ Clemmie answered, propping the phone on the dressing table.
Betty’s face filled the screen, her mischievous grin already in place. ‘If it isn’t Lady of the Lake herself!’ she teased. ‘Your text had me giggling!’
Clemmie groaned, but she couldn’t help laughing. ‘Don’t even start. It was mortifying!’
‘I mean, meeting the Queen while stuck in a lake and wearing pyjamas? Only you, Clemmie. Only you!’
‘It wasn’t my fault!’ Clemmie protested, though she was laughing too. She recounted the entire escapade in vivid detail, from Oliver’s rescue to the Queen’s casual conversation.
By the time she finished, Betty was wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. ‘You’re a walking sitcom, I swear. But honestly, it sounds like you’re having the time of your life. Royalwood looks absolutely beautiful. How did Oliver manage to get you both an invite to stay? I never did ask.’
‘I think it’s something to do with Lady Rosalind. She’s a friend of the Queen’s and great family friends with Oliver’s grandparents. But Granny, listen, you’ll never guess what I’ve found – the number 1705, right here in my room at the cottage!’
‘Really?’
‘It’s so bizarre, it’s engraved in the wood on the inside of the wardrobe.’
‘Now that is strange.’
‘I asked Oliver about it but he thinks it just means when it was made.’
‘He’s probably right, but what a strange coincidence. Oh, by the way,’ Betty said, her tone shifting, ‘you’ll never guess the latest local news. The Royal Yacht is still moored at Puffin Island and isn’t leaving anytime soon.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Apparently there’s an issue with the engine, so it’s going to be here for at least another week.’
‘All the tourists will love that. I’ll be home in a few days to help out. I bet the café will be heaving.’
‘You’re not wrong. I’ve been run off my feet baking the now infamous torte. Everyone wants a slice!’
‘That’s incredible,’ Clemmie said.
‘So many people want to meet you… Oh, and I’ve been looking through all the recipe books from the past and seeing what you could possibly include in your new cookbook. Amelia said she’s going to clear a whole shelf for copies of your book in The Story Shop when it’s published.’
‘That’s lovely. Thank you.’
‘I want lots of updates!’
‘I’ll keep you updated on everything!’
After wrapping up the call, Clemmie gave herself one final glance in the mirror. Satisfied, she headed downstairs, the soft rustle of her dress accompanying her footsteps. When she reached the kitchen, the rich aroma of something delicious greeted her.
The kitchen was straight out of another time, full of old-world charm. A big racing-green Aga took centre stage, its cast-iron doors slightly open, letting out a gentle heat. Above it, copper pots and pans hung from a rail, their surfaces catching the light.
To one side, a grand inglenook fireplace dominated the wall, its blackened beams framing an empty hearth. The sturdy farmhouse table in the middle of the room was well-worn, its mismatched chairs only adding to the charm. A vase of fresh wildflowers sat in the centre, bringing a splash of colour.
The pantry door stood ajar, revealing shelves packed with neatly labelled jars of preserves, sacks of flour and tiny glass bottles of spices.
Rustic wooden cabinets with wrought-iron handles lined the walls, while the polished stone countertops were scattered with fresh vegetables, a loaf of crusty bread and a well-used wooden chopping board.
Oliver stood at the counter, wearing an apron emblazoned with the words ‘King of the Kitchen’ and looking entirely at ease.
‘King of the kitchen? Did you bring that apron with you?’ Clemmie teased, raising an eyebrow.
He grinned and shook his head, gesturing towards the pantry. ‘They were hanging in there. There’s a “Queen of the Kitchen” one, too! Someone in the royal household clearly has a great sense of humour.’
‘It suits you,’ Clemmie said, laughing lightly as she leaned against the doorframe. ‘You’ve been busy, I see. Are we eating here? Shall I set the table?’
He nodded towards the door leading off the kitchen. ‘We’re eating in there and everything is already set.’
Clemmie peeked around the door and stopped in her tracks.
The dining table was like something out of a dream, set with fine china with delicate gold patterns, silverware that practically gleamed and crystal glasses that caught the light.
A little vase of fresh flowers sat in the middle, clearly picked from the garden, and tall candles flickered softly.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, her voice tinged with awe, touched by the effort Oliver had gone to.
‘Only the best for you,’ he replied with a grin, pouring her a glass of wine. ‘Go on, take a seat.’ He gestured towards the head of the table. ‘I’ll bring the food through in a moment.’
‘What are we having?’ she asked curiously, standing in the doorway.
Oliver wiped his hands on his apron and leaned against the counter.
‘A bit of a royal feast, actually. The roasted vegetables are straight from the estate gardens. Carrots, parsnips and the most enormous butternut squash I’ve ever seen – all grown just beyond the hedgerows.
The herbs are from the kitchen garden here, too – rosemary, thyme, sage.
And the venison? That comes from the royal grounds as well.
Locally sourced, shall we say?’ He winked.
Clemmie’s eyes widened. ‘You’re joking. Venison from here?’
‘The royals like to live off the land. I’d say it’s probably the most well-fed deer in the country, grazing on these immaculate lawns. Don’t worry, though, I’ve kept it simple. Pan-seared with a red wine reduction. For dessert, we have a crumble made from apples grown in the orchard at the back.’
Clemmie clutched her chest dramatically. ‘You’re spoiling me. Do I need to curtsy before dinner starts?’
Oliver laughed, returning to the stove to check on the food. ‘Only if you want to. I think the Queen would approve of this spread though. Now, give me a moment to plate it all up.’
As she waited, Clemmie admired the dining room in more detail.
It had the same old-world charm as the kitchen.
Wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, and the walls were adorned with portraits and landscapes, many of which, she guessed, were of the Royal Family or the estate.
A grand fireplace stood at one end, its mantel lined with ornate brass candlesticks and a large gilded mirror.
A Persian rug softened the stone floor, and the heavy oak dining table looked like it had hosted centuries of meals and conversations.
Her eyes wandered around the room, her gaze landing on the large wooden bookcase that stood against the far wall.
It was filled with old leather-bound tomes, antique ornaments and framed photographs.
Intrigued, Clemmie walked over to examine it more closely.
As her fingers brushed against the spines of the books, one in particular caught her attention.
It was larger than the others, its leather cover cracked with age and its edges worn smooth from decades of handling.
Embossed in faded gold lettering on the spine were the words Visitors’ Book.
Clemmie pulled it gently from the shelf and was surprised by its weight.
She carried it to the table, the scent of fine old paper wafting up as she opened it.
The first page bore an elegant inscription in swirling script: Royalwood Cottage Estate.
1916. Beneath it, an embossed royal crest added a touch of grandeur.
‘This is amazing,’ she murmured, running her fingers over the lettering.
Oliver walked into the room. ‘What have you found?’
‘A visitors’ book. Looks like it was created just before the war ended,’ she said, flipping to the first entry.
The pages were filled with neat handwriting, each line a record of someone who had stayed at the lodge over the decades.
The dates, names and occasional notes were meticulously inscribed, and Clemmie could feel the history radiating from the pages.
She scanned the first few entries, marvelling at the names. Lords, ladies, barons and diplomats.
Then her eyes stopped on two names, ‘Henry, Earl of Aberford,’ she read aloud. She paused. ‘And Chef étienne Dupont! The scandal guy and the chef. You said they were friends.’
Oliver nodded, ‘Yes, I did.’
‘I wonder if they ever worked together to host dinners at places like this cottage. Can you imagine the meals that must have been created here? In this very kitchen.’ Clemmie looked back at the book, her fingers trailing over the elegant script.
The thought of those two legendary figures walking through these same rooms, laughing and collaborating, made her feel connected to history in a way she never had before.
‘Did he disappear from royal life before or after the chef was killed?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Clemmie turned another page. ‘To think,’ she murmured, ‘their names are right here, in this book.’ She closed the book gently, resting her hands on its leather cover. ‘This place,’ she said, looking around the room, ‘it’s like a time capsule. A gateway to another era.’
Oliver nodded, his gaze steady. ‘Now you’re part of its story too.
Let’s eat.’ He walked back into the kitchen then appeared moments later, balancing two plates laden with food.
The vibrant colours of the roasted vegetables glowed against the white china, the venison glistening under its red wine reduction, sprigs of fresh herbs adding the final touch.
‘You’ve really outdone yourself. You are more than a food journalist, you could be a Michelin star chef,’ she said, beaming as he set the plate before her.
‘Well, I aim to impress,’ Oliver replied, pouring wine for them both and taking the seat opposite her. ‘Following the chefs and watching them cook, over the years I’ve picked up a lot of tips. Now, tuck in before it gets cold.’
Clemmie picked up her knife and fork and took a bite, the flavours bursting on her tongue. The vegetables were perfectly roasted, their natural sweetness heightened by a hint of caramelisation, and the venison was tender and rich, the sauce adding a depth of flavour she hadn’t expected.
‘This is incredible,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’m going to need the recipe.’
Oliver chuckled. ‘I’ll write it down for you, though I think it might taste better here, surrounded by all this.
’ He gestured around the room, its history enveloping them like a comforting embrace.
‘Don’t you forget to write in the visitors’ book before you leave. The current one is in the hallway.’
‘I won’t.’ Her mind lingered on the Earl, wondering what his life was like after he walked away from his title.
Did he just become a regular man walking the streets of London, blending in among the bustling crowds?
She tried to picture him, perhaps sitting in a small café, unnoticed by the world yet carrying a lifetime of extraordinary memories.
Of course, he would have passed away by now, but she wondered, if he’d reached one hundred, would he have received a birthday card from the Queen?
If he had, would she have known it was him …
the Earl who had once been part of her family’s circle, whose name was inked into the very history of Royalwood Cottage?
The idea tickled Clemmie, and she let out a soft laugh.
She had a feeling her time at the cottage was going to be interesting, the secrets it held just waiting to be revealed.