Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
The next afternoon Clemmie kissed her granny on the cheek and stepped outside the café. The crisp sea air wrapped around her as she spotted Oliver’s car pulling up. The moment she slid into the passenger seat, she caught the concern in his deep blue eyes.
‘I saw the newspaper yesterday,’ he said quietly, his brow furrowed. ‘I’m really sorry, Clemmie.’ He leaned across and kissed her on her cheek.
‘It’s ridiculous. Sensationalised nonsense.’
‘I could have a word with Lady Rosalind,’ he offered. ‘She has the right contacts to squash bad publicity.’
Clemmie hesitated, ‘Would she really help me?’ she asked cautiously. ‘I mean, given Fiona’s her granddaughter…’
Oliver nodded thoughtfully. ‘Rosalind has always been a fair woman. Blood ties don’t cloud her judgement. If she believes something is right, she’ll do it. But we’d have to be honest with her. We’d have to tell her the recipe was gifted from the Earl.’
Clemmie felt a lump rise in her throat. The whole thing was a mess, and yet Oliver’s unwavering support soothed some of the sting. He reached over with his left hand, his eyes still on the road, his fingers wrapping around hers. ‘We can sort anything, together.’
But they couldn’t. The realisation hit her like a wave. Because he was leaving. In just a few days, he’d be gone, flying across the world to chase his career, while she remained rooted on Puffin Island.
‘Honestly, this will all come good,’ he reassured, his thumb brushing gently over her knuckles. ‘You suddenly look very sad.’
‘It’s just…’ She trailed off, unsure how to put it into words.
‘Just what?’ he prompted, his gaze never wavering.
She swallowed. ‘Timing. Again. I was so mad with you at the end of the garden party, yet my time at Royalwood Cottage was so wonderful. I know it sounds daft, and I could never afford somewhere so grand, obviously, but it felt like … we were a proper couple. Living together. Waking up, having breakfast, I had so much fun shopping for my dress…’
‘Which is in the boot of the car along with all the accessories. They belong to you.’ Oliver smiled, his grip on her hand tightening. ‘And I know. I was thinking the same.’
Silence settled between them, thick with unspoken thoughts, the hum of the radio the only sound filling the space. They both knew what was coming. The distance. The uncertainty.
‘A year isn’t for ever,’ Oliver said finally, his voice soft yet firm. ‘We can work it out … if we both want to.’ He began driving.
Of course she wanted to work it out. But how?
She could never leave Puffin Island – it wasn’t just where she lived; it was part of her, stitched into her very being.
The café, the sea air, the people who felt like family.
And Oliver? He thrived on movement, on adventure, on the sheer unpredictability of his life.
Even if they tried long-distance for a year, then what?
Would she be left waiting again, counting down the days until his next visit, only for him to be off to another continent after America?
Would every milestone, every birthday, every bad day when she just needed him, be marked by a video call instead of a touch?
Love wasn’t the problem. It never had been.
But was love enough to bridge an ocean when the real question wasn’t just where he was going next, but whether they’d ever stop being two people pulled in different directions?
‘You do know I never want to move from Puffin Island,’ she said quietly, taking a sidewards glance towards him.
He did the same, before refocusing on the road ahead.
‘Yes, I know,’ he admitted. ‘And I’ve got to work out how I feel about that.
I love my job, I love the travel … and I don’t want to let you down by making promises I might not be able to keep.
No one can see into the future, but there’s one thing I do know.
’ He paused. ‘I want you in my life. We just need to find a way to make that work.’
Warmth spread through her, a flicker of hope among the uncertainty. But doubt still lingered. Love wasn’t always enough, was it?
An hour later, Oliver turned into the car park of an elegant hotel, its sandstone exterior standing proudly against the mountainous terrain.
Inside, the foyer was the epitome of refined luxury. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, casting delicate patterns on the polished marble floor. Elegant flower displays decorated the space, and well-dressed guests chatted as they passed through the reception.
They walked towards the bar, where Bunny sat waiting for them on a leather chesterfield.
She was the embodiment of old-world elegance.
Dressed in a perfectly tailored twin set, a string of pearls resting at her collar, she exuded a presence that demanded attention.
Her sharp blue eyes flickered up as they approached, then she smiled and stood up.
Oliver kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Granny,’ he said and reintroduced her to Clemmie before they all sat down.
‘This is all very cloak-and-dagger,’ she remarked, picking up her teacup and taking a sip. ‘Accosting me on my way to Scotland like this. Now, tell me what’s going on.’
Clemmie swallowed, stealing a glance at Oliver, who nodded encouragingly.
She took a deep breath and began to explain, her fingers tracing the edges of the old photographs she had carefully laid out on the polished wooden table.
‘We have evidence that the Earl didn’t simply vanish without a trace.
He withdrew from public life entirely, assumed the name Arthur Rose, and settled down somewhere far from the prying eyes of society – Puffin Island, in fact.
Arthur Rose was my great-great-grandfather. ’
Bunny sat back in her chair, her fingers interlaced as she absorbed Clemmie’s words.
A flicker of something, perhaps recognition or unease, passed across her face before she shared the next bit of information.
‘étienne was a distant cousin of mine by marriage,’ she admitted, ‘and I grew up hearing the rumours around the Earl’s disappearance. ’
Clemmie tilted her head, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. ‘What kind of rumours?’
Bunny exhaled, as if bracing herself. ‘You have to understand, these stories have been passed down through generations. No one really knows what’s true and what’s simply embellishment.
But from what I heard, the Earl lived by the coast for some time.
Some even claimed he worked on a cruise ship, though that could just be whispers distorted over the years.
People love a mystery, don’t they?’ She gave a small, knowing smile before continuing.
‘But there was always something about the way his name would come up in hushed tones, especially among those who had connections to the royal staff. It was as though those who knew anything concrete didn’t dare say it outright. ’
Clemmie exchanged a glance with Oliver, then reached for another photograph.
‘Look at this,’ she said, sliding it towards Bunny.
‘This is a photograph of him with Beatrice. And this one’—she placed a second image beside the first—‘is of him with étienne. There’s no mistaking it.
The Earl and Arthur Rose were the same person. ’
Bunny studied the images, nodding slowly. ‘That does seem clear,’ she murmured. ‘But what else do you have?’
Clemmie hesitated for a fraction of a second before reaching into her bag and pulling out a battered old recipe book.
‘This,’ she said, flipping open to a specific page, ‘has a number written in it: 1705. The same number is sewn into an apron we found, and etched on the wardrobe door at Royalwood Cottage. But, to our knowledge, Beatrice had never been there. And yet…’
Bunny’s brow furrowed.
‘There were a number of letters, too, and one of them suggested that the Earl and my great-great-grandmother both had secrets.’
‘Interesting,’ replied Bunny.
‘Then there’s this, too.’ Clemmie retrieved another photograph from her collection and placed it before Bunny. ‘This is a picture of the kitchen on the Royal Yacht that was left untouched following étienne’s death.’
Bunny picked up the photograph and studied it closely. ‘Now that is interesting,’ she said, tapping the image with her index finger. ‘Did Beatrice ever work on the Royal Yacht?’
Clemmie shook her head. ‘Not that we know of. Why?’
Bunny leaned back, a twinkle of intrigue in her eyes.
‘You see the recipe cabinets,’ she said, pointing to them in the photo.
‘The rumours I’ve heard suggest that these compartments were used to pass secret messages between the staff.
Not recipes – notes. Love notes. Many an affair was conducted onboard back in the day. ’
Oliver let out a low whistle. ‘Does that change anything?’
‘It does indeed,’ Bunny agreed. ‘Now, what was the number you found again?’
‘1705,’ Clemmie replied.
Bunny’s expression sharpened. Without hesitation, she pulled out her phone and dialled a number. A moment later, someone answered Bunny’s call. ‘Wilf, it’s me,’ she said without preamble. ‘Go to the drawing room and check the family tree chart,’ she instructed.
Clemmie exchanged a curious glance with Oliver, mouthing, ‘Who’s Wilf?’
Oliver whispered, ‘My grandfather.’
Bunny continued speaking into the phone. ‘I need you to check something for me. étienne Dupont, his date of birth. Can you confirm it?’
There was a brief pause and then Bunny looked very pleased with herself. ‘I knew it,’ she murmured. ‘Seventeenth of May.’ She hung up the phone and turned back to Clemmie and Oliver. ‘My gut instinct was right. That number – 1705 – is étienne’s birthday.’
Clemmie’s mouth fell open. ‘Then that means…’
Bunny picked up the photograph of the royal compartment in the kitchen of the Royal Yacht. ‘My guess? One of those boxes holds all the answers,’ she said confidently. ‘And the combination to open it is 1705.’