Spring Skies Over Bluebell Castle

by Sarah Bennett

  Maps and sketches of the castle had been stacked together in one corner. It would be an interesting intellectual exercise to trace the building and alteration from start to present day, but it wasn’t a priority for Lucie, nor strictly within her remit. Once she’d got to grips with everything else, she might suggest it to Arthur as an extension of her work, depending on how well the rest of it went.

  To her delight, quite a few members of the Ludworth family had been avid diarists and she had several stacks of books filled with their personal observations to trawl through. She was restricting herself to browsing them only in the evenings, and though the often spidery handwriting took some effort to decipher, she’d been up until the early hours paging through the diary of one Isabella Ludworth who, from what Lucie could work out, was Arthur’s three-times great grandmother.

  The one thing she hadn’t found and desperately needed was a proper family tree. She’d come across an old family bible with the start of one, but it only covered four generations and hadn’t been kept up to date. It was one of many items on her list of things to ask Arthur when she found time. They’d hardly seen each other, apart from meal times, and she invariably had her nose buried in a book or was busy flicking through her tablet to review her progress of the day. She still didn’t feel entirely comfortable joining the family to eat, especially in the evenings, so tried to keep herself to herself and not pay too much attention to their discussions. For their part, the Ludworths took her presence as entirely natural, and it was only her own reluctance that kept her on the periphery of the conversation. That, and fear over making a goose of herself in front of Arthur. She’d managed to get a hold on her attraction to him for the most part, but every now and then he would do something like throw back his head and let loose a glorious bellow of laughter, or catch her eye as though to share some private secret with her, and she was lost once more in a flight of inappropriate daydreams.

  As she poked her head around the dining room door, she was relieved to find the long table empty of occupants. Stacking her tablet, notebook and phone next to what had become ‘her’ seat, she helped herself to a cup of tea and a bowl of muesli from the sideboard. With only half an eye on her bowl, she spooned the delicious homemade mix of oats, dried fruit and almonds into her mouth as she flicked through the photos she’d taken the previous day.

  The blue room, as Mrs W had referred to it on her tour, had been pretty enough, but nothing in there had sparked Lucie’s interest. The furnishings were of quality—if a touch worn on closer inspection—but nothing had screamed ‘look at me’. It had been the same story in the other rooms she’d documented so far, and although it had only been a week, a nervous ball of tension was already starting to grow in her stomach that she wouldn’t find anything exciting.

  ‘Stop running before you can walk, Luce,’ she muttered as she shoved the tablet to one side and reached for her tea.

  ‘Did you say something?’ The familiar drawl from the breakfast buffet made her jump, and she only just managed to steady her tea before it spilled into the remains of her cereal.

  ‘You startled me,’ she said as Arthur approached the table clutching his usual black coffee. Well, duh, Lucie. Talk about stating the bloody obvious.

  ‘Sorry.’ He didn’t look the slightest bit repentant. In his usual checked shirt rolled to the elbows to reveal tanned forearms and a pair of black cords several washes past threadbare, he shouldn’t have looked quite so devastating to her as he did. Try as she might to ignore it, she still got a funny little flutter every time he was in the vicinity. And it wasn’t just his good looks, as she’d discovered to her chagrin that Tristan had nothing like the same effect upon her—only Arthur.

  It was another reason she tried not to get involved in dinnertime discussions. He made her so tongue-tied, she worried her ridiculous little crush on him would be obvious to everyone. This morning, a lock of dark hair had broken loose from his neat, practical cut to hang over his right eye. It gave him an air of vulnerability, a tiny crack in his aura of control. He brushed it back with an impatient gesture revealing a dark stain along the underside of his arm.

  ‘You’ve got something on…’Lucie trailed off with a gesture, embarrassed to give away the fact she’d been studying him.

  Appearing oblivious to her mooning over him, Arthur twisted his arm to glare at the offending mark. ‘Damn, I thought I’d cleaned it all off. I had a disagreement with a printer cartridge this morning.’ He licked his thumb then rubbed at the spot. Not something she’d ever have listed as one of the top ten sexy things a man could do before that moment, but apparently just the sight of his tongue was enough to send a shiver running through her.

  Lord, stop it, you dozy moo! Lucie admonished herself and forced her eyes down towards the congealing remains of her breakfast. The last of the milk had been absorbed into the muesli, turning it to a cloggy mush.

  She’d just shoved a spoonful into her mouth when Arthur abandoned his attempts to clean the ink from his arm and spoke to her. ‘What are your plans for the morning?’

  The oaty mixture swelled almost to choking point, and it felt like the more she chewed, the more it expanded until she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to swallow it. Throughout her interminable battle with the offending mouthful, she could feel his eyes upon her, could sense his growing amusement as struggled to rid herself of it.

  Why wouldn’t it go down? She’d had twenty-seven years to learn how to eat, and managed most of those without humiliating herself like this. Her eyes began to water, and she feared if it carried on much longer, she’d have to resort to spitting the whole claggy lump into her napkin. It was that or choke to death on it. Given she’d likely expire from shame if she had to cough it up in front of Arthur, it appeared she’d reached the point of her demise either way.

  Finally—finally!—when she was almost at the point of imagining the inscription on her tombstone, a tiny chunk of the cereal worked its way down her resisting throat and hope bloomed that she might make it alive from the table, yet. Grabbing at her tea, she forced a tiny sip between her lips and the additional moisture was enough to aid the rest of the muesli in the right direction. Only once she was sure it had all gone did she risk another drink to ease her poor abused throat.

  Unwilling to meet the eyes she could feel burning into her from the end of the table, she kept her gaze resolutely down. Her nemesis stared back up at her, and a heated blush scalded her cheeks. There was no rescuing the situation, she’d made an absolute fool of herself and she couldn’t bear to look at Arthur and read amusement, or worse, sympathy at her plight. Time to make a break for it.

  ‘Well, lots to do!’ she said in a shouty-hearty tone she’d never before used in her life. God, she sounded like her old P.E. teacher who’d believed yelling encouragement would make the horror of a freezing, muddy cross country run somehow fun for her miserable pupils. Just get out! Grabbing up her things, Lucie fled the room without a backward glance.

  Running like the devil himself was after her, Lucie dashed along the corridor from the dining room and straight across the great hall, disturbing the dogs who were lounging in front of the fire place as usual. Thinking it was a great game of some sort, they joined Lucie in her headlong flight, barking excitedly as she turned first left, then right before they entered the long gallery.

  With a fleeting glance of apology to the rows of stern-faced portraits peering down their aquiline noses at her from the damasked walls, Lucie kept running until she reached her destination for that morning—the west drawing room. Paws scrabbled at the backs of her jean-clad legs and more than one chilly nose poked her hand seeking a treat as she balanced her tablet, book and phone in one hand and reached for the brass handle of the door with the other.

  Before she opened the door, she turned to glower at the rambunctious pack milling around her. ‘All right, all right, you lot, calm down!’ She might not be able to say much to Arthur without blushing fit to burst into flames, but she’d learnt t
o talk to the dogs in a tone that brooked no nonsense, thanks to Mrs. W.

  ‘They’re as soppy as anything,’ the housekeeper had told her. ‘Just show them who’s the boss and they’ll give you no trouble at all.’ Surveying the wagging, panting bunch now sprawled at her feet, Lucie had to admit the housekeeper had been right.

  Inching open the door, she placed her work things on a table conveniently positioned just inside then settled on her haunches to pet the dogs. Apart from one Jack Russell who bullied his way to the front and shoved his head under her hand until she stroked his ears, now they had her attention the dogs were patient enough to wait their turn. Keeping one hand on the wriggling white and tan terrier, she made sure to pat and fuss each one of the dogs in turn, muttering nonsense and praise as though they could understand every word.

  A shrill whistle pierced the air just as she was pushing back to her feet, and the dogs leapt up as one, ears pricked. The whistle sounded again, and they were off and running back the way they’d come, answering their master’s summons. Not even Bella could resist the lure of Arthur, picking up her dainty feet as she tumbled along the corridor with the others.

  Not that Lucie could blame the pretty greyhound; if Arthur whistled at her, Lucie might find herself running after him, too. Although after the breakfast debacle she wasn’t sure how she would face him again. With a sigh over her own retched foolishness, she entered the drawing room and closed the door firmly behind her. Time to stop worrying about that morning’s awkward encounter and get to work.

  With the door shut, there was barely enough light in the room for Lucie to locate the wall switch. Flipping it on did little to improve the atmosphere as most of the bulbs in the matching pair of ceiling light fixtures were either dead or missing. Judging from the dust covers and the general staleness of the air, the west drawing room was one of those still to receive a spring clean. Tucked away as it was in the far corner of this wing, it felt to her like a forgotten space.

  The heavy drapes had been drawn, to protect the paintings and carpets from sun damage, she assumed, but it only added to the gloomy, depressing atmosphere. Not prone to superstition, she still had a sense that something terrible had happened in the room, something heartbreaking, or tragic, which had left a layer of sadness hanging in the air. She suppressed a quick shiver. If she started thinking about ghosts and spirits, she’d end up hiding under the bed. A building as old as the castle was bound to hold some terrible secrets.

  Lucie fiddled around beside one set of curtains until her fingers located the heavy, woven pull cord. Not wishing to disturb too much of the dust which had likely settled into the folds of the material, she pulled gently to open the drapes, letting the warm spring sunshine spill in through the grubby window panes. The bands of light lifted the atmosphere in an instant and she hurried to the opposite window to repeat the action. Now she looked again, it was simply a neglected, dusty room, one of many around the castle, no doubt.

  Peeling back the covers from the furniture without sending clouds of dust into the air was a painstaking process, and she was soon lost in the rhythm of checking the original archive record for the room, updating it to the electronic record on her tablet and adding pictures to the cloud. She made her way methodically around the room in an anticlockwise direction, and was almost back to where she’d started when her stomach rumbled. Checking her watch, she was surprised to find over three hours had passed in what felt like a blink of an eye. She raised her arms to stretch out the kinks in her back from either bending over to examine the furniture, or tilting her head to study pictures and prints on the walls.

  There was a nice collection of four watercolours she’d marked up on her records for further study. They weren’t attributed in the original archive, other than with a generic ‘four seasons’ title. The landscapes had each been painted from the same spot, a clearing surrounded by trees with a small circle of broken stones dotted around the centre of it. Whether an ancient pagan ring or a more modern Victorian folly version, it was impossible to tell from the paintings themselves, but the image was striking. In the first, the stones popped out from a sea of nodding bluebells, in the second a shaft of sunlight pierced the lush green canopy of the trees to shine on one of the stones. The third showed those branches stripped bare, a carpet of fallen leaves covering the clearing, and the last showed the stones half-buried in a blanket of thick snow.

  Whatever their material value, they were too beautiful to be tucked away in a forgotten corner room, she thought sadly. Her stomach rumbled again, and she checked the copy of the archive list to see if she’d missed anything. One entry remained unticked, sketch of a woman’s head, circa 1862. Turning in a slow circle, she studied each of the walls in turn, wondering if she’d somehow missed it. No, everything hanging had been photographed and added to her spreadsheet. Puzzled, she retraced her path around the room, ducking down to check nothing had fallen under one of the tables, or was propped against the wall behind the larger pieces of furniture. Nothing.

  About to give up and mark the item as missing, a flash of inspiration hit, and she twitched off the dust sheet covering a Queen Anne style desk. Even dull from a lack of polish, the burnished walnut wood sang of its quality, and she couldn’t help but trail her fingers along the intricate carving at one corner. The delicate, slightly bowed legs didn’t look strong enough to hold it up, but there was no sign of wobbliness in the piece, even balanced as it was on the thick carpet. She tugged open the first drawer and was disappointed to find it empty. The one below it was also bare, as was the larger central drawer and the upper right one. Ready to dismiss her own folly, Lucie slid open the final drawer and was stunned to see a small frame facing downwards in the bottom.

  With shaking fingers, she lifted the frame and turned it over. What she saw knocked the air from her lungs and sent her bottom crashing into the dust-cover draped chair behind her. When she’d seen the date entered into the ledger, her stomach had given a little flip because it was at the height of the Pre-Raphaelite era, her personal favourite and specialty. It had come and gone in an instant, of course, because there was nothing she’d seen so far to indicate anyone in the Ludworth family had a penchant for the once-controversial group of rebellious young artists she adored.

  Until now, that is.

  Tracing the outline of a stubborn, almost masculine jaw, a nose too broad to be considered fashionably dainty, the thick waves of hair captured in a few swirling strokes of charcoal, Lucie felt her heart thudding against her ribs. Though it was barely finished—a five-minute scribble rather than a serious study—there was no mistaking the face she’d seen staring out of many a masterpiece. Eudora Baines, muse and mistress of Jacob James Viggliorento. And she’d bet her right arm, JJ, as he’d been known to his friends, was the artist behind the pencil.

  Fascinated, Lucie carried the picture over to the window to study it in full light. As she tilted the frame. she noticed the left-hand edge of the paper was ragged, as though it had been ripped casually from a notebook or sketchpad. Her fingers itched to pry open the back of the frame and remove the image, but she resisted the urge. Best to wait until she had her tools with her; if she accidentally smudged the charcoal, she’d never forgive herself.

  ‘What are you doing here, Eudora?’ she murmured as she hugged the little frame close to her chest. It was a mystery, and one she was determined to solve.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was with some trepidation that Arthur stuck his around the dining room door that lunchtime. After Lucie’s performance at breakfast he didn’t want to be the cause of any more choking fits, or have her fleeing the room at the sight of him. Thankfully, it was empty, so he helped himself to a bowl of soup from the warmer and a couple of bread rolls from the large Tupperware box they used to keep them fresh. With everyone busy doing their own thing it was the easiest way to keep lunch as flexible as possible without giving the staff any more to do.

  Helping himself to a glass of water, Arthur propped his tablet
up on its stand and opened his newspaper app. He liked to keep abreast of things, and lunch was normally quieter than breakfast so the perfect time to catch up on the day’s news. Today’s soup was chicken noodle, a particular favourite of his, and he was two-thirds down his second bowl when the door swung open and Lucie bounced in.

  There was no other way to describe it. The high ponytail she’d tied her gorgeous red hair in swung from side to side with the excited movement of her body. Her face lit up when she caught sight of him, and he swallowed a sigh of relief that she’d apparently decided to forget any awkwardness from earlier.

  ‘Oh, Arthur, there you are!’ Eschewing her normal seat further along the table, Lucie dropped into the chair at his left elbow. Propping her chin in her hands, she beamed up at him. The full force of that lovely smile did inexplicable things to his insides. She looked so full of joy, he wanted to reach out and touch her cheek as though some of it might rub off on him.

  ‘Here I am, what do you need?’ A kiss, perhaps? Though he’d sworn to himself he would keep things strictly professional, he was only a man after all, and she was so pretty and sparky in that moment he wanted to snatch her up and forget about anything other than the most basic demands of his nature.

  ‘I need a copy of your family tree; do you have one?’

  No snatching, then. Whatever had her lit up like a beacon, it wasn’t the current baronet, but one of his ancestors. Arthur swallowed his disappointment with a mouthful of water then settled back in his chair. A little distance between them would help banish the last of those snatching thoughts. ‘There’s one in my study. When you have a hereditary title like ours which requires presenting proof to an appointed council before you can assume it, it pays to keep very good family records.’

  Lucie frowned. ‘Doesn’t it just pass down from father to son, like other peerages?’