by Julie Sarff
“I was fired.”
“You’ve been unfired, by me. It wasn’t fair that the Palace terminated your contract. You didn’t do anything wrong. And as my official biographer, I would like to invite you to a ball to raise money for the National Portrait Gallery at the end of next month.”
Another ball?
“And you can wear this.” He reaches into the large bag he brought. “Here try it on, for some reason I thought of you when I saw it.”
Unbelievably, he pulls out a small crown. It’s encrusted with diamonds, with three large sapphires taking pride of place at the front. He thrusts it in my hands with a “there you go.”
I drop it like it is contraband.
“Oh careful now, that belonged to Victoria,” Alex admonishes, reaching down to pick it up off the floor. I stare at him. What is he doing here, with a crown in tow?
He laughs as if he can read my mind. “Well, I probably can’t let you wear it to a ball, but I thought you might like to try it on. You see it belongs to a distant cousin of mine. She’s elderly with no children. Rose and I went to visit her this morning, she doesn’t live that far from here. Anyway, she gave me this crown. She’s a great-great-great-great granddaughter of Victoria, and it’s been in her family for a long time. Since she doesn’t have children, she wanted to see the crown returned to the royal family. She told me”—here he laughs heartily — “she wants me to give it to my future bride.”
Oh be still my heart!
“She’s really a sweet woman and insisted I take the crown with me even though I had plans to swing by Bourton and see if you were home. I’ll take it back to London tonight and turn it over to the Palace curator. It’ll end up in some museum collecting dust, but I thought you might like to have a look at it. Go ahead, put it back on.”
“I-I can’t. It’s not right.”
“Oh go on, you know you want to. And it probably hasn’t been worn in years. A beautiful thing like that belongs on the head of a beautiful woman.” He reaches over and crowns me.
This time when he places Victoria’s crown on my head I jump up and run over to the closest mirror.
“Enjoy it, Lizzie, tomorrow it will be catalogued and will take up its place among all the rest of the crown jewels. Oh, and while we’re on the subject of cataloguing palace objects, I think you should know that the Palace Curator, Mr. Snipps, would very much like to talk to you about that book we found at Holyrood.”
“Oh?” I turn away from the mirror, crown still on my head.
“Yes, but come back here and finish your cake. I’ll tell you all about it.”
I walk back over to the couch trying not to move my head. I wouldn’t want the beautiful crown to slip off and get damaged. As it is, I already dropped it on the floor once.
I am wearing a crown that was once worn by Victoria Regina, I think smugly. I do not remove it as I sit back down on the sofa.
“Alright now, watch, the two batsman are taking up their places on the field,” the Prince explains with great enthusiasm before returning to what he was saying earlier, “Yeah, Mr. Schnipps can’t find any mention of the little book we found in any of the Palace registries. He’s not sure where it came from. I told him you were with me when we found it, and that you are an excellent historian. He wishes to talk to you as soon as possible.”
“It all sounds mysterious.”
“Very,” the Prince agrees and arches an eyebrow.
Alright, enough fooling around, it’s time to be serious. I take the crown off my head and turn to face the Prince.
“Alex,” I question, “What are you really doing here?”
He stops watching the television. “Exactly what I said, Lizzie. I’ve come to watch a game with a friend of mine and make her dinner. I’ve come to tell her she was not fired and that I would very much like her to be my biographer. And I’ve come to ask her for a small favor.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“It’s not a subject I want to get into today. Today I want to enjoy my afternoon in the company of you, my nonjudgmental Lizzie. But, after some things have settled down in your life. After they incarcerate that murderer Pierre St. Clair and throw away the key, I would like to ask your help with something. You see the other night I hung up quickly because the conversation we were having about my brother brought back some awful memories.”
So that’s why he hung up so quickly. It wasn’t because he was grossed out that I was talking to him while completely nude in the bathtub.
“Maybe in about a month’s time, maybe after the ball, I would like to ask you to help me research something.”
“Something about your brother’s death?” I hazard.
The Prince’s face turns cold as stone.
“Yes, that’s it. But I don’t want to talk about it today. Today we are two friends, watching a cricket match and having a wonderful dinner. Alright?”
“Absolutely.” I sit back on the sofa while the Prince explains more about the game. It all seems terribly boring, but the Prince is very excited, so I make the appropriate, “ah hah, now I get it,” sounds as he lectures me about cricket rules. And I continue to munch on his horrible cake. It’s the least I can do since he accepted my tea cozy as a gift. All the while, the Queen Victoria’s crown sparkles away gloriously on my coffee table.
“After this inning, I’ll start making the soup. You like leek soup?” he asks.
“Love it,” I reply, and then I lean back against the sofa and try to enjoy the moment. I won’t be asking him any more questions about his life. Not tonight. I’m emotionally exhausted, but at least there is some relief in knowing that Sean’s murders are locked away from the world and one huge mystery is solved. For tonight, I’m not going to think about that whole mess anymore. Tonight Alex and I will sit here and cheer on team Britain. Tonight we will relax and enjoy each other’s company, just the Prince and I.
The End
Enjoy the first few chapters of Julie Sarff’s other series after the Recipe section.
At the end of the book is a link to my newsletter and a link to my other books.
A Handful of Recipes
The Prince’s Frittata was divine but required a lot of prep, Lizzie (Trudy) makes a simpler version at home.
Trudy’s Mother’s Vegetable Frittata
3 large eggs, plus 3 egg whites
4 oz smoked gouda cheese
3/4 cup reduced-fat cottage cheese
1 teaspoon minced fresh rosemary
1 onion
1 16 oz frozen mixed veggies
2 cloves garlic
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Kosher salt
Parmesan (or vegetarian or vegan alternative)
Paprika
1. Grate the cheese, mince the rosemary, slice garlic, dice onion.
2. Position a rack in the upper third of the oven and preheat to 450 degrees F.
Whisk eggs and egg whites in a large bowl and add cottage cheese, whisking until smooth.
3. Whisk in gouda and rosemary. The gouda will have a nice smoky flavor for those who are missing bacon in their vegetarian meals.
4. Cook garlic in olive oil in a large skillet until golden. Add the onion and salt to season. Add vegetables and cook until tender. Takes five to ten minutes.
5. With heat on medium add egg mixture to the skillet. Cook 3 minutes. Use a spatula to release the bottom crust from pan. Sprinkle with parmesan and paprika, transfer to the oven and bake for 5 - 10 minutes until cooked. Remove from oven and let sit for five minutes and serve.
Curry so Easy Even a Historian Can Make It
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 onion, chopped
2 cloves crushed garlic
2 1/2 tablespoons curry powder
2 tablespoons tomato paste
1 (14.5 ounce) can diced tomatoes
1 cube vegetable bouillon
1 (10 ounce) package frozen mixed vegetables
1 can coconut milk
1/2 cups water
2 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro
In a large saucepan over medium-high, heat oil and saute onion, and garlic until golden. Stir in curry powder and tomato paste, cook 2 to 3 minutes.
Stir in tomatoes, vegetable bouillon cube, mixed vegetables, water, salt and pepper to taste. Cook approximately 30 minutes until vegetables are well done (not crunchy). Sprinkle with fresh cilantro prior to serving. Serve over rice.
Trudy (Lizzie) loves the slow cooker. She prepares her meals in the morning and then fills her day with research.
Slow Cooker Aloo Gobi (spice cauliflower and potatoes)
1 cauliflower, cut into small pieces
1 potato, peeled and diced
1 tomato, diced
1 onion
1 cup vegetable broth
1 piece ginger root, about an inch and half lone, peeled and then grated.
2 cloves garlic, peeled and grated
1 jalapeno pepper, seeds and all
1 tbsp cumin
1/4 Tbsp cayenne pepper
1 Tbsp gram marsala
Kosher sholt
1 tsp turmeric
3 Tbsp canola oil
Cilantro
Directions - So easy, put everything except cilantro in slow cooker, stir well. Cook on low for five hours, stirring occasionally to mix seasonings. Add cilantro and serve with rice.
The Prince’s leek soup took every pot and pan in Trudy’s kitchen, and afterwards the cricket match ended and the Prince left with his cousin Rose, Trudy had a bunch of dishes to wash which is why she prefers the following leek soup recipe.
Trudy’s Leek Soup
Trudy sautés two chopped leeks (green and white part only) in vegan butter spread. Then she puts them in her slow cooker with two chopped russet potatoes and five cups of vegetable stock. Her whole kitchen smells wonderful, and she has only used a skillet and a crockpot.
Also available from Julie Sarff….
Chapter 1
It is a very strange story how I, Lily Bilbury, came to be searching for the remnants of the French Blue. By remnants, I mean the 23.5 carats of the most famous diamond in the world, the diamond Louis XVI wore as a pendant. The French Blue, like Louis’ head, was lost during the French Revolution. It was subsequently cut down into the Hope Diamond. Francesca, my fellow housemaid at Villa Buschi, swears that the remnant diamonds are hidden somewhere on the estate. Of course Francesca isn’t exactly a reliable source, she also swears that Silvio Berlusconi, prime minister of Italy and chief troublemaker, is going to keel over at any moment.
Allow me to back up a bit and start at the beginning. My husband, soon to be my-ex-husband, Enrico Bettonina and I have had a serious falling out. Although I have tried wishing him away by clicking the heels of my glittering red shoes together three times, it has been three long years since the man cheated on me with Frederica Corino, and I still haven’t obtained a divorce.
Enrico is the reason I’m in terrible economic straits. I discovered that he was cheating on me on the day I gave birth to my twins. Living 5,000 miles from my closest relatives, I was forced to move in with Enrico’s Aunt Alice and his Uncle Tomasso. Enrico kept our house, a wonderful two-bedroom with a tuck under garage on the outskirts of Arona, Italy; a house Uncle Tomasso was allowing us to live in rent free, while Enrico finally became a full-fledged doctor with a paying job. During the three years I lived with Enrico’s aunt and uncle, I could barely afford baby food and diapers. It was then that I developed a short and simple theory. And my theory goes like this: financial independence = happiness.
To achieve economic independence, I took a job working for Enrico’s severe aunt as a housemaid. As soon as I was hired, the children and I moved into a small apartment on Via Aurelia. I have to admit I was excited to start working at the incredible Villa Buschi. I’d seen it a million times in picture postcards sold all over Lago Maggiore. It’s a stately two-storied, cream-colored affair. Situated right on the edge of the lake, it’s simply divine.
Or at least it used to look divine. Apparently much had changed. The first time I drove up to decrepit gate and peeked through it iron-bars, I was shocked. The place was overrun with flora. The initial drive up that ox-cart of a driveway was a nightmare. At one point my Panda hit something large and log-like lying in the middle of the drive.
“What on earth,” I slammed on the brakes and checked my review mirror. Behind me on the road was the thickest, darkest, most virulent vine I had ever seen in my life. And I swear as I stared at it, it began to undulate.
I’m not proud of the fact that I shouted “Anaconda!” and gunned it. I just did. Driving around to the front of the villa, I found that the view did not improve.
“Sweet heavens,” I said to nobody but myself, “the gardens look as if they have been shelled.” The land was all tattered and cluttered, in a state of disrepair --with all manner of weeds growing and not a dainty bloom to be found. Quickly I parked my car in a stand of trees, right next to a beautiful yellow Ferrari. The Ferrari confused me because (a) I wondered how anybody could have made their way up that ox-cart of driveway in such a fine machine and (b) it was parked outside in the rain as if the owner couldn’t care less. There was no time to worry about it though, because I was already late.
As I climbed the steps to the ring the doorbell, I tripped over a small planter that sat abandoned on the top row with one forlorn stalk in it. I stared at the dead stalk for a moment until my gaze flitted to the gargoyle knocker mounted on the front door.
Hmm, grounds in chaos, dead-stalk in the planter and a gargoyle knocker. Weird, very weird. It was all very Tim-Butonesque. Right then and there the door swung open and standing with her hands on her hip, looking scarier than anything out of a horror movie, was my soon to be ex-Aunt-in-law Alice Bettonina.
I knew by the look in her eyes that trying to put my theory of financial independence = happiness into motion was going to be torturous at best. By the way she glowered at me and shouted that as a member of the staff I should never again use the front entrance, I could tell there wouldn’t be anything good about my new job. Now, after several months of working at the villa, I know something in my life has to change, I have to find the remnants of the French Blue. To this end, I’ve finally agreed to Francesca’s request to help search for the diamonds, because, as already noted, my economic future, as well as the fate of one-hundred plus cats and dogs hangs in the balance.
Five Months Earlier October
(Mostly drizzle with a chance of sun)
Chapter 2
EXACTLY FIVE MONTHS BEFORE I agree to help Francesca search for the diamonds, I find myself the victim of a horrible accident.
As a matter of fact, it happens on the day I first meet Francesca Di Campo. Simply put, Francesca is spacey with a capital S. This is apparent the moment I first see her. She is standing in the villa kitchen, staring up at the ceiling with her lips pursed tight. Who is this woman and what is she doing here, I wonder. Despite my best efforts, I stop and gawk and notice that even though this woman is spacey, she is definitely Italian. From a fashion point of view, she is pulled together—wearing these high-heeled black boots with a blood red patent toe that are straight out of last year’s Prada collection. I know, because I remember seeing them when I passed by the flagship Prada store on Via Montenapoleone in Milan. In addition to the boots, she also wore dark black designer jeans, and a flouncy white sheer blouse that sports a Dolce label.
“Ah, Lily, there you are,” Alice says, filing into the kitchen a moment later. “And I see you’ve met Francesca, good, good. Francesca will be helping you about the house. Today we will be deep cleaning the formal salon.”
I look over at Francesca to gauge her reaction to Alice’s exciting proposition. Nope. Nobody’s home. Francesca is definitely not hanging with the conversation. Her eyes are still completely transfixed on the ceiling.
“Come, come, ladies,” Alice says, clapping her hands. Following Alice
out into the hallway, I give Francesca the once-over as she walks like Joan of Arc going to the pyre—she keeps her eyes up on the ceiling, saint-like, seemingly not impressed by the grandeur of the villa.
How can she do that? I don’t care how many times I see the magnificent rooms of Ca’ Buschi, it always blows me away. But Francesca never looks down. She never looks around. She doesn’t even steal a glance into any of the rooms that we pass.
“Good heavens! She’s as cracked as my good ol’ Auntie.” I thought to myself.
“There now, Francesca will be helping out when she is not attending classes,” Alice says as we come through the doorway of the main salon. “Francesca studies law at the Cattolica in Milan, don’t you dear?”
Law? Mercy, I can’t even imagine how boring that must be.
“But anyway, Francesca will be here four or five hours a day to help you, Lily, with all the housecleaning. And when there are guests in residence, she will be here full-time—as will we all,” Alice says this last part looking smug, but her attitude does not disturb me. I beam back at my aunt, taking her by surprise. Honestly, how could I not be happy? How wonderful to have somebody to help divide up the ridiculous Bible-thick list of tasks she gives me to complete every day. And who cares about having to work full time when “there are guests in residence?” From what Carla, the laundress, and Elenora, the cook, have told me, nobody ever comes to stay.
“Well then, I would like for the two of you to use your time together to deep clean all the rooms on a rotating schedule…” Alice prattles on while I stare out the French doors, soaking up the view of the lake.
“…and here are the first few pages of today’s task list. When you have finished with them, please come see me at my desk in the kitchen and I’ll give you the rest…”
What? Is she finally done talking? My gaze flits from the window back to Alice, who is standing there impatiently, flapping the sheets of paper in our direction. Slowly, Francesca reaches out a tentative hand and takes a set. She pulls the papers in close and stares at them intently, as if reading the answer to the meaning of life.