Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Clemmie’s heart was still racing as they hurried along the bay.
Oliver kept glancing over at her. ‘You all right?’ he asked.
‘I can’t believe it,’ said Clemmie, ‘I mean, I really can’t believe the code opened the box.’
‘I think it’s Betty’s choice what she does with these documents. What do you think?’
Clemmie nodded. ‘I agree.’
As they approached The Café on the Coast, they saw that Betty was flipping the ‘OPEN’ sign to ‘CLOSED’.
‘Granny!’ Clemmie called out.
Betty turned, raising an eyebrow as she took in the pair of them, flushed from exertion, eyes alight with urgency.
‘What’s got you two in a flap?’ she asked. ‘You look like you’ve just run from a ghost.’ She opened the door wide and they walked into the café.
‘Get that door locked,’ said Clemmie.
Betty closed the door behind them, her eyes flicking from one to the other.
‘What’s going on? Has something happened?’
Clemmie took a steadying breath. ‘We met with Bunny at the hotel,’ she started. ‘Granny, she cracked the 1705 code.’
Betty’s eyes widened. ‘What?’
Clemmie nodded rapidly. ‘She figured it out because of the photograph, the one of the royal recipe cabinets. Chef étienne is a distant cousin of Bunny’s and his birthday was May seventeenth. Seventeen-zero-five.’
Betty looked astonished.
‘This,’ Oliver said, gesturing to the stack of aged papers, ‘is what we found inside the box that the code unlocked.’
Betty stared at the documents as if they might combust at any moment. Then, with a deep breath, she shook her head, walked over to the kettle and flicked it on.
‘Well,’ she said, reaching for the tea caddy, ‘if ever there was a time for a cuppa, it’s now.’
‘Do you want us to leave you to have a look through it all?’ asked Clemmie.
‘I can leave,’ suggested Oliver.
Betty looked at them. ‘I think we’re all in this together.’ She set out three mugs and reached for her glasses. ‘Go on, take a look.’
Clemmie took the top document. ‘These,’ she said, ‘are handwritten notes. They look old. Really old. Recipes, mostly.’
‘You mean to tell me you’ve got classified royal recipes?’ asked Betty.
Clemmie exhaled a shaky breath. ‘Not just recipes. Look at this.’ She pointed to a page filled with flowing script.
‘It’s not just about food, it’s about who was served and when.
It’s a log. A detailed history of who dined where, what was prepared.
’ As Clemmie flipped through the bundle, a small note fell from between the letters.
She carefully unfolded it, her eyes scanning the faded ink.
To find what’s hidden, listen to the tick of time. Where the past has stood still, beneath the weight of old wood and memories, it rests. The clock keeps it safe.
Betty raised an eyebrow. ‘What is this about? It sounds very cryptic, like a riddle. The clock?’
Clemmie’s heart skipped a beat. ‘The clock… Do you think it has something to do with the old grandfather clock in the hallway?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Betty, glancing at the door to the hall.
Clemmie’s eyes widened as a memory clicked into place.
‘Lady Rosalind told us about a grandfather clock. She mentioned how the chef would hide cakes in the clock for her, in a secret compartment no one would suspect. What if that’s the same thing here?
What if Rosalind and the chef weren’t the first people to use the clock as a hiding place?
’ Her voice lowered with excitement. ‘Granny, we need to check it.’
The two women exchanged a look before turning to Oliver. ‘What do you think?’ asked Clemmie.
‘I think you’d best check it.’
Clemmie, Betty and Oliver stood in the hallway, staring at the ancient clock that hadn’t ticked or tocked for as long as either woman could remember.
It stood there, as solid as the house itself, its brass pendulum no longer swaying, its face worn with age, the hands forever frozen in time.
A family heirloom, passed down through generations and never once altered or repaired.
Just like the recipes Betty had inherited, the clock had remained in the family, enduring the years without a second thought.
Clemmie stepped closer to the clock. ‘Well, there’s only one way to find out,’ she said. With a gentle twist, she turned the brass knob hidden just below the clock face.
To their surprise, it gave way easily, revealing a small, concealed door. Betty gasped, her hand flying to her chest. ‘I can’t believe it!’
The door opened. Nestled in the dusty compartment was an old, yellowed document. Her heart skipped a beat. She reached inside and carefully pulled it out, revealing the delicate paper.
‘It’s a marriage certificate,’ she murmured. ‘For Beatrice and Arthur! They were married here at the church on Puffin Island!’
Betty blinked back a tear. ‘A lovely piece of family history.’
‘There’s more,’ said Clemmie. Right at the back was an old, worn diary.
Back in the living room, Clemmie opened the diary at the first page. ‘It’s Beatrice’s diary,’ she said reverently.
They all stared at it.
‘Do you want to read it?’ asked Clemmie, knowing that they were about to embark on a journey that could potentially uncover a whole lot more secrets, if the letters they’d discovered in the attic were anything to go by.
‘My heart is beating that fast,’ admitted Betty. ‘You flick through and see if there’s anything obvious that stands out.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Clemmie.
Betty nodded.
Clemmie took a deep breath and began to read some of the entries out loud.
March 5, 1918
The tea dance was like any other. The music, the laughter, the hum of conversation, all familiar.
But then, there was him. Arthur Rose. A soldier from Scotland, with eyes like the stormy sea and a smile that disarmed me entirely.
He asked me to dance, and my world shifted.
I had never believed in love at first sight, but tonight, I know it exists.
March 7, 1918
Arthur leaves tomorrow. The war calls him back, and I am left with nothing but a memory of his touch, the way he whispered my name as we swayed to the music.
It is unbearable, this ache in my chest. I never imagined love could bloom so quickly, nor did I know how deeply it would root itself within me.
April 10, 1918
Puffin Island is quiet today. The sea is restless, waves battering the shore, much like my own heart. The café is coming together, but my thoughts stray only to Arthur. His letters are sparse, but I clutch each one as if it were my lifeline. He is fighting, and I am waiting.
May 14, 1918
I have been feeling unwell for weeks. Fatigue, dizziness, a sense of unease I cannot shake.
Henry visited today – he always seems to know when I need company.
He is troubled, I can tell. He confided in me that he will tell the Queen his relationship with Princess Alexandra is over.
I was stunned. To give up all that he has known.
But when I saw the sorrow in his eyes, I understood.
May 18, 1918
Henry arrived unannounced tonight. He asked if he could stay the night, and I saw the weight he carried.
He told me everything. About étienne. About the love that would never be accepted by the world he was born into.
I watched his hands tremble as he spoke, his voice raw with grief and frustration.
They’d spent last night at Royalwood Cottage where they celebrated in private their relationship and étienne’s birthday. Love should not have to be hidden.
Clemmie chipped in, ‘I should have noticed the date in the visitors’ book at the cottage was the seventeenth of May … 1705.’
June 3, 1918
I am with child. My hands shake even as I write the words. Arthur’s child. The realisation fills me with equal parts joy and terror. How will I raise a child alone? Will Arthur return to me? I have told no one, not even Henry.
July 9, 1918
étienne is dead. Murdered at war, just moments after Henry met with the Queen and decided to step away from public life. I have never seen Henry so broken. He weeps without shame, crumbling before me. I wish I could take his pain, as he has comforted mine. The world is cruel to love, it seems.
August 1, 1918
Henry has taken refuge here. We do not speak much of our grief, but it lingers in the air between us. He knows now about the baby. He held my hand as I cried, whispering reassurances I am too numb to believe. I am lost.
August 20, 1918
The telegram came today. Arthur is dead. My heart has shattered, and there is no mending it. I screamed until my voice broke, until Henry wrapped his arms around me and held me through the storm of my grief. I will never love again. I know that now.
Henry says he understands. That there will never be another étienne for him, just as there will never be another Arthur for me. He looks at my growing belly and makes a choice. He will take Arthur’s name. He will be my family.
September 10, 1918
Henry Aberford is gone. In his place stands Arthur Rose, my Arthur. We will make this work, for the child who will never know their true father, and for the love that could not be but will always remain.
September 13, 1918
Henry and I have set a date. I need to remember to call him Arthur. We will be married before the baby arrives. It is not the love story I once dreamed of, but it is a new kind of love, built on trust and understanding. Puffin Island has always been our sanctuary, and its people our family.
December 14, 1918
Emily is here. My beautiful daughter. When I hold her, I see Arthur in her eyes, but I also see hope. Henry was there for her birth, and he held her as if she were his own. In that moment, I knew we would be all right.
December 20, 1918
Everyone on Puffin Island has embraced us.
They know Henry’s truth, the islanders are privy to Henry’s secret and they have accepted it without question.
They welcome him as Arthur Rose, the man who has chosen to stand by my side.
We have found peace, at last, in our quiet corner of the world.
Our family is not conventional, but it is ours, and it is enough.
The room fell silent as the weight of the words on the fragile, yellowed pages settled over them like a thick mist. Betty, Clemmie and Oliver sat around the counter, the diary resting between them, its secrets laid bare.
Clemmie was the first to speak. She exhaled shakily and wiped her eyes, ‘Henry Aberford … and étienne.’
Oliver let out a low whistle, running a hand through his hair. ‘And Arthur Rose wasn’t Arthur Rose. He was Henry. He took on the name of the man she loved so her child would have a father. That’s … that’s devotion.’
Betty’s hands rested on her heart. ‘My heart aches for them both. For the love lost, for the sacrifices made. They created a life together out of grief and necessity, but also out of love, in their own way and the world never knew.’
‘What do you want to do about this?’ asked Clemmie tentatively. ‘Do we share their story?’
‘No.’ Betty’s voice was firm. ‘This isn’t for the world to know. It never was. If it was meant to be known, they would have told it themselves. Instead, they chose secrecy, and we need to respect that.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Clemmie. ‘This is a part of history. This changes things. Who Henry really was, what he sacrificed…’
‘What would that do now?’ Betty’s eyes met hers, steady and unwavering.
‘It would turn their love, their choices, their heartbreak into nothing more than a spectacle. This was their life. Not some tale for people to pick apart. They built something here, something safe. It was their truth to keep, and I won’t be the one to undo it. ’
‘I agree,’ added Oliver, looking between the pair of them.
Betty closed the diary. ‘We let them rest. We protect them, just as they protected each other.’
The three of them sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of Betty’s decision settling between them.
Some secrets were never meant to be told.
This one would remain safe, for ever.