Inside, the cottage was even more breathtaking. The entrance hall was spacious, with polished wooden floors and a grand wooden staircase. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling.
The decor was a perfect blend of opulence and homeliness. Plush armchairs upholstered in rich velvets and tapestries were arranged around a fireplace, and shelves lined with antique books hinted at hours of cosy reading. Fresh flowers beautified every available surface, their fragrance mingling with the faint, comforting scent that was seeping through the open window from the surrounding garden.
‘Let me show you your room.’ Oliver gestured for Clemmie to follow him. She nodded, trailing behind him as they ascended a grand staircase with a polished wooden banister. The corridor at the top was lined with oil paintings of pastoral landscapes, wildlife and foxhunts, each frame gilded and ornate. The softglow of antique wall sconces lit the hallway, casting a golden tinge over the patterned carpet beneath their feet.
When they reached her room and Oliver pushed open the door, the first thing Clemmie spotted was the four-poster bed that dominated the space, its mahogany frame intricately carved and draped with cream linen trimmed with delicate lace. A velvet quilt in a deep emerald green was folded neatly at the foot of the bed, adding a touch of homely charm. The wallpaper was a soft blush pink with dainty floral patterns, giving the space a nostalgic feel, and heavy velvet curtains framed the tall windows, which offered a breathtaking view of the gardens below.
On the dresser, a crystal vase held freshly cut roses, and Clemmie inhaled their soft fragrance. Next to it, a tray gleamed with delicate macarons in pastel shades, and a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver ice bucket beside two crystal flutes. A delicate china teapot sat nearby, accompanied by a printed card that read,Welcome to Royalwood Cottage. We hope you enjoy your stay.
Clemmie crossed the room towards the window. She pushed it open, letting in the afternoon air. Outside, the gardens sprawled as if in a painting, with perfectly manicured hedges, bursts of vibrant foxgloves and a small stone fountain gurgling softly in the centre.
‘Wow,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve never stayed anywhere like this.’
‘You have a bathroom through there,’ Oliver said, pointing to a door off to the side. ‘Clean towels, and all the essentials. I’ll wait for you in the sitting room. Take your time, settle in.’
Clemmie turned to him, her cheeks slightly flushed. ‘Thank you,’ she replied, completely in awe of the space.
Oliver’s smile lingered before he closed the door gently behind him.
Clemmie stood in the quiet room, taking it all in. After a moment, she crossed to the bathroom and gasped. It was like something out of an old-world cottage, reminiscent of spaces she’d swooned over on Instagram. The freestanding clawfoot tub sat proudly in the centre of the room, with a gilded mirror hanging above a vintage-style sink. The walls were painted in a soft sage green, with exposed beams overhead that gave it a rustic charm. An old-fashioned perfume pump and a collection of glass jars filled with bath salts and soaps were arranged neatly on a wooden shelf. The tiled floor, with its intricate blue-and-white pattern, added a touch of whimsy to the space.
She couldn’t wait to share the moment with Betty. Pulling out her phone, she quickly opened FaceTime and called her granny. Betty’s face appeared on the screen almost instantly, her cheeks flushed with excitement.
‘Clemmie! There you are! How’s it going? What’s it like?’ Betty asked, her voice bubbling with curiosity.
Clemmie spun the phone around, giving her a virtual tour of the bedroom. ‘Look at this, Granny! The bed, the roses, the view… and wait until you see the bathroom.’
She walked into the bathroom, holding her phone steady as she panned the camera around. ‘Look at the tub! And the tiles! Oh, and this,’ she said, focusing on the dressing table with its silver hairbrushes and mirror.
Betty clapped her hands, her eyes sparkling. ‘Oh my goodness, it’s beautiful! I can’t believe it. You deserve every bit of this!’
‘Thank you.’
After hanging up, Clemmie sank onto the plush four-poster bed, which was a masterpiece of comfort, with soft linens that felt like she was sinking into the clouds and a thick quilt she couldn’t resist wrapping herself in. She flopped back with a happy sigh, thankful that her hangover had almost disappearedin the excitement. She waggled her feet in the air like a carefree child and giggled at herself, feeling giddy with the sheer luxury of it all. This was a far cry from her cosy yet modest room above the café back home!
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and walked to the window a second time, inhaling the fresh air. A sudden melodic chirping drew her attention to a branch of the tree outside the window, where a robin was delicately perched. Its bright red breast and inquisitive black eyes made her heart skip a beat. It hopped onto the windowsill and looked straight at her. Clemmie froze for a moment, mesmerised by the little bird. A wave of emotion washed over her as she thought of her family. Despite hailing from Puffin Island, each and every one of them had always harboured a soft spot for robins.
‘Hello, you little charmer,’ she whispered softly, smiling. ‘Granny always said you were the messenger of good tidings.’
The robin tilted its head, as if it understood her words. It chirped again, a series of bright, cheerful notes that sounded almost like a conversation. For a few minutes, she watched the robin, feeling a sense of calm and connection that was almost otherworldly. Then, with a final trill, the robin fluttered away, disappearing into the trees.
Clemmie was still smiling as she made her way over to her suitcase, ready to unpack her things and put them in the wardrobe, which was impossible to miss– tall, elegant and covered in intricate carvings.
She opened the door and began hanging up her clothes. Dresses, blouses and skirts found their places among the sturdy hangers, and she carefully arranged her shoes on the bottom shelf.
Just as she was about to close the wardrobe doors, something caught her eye. There, etched into the inner edge of the wooden frame, was a number.
1705
Clemmie froze, her hand still on the door. She leaned in, her brow furrowing as she took a closer look. Her heart kicked up a notch. The numbers were carved neatly, their edges smoothed by time, but they stood out against the dark wood.
‘1705,’ she murmured, tilting her head as if a different angle might suddenly make sense of it. The number in the recipe book. The number embroidered on her great-great-granny’s apron.
Was it just a coincidence? Maybe the year the wardrobe was made? Or was there more to it? It couldn’t actually mean anything… could it?
The sound of Oliver shouting up the stairs startled her.
‘There’s tea and sandwiches when you’re ready.’
