Clemmie’s eyes widened. ‘You’re joking. Venison from here?’
‘The royals like to live off the land. I’d say it’s probably the most well-fed deer in the country, grazing on these immaculate lawns. Don’t worry, though, I’ve kept it simple. Pan-seared with a red wine reduction. For dessert, we have a crumble made from apples grown in the orchard at the back.’
Clemmie clutched her chest dramatically. ‘You’re spoiling me. Do I need to curtsy before dinner starts?’
Oliver laughed, returning to the stove to check on the food. ‘Only if you want to. I think the Queen would approve of this spread though. Now, give me a moment to plate it all up.’
As she waited, Clemmie admired the dining room in more detail. It had the same old-world charm as the kitchen. Wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, and the walls were adorned with portraits and landscapes, many of which, she guessed, were of the Royal Family or the estate. A grand fireplace stood at one end, its mantel lined with ornate brass candlesticks and a large gilded mirror. A Persian rug softened the stone floor, and the heavy oak dining table looked like it had hosted centuries of meals and conversations.
Her eyes wandered around the room, her gaze landing on the large wooden bookcase that stood against the far wall. It was filled with old leather-bound tomes, antique ornaments and framed photographs. Intrigued, Clemmie walked over to examine it more closely. As her fingers brushed against the spines of the books, one in particular caught her attention. It was larger than the others, its leather cover cracked with age and its edges worn smooth from decades of handling. Embossed in faded gold lettering on the spine were the wordsVisitors’ Book.
Clemmie pulled it gently from the shelf and was surprised by its weight. She carried it to the table, the scent of fine old paper wafting up as she opened it. The first page bore an elegant inscription in swirling script:Royalwood Cottage Estate. 1916.Beneath it, an embossed royal crest added a touch of grandeur.
‘This is amazing,’ she murmured, running her fingers over the lettering.
Oliver walked into the room. ‘What have you found?’
‘A visitors’ book. Looks like it was created just before the war ended,’ she said, flipping to the first entry. The pages were filled with neat handwriting, each line a record of someone who had stayed at the lodge over the decades. The dates, namesand occasional notes were meticulously inscribed, and Clemmie could feel the history radiating from the pages. She scanned the first few entries, marvelling at the names. Lords, ladies, barons and diplomats.
Then her eyes stopped on two names, ‘Henry, Earl of Aberford,’ she read aloud. She paused. ‘And Chef Étienne Dupont! The scandal guy and the chef. You said they were friends.’
Oliver nodded, ‘Yes, I did.’
‘I wonder if they ever worked together to host dinners at places like this cottage. Can you imagine the meals that must have been created here? In this very kitchen.’ Clemmie looked back at the book, her fingers trailing over the elegant script. The thought of those two legendary figures walking through these same rooms, laughing and collaborating, made her feel connected to history in a way she never had before. ‘Did he disappear from royal life before or after the chef was killed?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Clemmie turned another page. ‘To think,’ she murmured, ‘their names are right here, in this book.’ She closed the book gently, resting her hands on its leather cover. ‘This place,’ she said, looking around the room, ‘it’s like a time capsule. A gateway to another era.’
Oliver nodded, his gaze steady. ‘Now you’re part of its story too. Let’s eat.’ He walked back into the kitchen then appeared moments later, balancing two plates laden with food. The vibrant colours of the roasted vegetables glowed against the white china, the venison glistening under its red wine reduction, sprigs of fresh herbs adding the final touch.
‘You’ve really outdone yourself. You are more than a food journalist, you could be a Michelin star chef,’ she said, beaming as he set the plate before her.
‘Well, I aim to impress,’ Oliver replied, pouring wine for them both and taking the seat opposite her. ‘Following the chefs and watching them cook, over the years I’ve picked up a lot of tips. Now, tuck in before it gets cold.’
Clemmie picked up her knife and fork and took a bite, the flavours bursting on her tongue. The vegetables were perfectly roasted, their natural sweetness heightened by a hint of caramelisation, and the venison was tender and rich, the sauce adding a depth of flavour she hadn’t expected.
‘This is incredible,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’m going to need the recipe.’
Oliver chuckled. ‘I’ll write it down for you, though I think it might taste better here, surrounded by all this.’ He gestured around the room, its history enveloping them like a comforting embrace. ‘Don’t you forget to write in the visitors’ book before you leave. The current one is in the hallway.’
‘I won’t.’ Her mind lingered on the Earl, wondering what his life was like after he walked away from his title. Did he just become a regular man walking the streets of London, blending in among the bustling crowds? She tried to picture him, perhaps sitting in a small café, unnoticed by the world yet carrying a lifetime of extraordinary memories.
Of course, he would have passed away by now, but she wondered, if he’d reached one hundred, would he have received a birthday card from the Queen? If he had, would she have known it washim… the Earl who had once been part of her family’s circle, whose name was inked into the very history of Royalwood Cottage? The idea tickled Clemmie, and she let out a soft laugh.
She had a feeling her time at the cottage was going to be interesting, the secrets it held just waiting to be revealed.
Chapter Twenty
After dinner, Clemmie and Oliver retreated to the cosy living room, bottle of wine in hand. Even though it wasn’t chilly, Oliver walked over to the grand stone fireplace that dominated the room.
‘You’re not getting the full experience without this,’ he announced, kneeling to arrange the kindling and wood that were stacked neatly by the hearth. With practised ease, he struck a match, and soon a crackling fire was spreading its heat across the room.
Clemmie perched on the arm of a chair, holding her glass of wine and watching him work. ‘I didn’t have you down for a fire-lighting expert,’ she teased.
‘Well,’ he said, dusting his hands off, ‘there’s more to me than meets the eye.’ He stood, satisfied with his handiwork, ‘Now, shall we see who’s the better sleuth?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘What are you talking about?’
