Betty had sat down to tell Clemmie all about her mother’s death when Clemmie was ten years old. It had been a bitter winter’s night, the air crisp with frost as Belinda drove across the causeway that connected Puffin Island to the mainland. She had just finished a late shift at the small hotel in Seas End where she worked. The tide had been low, and the road, though narrow and treacherous, was passable. But that night, a group of boy racers had been tearing across the causeway, engines roaring, music blaring, their cars weaving recklessly in and out of the oncoming lane.
Belinda never stood a chance. They had taken her out in an instant. The impact was so severe that her car had spun out of control, flipped over and hit a tree at the end of the causeway. By the time help arrived, it was too late. She was gone. Belinda was only twenty-four when she was killed, leaving behind Clemmie, who was two years old at the time, too young to understand the enormity of her loss.
It was Betty who had stepped in, raising Clemmie as her own, ensuring that her granddaughter grew up knowing love, even in the shadow of such a tragic loss.
‘She was so young,’ Betty whispered now, lost in thought. ‘A life stolen in an instant.’
Amelia reached for both their hands, squeezing them gently. ‘She’d be proud of you, you know,’ she said softly. ‘And of Clemmie.’
Betty nodded, dabbing at her eyes with a crumpled tissue. ‘I hope so, I really do.’
Clemmie reached inside the box, her fingers brushing against brittle edges of time-worn photographs. She gently pulled out a handful, her eyes scanning their faded images.
‘This is a photo of the Earl,’ she announced.
She turned the photo around in her hands, marvelling at the noble figure staring back at her, his stance proud and assured. The resemblance was undeniable; this was the same man she had seen in framed portraits aboard the yacht.
Her fingers moved through the pile, carefully selecting another image.
‘And this,’ she breathed, ‘this is Chef Étienne Dupont. Oliver told me he was killed in the war, and as a mark of respect for such an excellent chef, his royal kitchen was left untouched.’ She glanced up at Amelia and Betty. ‘I’ve been in that kitchen. Oliver showed me around. I’ve stood right there.’ She pointed to the exact spot in the photograph where Chef Étienne stood nextto the Earl, captured for ever in a moment of laughter, a towel slung over the chef’s shoulder, his crisp uniform pristine.
‘They look so handsome,’ she mused. She passed the first photograph to Betty while she examined the next.
‘Oh, and these were sealed boxes where the Queen could leave messages for the kitchen staff and request her favourite recipes.’
She passed the photograph to Amelia, who peered closely at it.
‘Look at the gold combination numbers,’ Amelia pointed out. ‘They’re so intricate.’
Clemmie soon realised that Betty hadn’t spoken a word since she had handed her the first photograph. She turned her head, suddenly feeling uneasy.
Betty’s face had gone ashen, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched a fragile picture between her fingers. Her breath came in uneven gasps, her lips parting but no sound emerging.
‘What is it, Granny?’ Clemmie asked.
Without answering, Betty stood and walked towards the dresser. She opened the door and pulled out a dented tin biscuit box.
Clemmie and Amelia exchanged a look but said nothing as Betty returned to the sofa and rested the tin box on her knee. She opened it, revealing an assortment of old photographs, their edges curled with age.
For a moment, she simply stared at them. Then, she reached in and pulled out a single photograph. She held it in front of her, her eyes scanning the image as if seeing it for the first time.
The photo showed a young couple standing outside The Café on the Coast. The woman’s face was soft with laughter, her arm wrapped around the man beside her.
Betty’s voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper.
‘This is my grandmother and grandfather.’ She placed the photo on the table as both Clemmie and Amelia leaned in to look at it.
Then Betty laid the photograph of the Earl and the chef next to it.
‘That can’t be the Earl,’ she murmured, her voice breaking under the weight of her revelation. ‘Because… that is Arthur Rose. My grandfather.’
A stunned silence filled the room.
Clemmie felt her heartbeat quicken, her mind racing to make sense of what she was hearing. She glanced from one photograph to the other.
They were the same man.
The same piercing gaze, the same proud stance.
