Clemmie blinked. ‘I actually feel like royalty,’ she whispered as they stepped onto the deck, which was a vision of luxury. Lights twinkled overhead, and the sound of a string quartet drifted through the evening air from inside.
‘Are we the only ones here?’
‘We are.’
‘That’s insane,’ Clemmie murmured, glancing around.
They walked through a set of grand double doors to a magnificent dining hall, but not the one they’d seen on the tour. The walls in this room were panelled in polished mahogany, adorned with gilded mirrors and oil paintings of royal ancestors. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, their light casting a glow over the space.
The waiter showed them to the table. ‘Dinner will be served in approximately thirty minutes, but feel free to explore the upper deck and balcony in the meantime. Can I get you any drinks?’
They ordered and he soon returned with their drinks in hand.
‘Let’s have these on the balcony,’ Oliver suggested.
Clemmie followed Oliver up a winding staircase and they entered a hallway lined with doors, each marked with a small brass plaque.
‘I want to show you something.’
‘I’ve heard that before.’ She grinned playfully.
‘Miss Clemmie Rose, you need to remember your manners whilst you sail on the Royal Yacht,’ he replied in an exaggeratedly posh voice.
She playfully swiped him as he pushed open a door marked ‘Private,Staff Only’.
‘Oliver…’ Clemmie glanced over her shoulder as if someone might catch them. ‘Are we even allowed in here?’
‘Relax,’ he said, beckoning her inside. ‘Lady Rosalind didn’t give me that “soft spot” pass for nothing. I thought in your line of work you would love to see this.’
Clemmie stepped into the room, her eyes flitting around. The space before her wasn’t just a kitchen, it was a piece of history, perfectly preserved as though its staff might return at any moment.
The walls were lined with cream-coloured tiles and intricately carved wooden panels. A gleaming gold-plated oven stood at the centre of the room like a throne, its polished surface reflecting the soft glow of the hanging brass lights. Beside it, an enormous cast-iron stove loomed, the kind that hinted at decades of elaborate feasts and secret recipes.
‘This,’ Oliver said, spreading his arms, ‘is the historic royal kitchen. It was the first one built on the ship and last used in 1918.’
‘1918?’ Clemmie whispered, stepping forward in awe. ‘Everything looks like they just… left it.’
‘They did,’ Oliver confirmed, his voice low as if not wanting to disturb the ghosts of chefs past. ‘Not because it was abandoned, but because it was sealed. As a tribute.’
She turned to him, brows drawing together. ‘A tribute?’
‘To Chef Étienne Dupont,’ Oliver explained. ‘He wasn’t just a cook, he was a part of the Royal Family in all but name. His menus, his recipes, even the way he structured meals, became part of their traditions. He ran this kitchen with precision for over a decade, but when the First World War broke out, he enlisted. He never returned from the front and the Royal Family chose to preserve this space in his honour,’ Oliver continued. ‘By then, cooking operations had already shifted to the smaller galley on the upper deck, which was more practical and easier to modernise over the years. And, to be honest, money played a part, too. The Royal Yacht was a luxury, not a priority. Refitting a kitchen of this scale would have been an enormous expense, and there were always bigger concerns– wars, rebuilding, economic crises– so they left it. Some say out of grief, others because no one could replace Étienne. Either way, it became more than just a room, it became a legacy.’
Clemmie’s eyes roamed over the details, taking in every inch of the room. Copper pots and pans, polished to a mirrorfinish, hung in neat rows above a butcher’s block that still bore faint cuts from countless meals prepared for the Royal Family. Along one wall were small storage compartments built into the woodwork, each secured with tiny brass locks.
‘What are those?’ she asked, pointing to the panels.
‘Recipe cabinets,’ Oliver explained, moving to open one of the unlocked panels. Inside was a series of small, handwritten notes, still tied with ribbon. ‘When the royal chefs were given instructions… like if the Queen had a specific dish in mind for dinner that night, they’d find them here. Once the meal was approved, the notes went back in, locked, and filed away.’
Clemmie ran her hand over one of the compartments, imagining the hidden treasures that might lie within. ‘It’s so… personal. Meals prepared here weren’t just food, they were pieces of history.’ She counted quickly. ‘There’s twenty of these boxes.’ She tested another couple of handles, but none of them budged. ‘All the rest are locked.’ A flicker of curiosity lit her eyes. ‘Why lock them? And why are there so many?’
‘No idea, maybe it was in proportion to the number of staff that were in the kitchen?’
She moved to the centre of the room where a long wooden butcher’s block stood, its surface worn from decades of use but still gleaming as if freshly polished. ‘And the gold oven?’ she admired, glancing at the imposing centrepiece.
Oliver grinned. ‘Pure showmanship. A royal kitchen needs to impress, even if the Queen herself never steps inside. They say it was a gift from a visiting monarch. These,’ Oliver said, moving to a nearby wall, ‘are ingredient drawers.’ He pulled one open, revealing neatly labelled jars of spices and seasonings, each perfectly aligned and untouched. ‘Everything needed to make a royal feast at a moment’s notice… Though now obviously out of date,’ he laughed.
Clemmie turned in a slow circle, marvelling at the sheer opulence and precision of it all. Her gaze fell on a wooden counter where utensils were lined up like soldiers. Even the rolling pins looked regal, carved from fine mahogany and inlaid with gold accents.
