Chapter 28 #2
Your secret and my secret will now stay buried together, along with the rest of the letters.
They will remain sealed in the box, locked away from prying eyes.
To retrieve them now would be too dangerous – too many are still watching.
But should you ever need those letters, they are yours.
The royal solicitor’s address is enclosed below and he will be able to guide you to the letters’ location.
The code to open the box is our special number; you know the one.
Beatrice, I owe you more than words can say. Your kindness and your friendship have been my light in dark times. Though I must let you go now, I will be with you very soon. You are remarkable, and the world is better for having you in it.
All my love,
Henry
Clemmie’s hands shook as she finished reading. Her mind raced with questions and implications. She hadn’t expected this, not by a long shot.
Amelia was the first to speak, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘He … he broke off an engagement with the Queen’s daughter? Then left his aristocratic life behind?’
Clemmie’s eyes were wide. ‘What are all these secrets and where does Arthur fit in to this? This letter suggests they both have a secret. Is it the same secret? Did your mum ever let anything slip?’ asked Clemmie.
Betty shook her head, her brow furrowing in concentration. ‘I’m just trying to do the maths,’ she murmured. ‘My mum, Emily, was born December 1918, which means Clemmie’s great-great-granny, Beatrice, must have fallen pregnant around … March 1918.’
Amelia nodded, fascinated. ‘So your mum is Emily, Emily’s mum is Beatrice, and it’s Beatrice who’s connected to the Earl. This is all very intriguing. How old were you when you had Clemmie’s mum Belinda?’
The moment Amelia spoke Betty’s face crumpled, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’
Betty took a deep breath, gathering herself. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, but her voice faltered. ‘They say time is a healer, but some wounds never really mend, the loss of your own child.’
Betty had sat down to tell Clemmie all about her mother’s death when Clemmie was ten years old.
It had been a bitter winter’s night, the air crisp with frost as Belinda drove across the causeway that connected Puffin Island to the mainland.
She had just finished a late shift at the small hotel in Seas End where she worked.
The tide had been low, and the road, though narrow and treacherous, was passable.
But that night, a group of boy racers had been tearing across the causeway, engines roaring, music blaring, their cars weaving recklessly in and out of the oncoming lane.
Belinda never stood a chance. They had taken her out in an instant.
The impact was so severe that her car had spun out of control, flipped over and hit a tree at the end of the causeway.
By the time help arrived, it was too late.
She was gone. Belinda was only twenty-four when she was killed, leaving behind Clemmie, who was two years old at the time, too young to understand the enormity of her loss.
It was Betty who had stepped in, raising Clemmie as her own, ensuring that her granddaughter grew up knowing love, even in the shadow of such a tragic loss.
‘She was so young,’ Betty whispered now, lost in thought. ‘A life stolen in an instant.’
Amelia reached for both their hands, squeezing them gently. ‘She’d be proud of you, you know,’ she said softly. ‘And of Clemmie.’
Betty nodded, dabbing at her eyes with a crumpled tissue. ‘I hope so, I really do.’
Clemmie reached inside the box, her fingers brushing against brittle edges of time-worn photographs. She gently pulled out a handful, her eyes scanning their faded images.
‘This is a photo of the Earl,’ she announced.
She turned the photo around in her hands, marvelling at the noble figure staring back at her, his stance proud and assured. The resemblance was undeniable; this was the same man she had seen in framed portraits aboard the yacht.
Her fingers moved through the pile, carefully selecting another image.
‘And this,’ she breathed, ‘this is Chef étienne Dupont. Oliver told me he was killed in the war, and as a mark of respect for such an excellent chef, his royal kitchen was left untouched.’ She glanced up at Amelia and Betty.
‘I’ve been in that kitchen. Oliver showed me around.
I’ve stood right there.’ She pointed to the exact spot in the photograph where Chef étienne stood next to the Earl, captured for ever in a moment of laughter, a towel slung over the chef’s shoulder, his crisp uniform pristine.
‘They look so handsome,’ she mused. She passed the first photograph to Betty while she examined the next.
‘Oh, and these were sealed boxes where the Queen could leave messages for the kitchen staff and request her favourite recipes.’
She passed the photograph to Amelia, who peered closely at it.
‘Look at the gold combination numbers,’ Amelia pointed out. ‘They’re so intricate.’
Clemmie soon realised that Betty hadn’t spoken a word since she had handed her the first photograph. She turned her head, suddenly feeling uneasy.
Betty’s face had gone ashen, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched a fragile picture between her fingers. Her breath came in uneven gasps, her lips parting but no sound emerging.
‘What is it, Granny?’ Clemmie asked.
Without answering, Betty stood and walked towards the dresser. She opened the door and pulled out a dented tin biscuit box.
Clemmie and Amelia exchanged a look but said nothing as Betty returned to the sofa and rested the tin box on her knee. She opened it, revealing an assortment of old photographs, their edges curled with age.
For a moment, she simply stared at them. Then, she reached in and pulled out a single photograph. She held it in front of her, her eyes scanning the image as if seeing it for the first time.
The photo showed a young couple standing outside The Café on the Coast. The woman’s face was soft with laughter, her arm wrapped around the man beside her.
Betty’s voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper.
‘This is my grandmother and grandfather.’ She placed the photo on the table as both Clemmie and Amelia leaned in to look at it.
Then Betty laid the photograph of the Earl and the chef next to it.
‘That can’t be the Earl,’ she murmured, her voice breaking under the weight of her revelation. ‘Because … that is Arthur Rose. My grandfather.’
A stunned silence filled the room.
Clemmie felt her heartbeat quicken, her mind racing to make sense of what she was hearing. She glanced from one photograph to the other.
They were the same man.
The same piercing gaze, the same proud stance.
But that was impossible.
She looked at Betty, who was trembling.
‘Does this mean the Earl is my grandfather? No, it can’t be.’
But the evidence was undeniable.
The man Clemmie had identified as the Earl, the man whose image was displayed aboard the Royal Yacht, was the same man her granny claimed to be her grandfather.
‘I don’t know what to say. I’ve never seen any photographs of my great-great-grandfather when he was young, so I wouldn’t have recognised him, but yes, I can see the similarity.’
‘There’s nothing similar about it, they are the same person,’ declared Betty.
Clemmie looked towards Amelia, ‘What do you think?’
Amelia nodded. ‘I agree with Betty.’
Betty was quiet for a moment. ‘Did he actually give up the Queen’s daughter for a life on Puffin Island? I don’t know what to think. Was he more than just a humble café owner on the coast? Was he … was he secretly a nobleman, an Earl, a man with ties to royalty?
‘I’ve never questioned who I am until now.’
Just then, the front doorbell rang.
Betty was about to stand, but Clemmie was quicker, springing to her feet.
‘I’ll get it. Amelia, pour Granny a stiff drink. I think she needs it.’
As Clemmie left the room and made her way towards the door, her mind was spinning. The Earl was her great-great-grandfather? It seemed impossible. Unreal. And yet, here they were. What a secret to have buried for all these years. It seemed so surreal.
As she opened the door, she briefly closed her eyes. This was all she needed right at this moment.
Oliver stood on the doorstep, his face drawn with something between regret and urgency.
‘Please, let me explain.’
‘This really isn’t a good time,’ Clemmie said, her thoughts still tangled around Granny and the revelation they’d just uncovered.
‘Please, Clem,’ he said, his voice quieter now. ‘I’ve come all this way. I’ve been an idiot, and I need to explain. If, after that, you never want to see me again … I’ll go. I promise.’
Clemmie studied him for a second, then let out a breath. ‘Wait here.’ She shut the door and turned back towards the living room.
Betty was putting on her coat.
‘Where are you going?’ Clemmie asked, concerned.
‘I need some air. I need to think.’ Betty’s voice was firm but distant. ‘I’m going for a walk, I won’t be long.’
Clemmie and Amelia watched as she disappeared out of the back door.
‘To think, it’s usually Granny who is the keeper of secrets,’ Clemmie murmured. ‘I doubt she’s ever experienced this kind of shock before.’
‘Who was at the front door?’ Amelia asked.
‘Oliver. He’s here to explain. He must have jumped in his car the moment I left.’
Amelia glanced towards the back door, then back at Clemmie. ‘You listen to what he has to say. Call me if you need me.’ Without another word, she slipped outside after Betty.
Clemmie turned back towards the front door, steadying herself.
She took a deep breath, pulled it open and met Oliver’s gaze.
‘You have ten minutes,’ she told him.