Braxton Balfour finally retired to his room just after 2 am. The band had played until well after midnight, when the last guests left the ballroom. Fortunately, the rest of the evening had run smoothly after the soup fiasco. But there was work to be done before he and the household staff could get to bed. Vincent Langley would allow no evidence of the party to remain and there were preparations for the picnic brunch in the morning too. Although he was dead on his feet, there was something Braxton needed to find before he’d be able to sleep. He pulled the old trunk from under his narrow bed and unclipped its rusted latches.

When Braxton had left home at twenty years of age to work for Her Majesty at Brackenhurst Castle, he’d gathered every precious possession he owned and placed them into that trunk. His father and mother had stayed on the farm at Evesbury for another fifteen years before they moved into a retirement home. After they left, their old house was converted to rental accommodation for people who fancied a holiday on a royal estate, and the surrounding acreage was leased to another tenant farmer.

Having spent eighteen happy years of service as a footman at Brackenhurst, Braxton was promoted to the position of under butler at Evesbury just a couple of months ago. More than anything, he desired to be head butler. It had been a dream of his since he was a small boy, when Her Majesty’s father had visited their home to thank Braxton’s father for catching his treasured stallion, who had escaped from the Evesbury stables. The King had joined the family at the kitchen table for a cup of tea and some of Mrs Balfour’s home-made scones.

During Braxton’s time at Brackenhurst, his father had passed away and his mother had succumbed to the darkness of dementia. She was now seventy-five, and he feared she would not be with them much longer. Braxton had considered whether returning to Evesbury would open old wounds, but there was never any thought of turning down the position.

He pulled out the crocheted rug his mother had made for him years before and laid it on the bed. Next, there was a schoolbook filled with his attempts at fancy script, and his one and only cricket trophy. There were treasured magazines from his boyhood and an old cricket cap. Tucked in at the very bottom, Braxton found a small envelope of photographs. He wondered if the one he was searching for was still there.

He shuffled through the black-and-white pictures. There were several shots of him as a baby, then as a toddler with his faithful dog Nuff. There were some school photographs evidencing terrible haircuts, and a couple of shots of a camping trip he took with his friends. Braxton’s heart sank as he reached the end of the pile. He tried to picture her in his mind but the image was hazy.

He returned the stack to the envelope and was about to put them away when he noticed an outline of something under the newspaper that lined the bottom of the trunk. And then he remembered. He’d hidden the picture under the layer of ancient news.

Braxton gulped. He pulled back the pages and picked up the photograph.

It had been a perfect day. She looked back at him, her eyes sparkling and every bit as lovely as he remembered. He was standing beside her, holding her hand. Braxton felt an ache in his chest and wondered how, all these years later, he could still feel so happy and so sad at the same time. There had never been anyone else. It was as if his heart had been torn in two and no woman, no matter how perfect, could mend it.

Braxton searched her face. Was it really her? Tomorrow he would take that picture with him and find out for sure.